Chapter Text
Auguste woke up to a sheet of white light blasting into his eyes.
This was not uncommon in the Great Beyond or, as a growing faction of people called it, Heaven. It was always ridiculously bright up here.
What was uncommon was the fact that he had woken up at all. What was uncommon was the surface beneath him: firm, yet pliant, the way he remembered beds to feel like. But that was silly. There were no beds in the Great Beyond, because there were no petty human imperfections such as hunger and exhaustion. No beds, and no sheets, though that’s what he thought he could feel lightly draped over his waist and tangled between his feet.
He opened his eyes.
He was staring at a bolt of purple silk. It was embroidered with something very familiar- the gold starburst emblem, which had flown on his own banners up until the day he died. There was something else. A lion, also embroidered in golden thread, its tail entwined so that the starburst became the tuft on the tip of its tail.
This itself was odd enough to make him pause. Then he realized that the silk he was looking up at was a canopy, and that that meant he was indeed lying on a bed.
He heard a soft, muffled sound next to him. He turned.
There was a young blonde man lying beside him. He was on his side with one hand tucked under his pale cheek, which was slightly flushed and mottled with sheet prints. A cloud of mussed yellow hair streaked the pillow beneath him. Long golden lashes rested in delicate curves on his cheeks. He was sleeping.
It was Laurent.
His little brother.
He hadn’t been this close to Laurent in about a year, since the ascension. Auguste had been given special permission to attend, and had spent the whole affair standing at his little brother’s side, wishing Laurent could hear his cheers and see the tears of joy he didn’t bother to hold back. Before that, the only times he’d seen Laurent in the past eight years were at his own gravesite in Arles, and occasionally at other small memorials that had been erected throughout Vere in his honor. It was always as though he were glimpsing Laurent through a light pink filter. He could see Laurent kneeling, could hear his soft words, could feel it if Laurent touched the crude stone statue at his grave. But he could not respond. Could never touch.
Today there was no such pink filter. Only sunlight, and warmth, and Laurent.
Little brother, he wanted to say. But he was so choked up that he knew the words would not make it out of him intact. Instead he grabbed Laurent’s shoulders and prepared to crush him into a bear hug, the way he’d wanted to do every second of the past eight years.
Two things happened at once. He saw his own arms, which were much darker and larger than they had been in life. Then he felt Laurent’s knees, which were suddenly - and with great force - rammed into his stomach.
“What is the matter with you?” Laurent groaned. He rolled over and took most of the sheets with him.
“What's the matter with you ?” Auguste sputtered, clutching his gut. Then he clapped a hand over his mouth. The voice that came out of him was deeper than his own voice had ever been. What the hell?
“You crawled into bed at the crack of dawn, begged me to fuck, and now you’re waking me up again?” Laurent hissed. “How are you supposed to run a kingdom if you can’t keep it in your pants? At least let me sleep so I can run mine!”
Laurent tightened the sheets around his shoulders and went still. Auguste stared at his back. He wanted to tell him to watch his mouth, but hearing his little brother utter such vulgarities had literally stolen the breath from his lungs. And he could still see his own arms lying against the white sheets. They were olive-colored and muscular, far more so than his own build - albeit impressive - could ever achieve. He lifted one of his hands and twisted it around. It was like a slab of dark clay.
Laurent rolled back over, showing Auguste his sleep-swollen face. “Sorry, was that too harsh?” He sounded a little sarcastic.
Auguste couldn’t say anything. Laurent was looking at him, talking to him , as though his presence here was entirely expected.
Laurent laughed. “Oh, come now, Damianos. I know you aren’t that sensitive.”
Auguste’s mind snagged on a single word: Damianos. “What did you just call me?”
“So we’re going to play this game now, are we? You pout until I apologize?”
“What are you-”
Laurent hitched himself up onto an elbow. Disturbed by the movement, the sheets slid off his torso, pooling at his waist. His cock was left covered, but the white satin did not leave much to the imagination. Auguste quickly averted his eyes.
“How is this for an apology?” Laurent asked. And leaned in for a kiss.
Auguste’s heart galloped. He hadn't felt a heart beat in eight years, but he still knew it was too fast. He saw Laurent’s lips approaching, saw his little brother’s eyes close at the anticipated contact.
The awful revelation hit him like a runaway chariot: He thinks I'm Damianos. He thinks I'm his lover.
He backed away right before Laurent’s lips could touch his. Laurent, thrown off balance, had to splay his hand in front of him to avoid crashing to the sheets.
“Damen,” Laurent said, with a slight laugh. “What has gotten into you?”
“Little brother,” Auguste said, “I-"
He stopped himself when he heard what came out of his mouth: little brother. Calculated, logical Laurent would never believe it.
Mercifully, Laurent showed no indication of having heard. A small furrow was growing between his golden brows. Auguste recognized that expression from childhood, and had to forcefully restrain himself from reaching out to smooth the little wrinkles that creased Laurent’s otherwise faultless skin. It was habit.
“Laurent,” Auguste said instead.
“Yes?”
“I am not feeling amorous this morning.” In fact, all I feel like doing is trying to figure out what the hell is going on here. “You may go back to sleep if you wish. I apologize for waking you.”
“Oh, I see,” Laurent said. Then, with enunciated precision, “Tease.”
“Laurent-"
Laurent wrapped the sheets back around himself and flopped back to the mattress. He rolled away from Auguste, hiding his face, but the heaving rise and fall of his chest was a clear signal of irritation.
If this were an ordinary day eight years ago, he would have done something obnoxious to make Laurent acknowledge him: breathed in his ear, tugged on his hair, tickled him. But this was far from an ordinary day. To extend this encounter was bound to lead to something even more uncomfortable than the almost-kiss. Arles was a breeding ground for misplaced gossip, and it wasn’t uncommon for courtiers to pass his gravesite talking about the coupling of King Laurent and King Damianos. He didn’t want a personal invitation to the “mythical lovemaking” and “foundation-shaking moans” the courtiers loved to speculate about.
He rose from the bed, though it made his chest hurt to move away from Laurent. It hurt to leave him angry like that, and it hurt to leave without hugging him and peppering his cheeks with kisses. Save that for later, when he’d figured out what the hell was going on. He wasn't sure where to go or what to do, but the only thing he could immediately think of was to visit his own gravesite, or one of his memorials. One of the places where the barrier between life and death was thin.
As he headed for the door, he noticed a gilded vanity mirror not far away. He held his breath and looked into it.
He shouldn't have been surprised, but he still gasped.
The reflection staring back at him was unmistakable. It was the man he had faced on the battlefield almost exactly eight years ago. The man who had killed him. The man who often came to his gravesite alongside Laurent, kneeled beside him, rubbed his back if he got choked up.
It was Damianos of Akielos.
He was Damianos of Akielos.
He clambered for the door. Laurent spoke as he pulled it ajar.
“Where are you going?” His little brother asked, his voice slightly muffled by the sheets. He had rolled back over and was looking at him, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.
Auguste swallowed, composing himself, trying to eliminate the tremor that would surely be in his voice. “I just need some air,” he said, in that deep, foreign voice. “Please go back to sleep.”
For whatever reason, that drew a breathy laugh from Laurent. It was stiff and not entirely pleasant.
“Whatever you say, Exalted,” he murmured, pulling the sheet over his head.
******
This was not the palace at Arles.
The white marble hallway was too simple. The crown molding, though lovely, was only minimally gilded. The silk tapestries were limited and tasteful, each depicting the lion and starburst hybrid he had seen on the canopy. Practical, but still exquisite.
He had no idea where he was.
Servants and courtiers bustled past him, giving perfunctory bows and murmurs of ‘ Exalted’. Some were carrying wooden bowls full of fruit and sweetmeats. Others toted bolts of silk and other decorative items. He wanted to stop one of them to ask if there was a memorial to Auguste of Vere here - a graveyard, even, if this strange palace did not honor dead Veretian royalty - but none of them would meet his eye. He knew this was Akielon protocol, but it seemed wildly impractical.
The courtiers were all moving in the same direction. He fell into step behind them, hoping the vein would lead to a central section of the palace. In Arles, his tomb was not far from the throne room. Perhaps here it be the same. But he wasn't sure how Damianos walked anywhere on these huge, clunky legs. He had to work very hard to keep from tripping over his feet, which seemed roughly the size of oars.
After a few minutes, an equally large man fell into step beside him.
“Good morning, Exalted,” the man said, giving a respectful nod.
“Good morning,” said Auguste. He tried to school his composure and stop looking around; Damianos of Akielos would not be confused in his own palace.
“You’re looking a little disheveled,” the man said, giving Auguste a sweeping, up-and-down glance.
Auguste followed the man’s eyes. His cheeks burned when he saw his own chiton, which was disarrayed and intermittently stained with a brownish liquid. His gigantic feet were bare. He didn’t know much about the typical dress of an Akielon king, but most of the passing servants were dressed better than him.
Fortunately, the man spoke before Auguste could be expected to come up with an explanation. “Didn't I warn you not to drink too much griva last night?” He asked.
“Yes,” said Auguste, wondering what griva was, and if that was the reason for Damianos’s late night lust and, vicariously, Laurent’s testiness. “You did.”
The man frowned. “It put me at a distinct disadvantage, having my chambers next to yours. Next time you and the King of Vere decide to have a session of griva-fueled lovemaking, I would suggest the use of a gag.”
Auguste coughed. The man stared at him as he pounded on his chest, brow furrowed.
“You’d better get ahold of yourself before tonight,” he said, patting Auguste on the back. “The Akielon and Veretian nobility will be quite cross with you if you aren’t able to proceed with the ceremony. They have all traveled to Delpha for this very purpose.”
“Delpha?” Auguste asked, blinking the tears from his eyes. Don’t you mean Delfeur? The question was swallowed by another round of coughs.
“Yes, Delpha. What, are you too hungover to know where you are and what is happening?” The man gestured at some of the servants, carrying candelabras and ribbons and flowers. “Are you sure you’re not still drunk? Why don’t you go back to your chambers and lay down?”
That’s the absolute worst thing to do, given the circumstances. “Does Auguste of Vere have a shrine here?”
The man blinked. “Excuse me?”
Auguste swallowed the urge to grab the man’s shoulders and shout. “A memorial. For Auguste of Vere. Is there one?”
“Of course. Your consort insisted on it. But you-"
“Where is it?”
“In the terrace garden, where all of the other statues are. You know this. You've been there more than once.”
Auguste’s stomach clenched as he bit back a sigh. So at least there was hope. “Yes, now I remember. Too much grivard last night, I suppose.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “You mean griva?”
“Yes, of course.” Whatever. “Please excuse me.”
He spun away, propelling himself into a deep alcove to escape the stream of courtiers. The man’s questions were getting a little too dangerous.
“Wait, Exalted-” But the man’s voice was swept away with the steady tide of courtiers, which was growing by the second. Whatever he had to say was clearly not important enough to risk being trampled to death, because he did not turn around.
Auguste receded into the shadows, pressed his back against the wall, and breathed. Delpha. He seemed to remember Laurent mentioning that name once or twice. In relation to what?
It really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered more than figuring out what the hell was going on.
******
When Auguste finally found the gardens, he remembered.
He'd been called to this memorial before, a couple of times. Time was irrelevant in the Great Beyond, but by his closest approximation it hadn't been that long ago. Perhaps three months. The first time Laurent had come alone and was very chatty, talking about this and that: how much he loved the new palace here at Delpha, his hatred of Arles, his hope to someday demolish that palace and use the bricks to build more practical structures, such as shelters for former slaves who were struggling to adapt to free life. The second time, Laurent had brought Damianos and they couldn't keep their hands off each other. As happy as it made Auguste to know that his little brother was in love, it felt obscene to watch them kissing and whispering sweet nothings, so he’d departed early on. Not without a huge, dopey smile that his parents and Orlant had prodded him about for hours.
The terraced gardens were lovely, though very Akielon, with an abundance of grapevines and babbling azure fountains. Only the pottery and the elaborate, arched trellises showed a touch of Veretian indulgence.
The intensity of the morning had left Auguste very little time to wonder what happened to King Damianos’s soul. That mystery was solved the instant he rounded the trellis and saw his own memorial statue, a life-sized masterpiece of marble in the very center of the gardens. Damianos was sitting in the bed of orange blooms beneath it. His face was in his hands and he was utterly naked, ringed by the rosy pink aura that always surrounded exonerated souls.
Auguste stopped. Pebbles crunched under his feet. Damianos looked up, and the expression that crossed his face was a chameleon of recognition, confusion, and ire.
He stood up and assumed what could best be described as a combat posture: legs spread wide, fists balled at his chest. His lack of clothing would have been farcical, were he not so physically imposing.
“I don’t know who or what you are,” Damianos said, his voice deceptively calm, “But you have ten seconds to get out of my body.”
Auguste held up his hands. “Listen. I don’t know what’s going on any more than-”
Damianos lunged. Auguste closed his eyes and stood very still, waiting. A cold sheet passed through his body, the sensation collecting like condensation along his spine. Then he felt a pulling sensation along his back as Damianos came out the other side of him.
Auguste whirled around. Damianos had staggered face-first into a thorny bush, the branches bowed with ripe red berries.
Auguste winced. “If you’d just calm down, I could-”
Damianos pivoted and came at him again. Auguste sighed. Closed his eyes. Let the cold sheet fold throughout his body again.
When he turned around and opened his eyes, Damianos was standing with his back against the statue. He was looking at his hands, flipping them over and under, as though they were covered with fascinating patterns.
“I don’t understand,” Damianos said, staring down at his body. It was slightly transparent to Auguste’s eyes, but Damianos couldn’t see that. To Damianos’s own eyes, he looked entirely opaque, as Auguste knew well. “Why can’t I-”
“I can try to help,” said Auguste, “If you’ll just listen to me.”
Damianos looked up at him as though he were seeing him for the first time. His face was so pale that it bled through his olive complexion, making him look slightly gray.
“You woke up here, I assume?” Auguste asked.
Damianos nodded slowly.
“You woke up here, and tried to leave these gardens, but you could not. Any time you’ve tried, you’ve inexplicably ended up right back at the base of this statue. Any attempts to call for help are fruitless. It’s as though nobody can hear or see you.”
Damianos hesitated before nodding again. The thick muscles in his neck were clenched, and his jaw was tight.
“For whatever reason,” said Auguste, “I believe we have switched places.”
Damianos licked his lips. “What do you mean?”
“You see . . .” Auguste swallowed and cleared his throat. There really was no pretty way to say it. “I am dead. You are alive. And now it is . . . the opposite.”
Auguste watched as the words penetrated Damianos. He expected some variety of disbelief - it was a common form of denial among the living. What he didn’t expect was the outright horror that bled across Damianos’s face. It was as though he’d been expecting to hear this all along, yet still couldn’t take it.
Damianos gaped. “I’m . . . dead?”
“For lack of a better term, yes.”
Damianos sagged back against the statue. He covered his eyes with a hand, clearly attempting at some privacy, but the transparency of his body forbade it. He did not weep, but it looked like a colossal effort not to. He pressed his lips together. His adam’s apple bobbed.
Auguste watched him, heart dripping with pity. Maybe he should have said something: it'll be alright, or we’ll figure this out. But Auguste could not be sure of either of those things, so he said nothing. He only stepped forward and put a hand on Damianos’s shoulder. He could not feel it, but Damianos could, and that was all that mattered.
It seemed to unlock something inside of Damianos. The moment the hand fell on his shoulder, he took a deep breath and moaned, “Laurent.”
His little brother’s name put Auguste on instant alert. “What?”
“He is my consort. We have an important ceremony tonight.” Damianos ran his hands fretfully through his hair. “This is not fair to him.”
“I know that. Trust me, I’m just as interested in protecting my little brother as you are.”
Damianos looked up, narrowing his eyes in a way that he must have learned from Laurent. “Your little brother?”
Auguste only stared at him. There was no point in saying anything more; either Damianos would believe him, or he would not. The air felt like lead on his shoulders as he waited for some kind of response.
Slowly, the anguish cleared from Damianos’s face. There was an instant in which he looked desperately confused.
Then he dropped to one knee.
Auguste threw out his hands. “No! You don’t have to-”
But Damianos had already folded himself over, forearm on bended knee. It was a classic pose of genuflection. Unfit for a King. Unheard of.
“Auguste of Vere,” Damianos was saying, though it was hard to hear him through the rush in Auguste’s ears. “What an honor. Laurent speaks of you so fondly.”
Auguste swallowed. “We have, in fact, met before,” he said.
It took a second or two for the words to sink in. He couldn’t see Damianos’s face, but he saw his shoulders jump, as though he’d been pricked by something sharp. Auguste knew exactly what had pricked him: the memory of a sword going through his shoulder, of Auguste’s final act before the Great Beyond.
“I am so sorry,” Damianos said.
“I know that,” Auguste replied. “You’ve said it every time you’ve come to one of my shrines, but it was never necessary. War is war. Death happens. And you were honorable.”
“If I were to apologize until the end of time, it wouldn't be enough. There were such horrible repercussions-”
“You make my little brother happy,” Auguste said, cutting him off because he couldn't bear to hear the rest. “What else could I ask for?”
The mention of Laurent seemed to calm Damianos. His shoulders relaxed. He looked up, wearing a poorly-suppressed smile that engaged the dimple in his left cheek. “He says I make him happy?”
Auguste sighed, unable to help a small smile of his own. “Yes. All the time, and in many different ways. In fact, it’s getting quite old.” And I hope I get the chance to tease Laurent for how ridiculous the two of you are. “Which is exactly why I'm so determined to get you back in your body.”
“Of course. I’m glad to get the chance to speak to you finally, but . . . what are you doing in my body?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Now, for Heaven’s sake, would you get off your knee? You are King Damianos of Akielos.”
“You can call me Damen,” Damianos said. But he did get up, rising from the bow with a grace that sacrificed no dignity. It was probably impossible for this man to do anything that sacrificed dignity. Even stark naked, he was regality personified.
“Do you remember praying for this?” Auguste asked.
Damen’s brow furrowed. “Praying?”
“Asking your God for this, in some way. Asking if you could trade places with me, asking if Laurent could have one more day with me, et cetera.”
“Since the moment I fell in love with Laurent, I’ve wished I had not killed you,” Damen said. “But I am not a praying man.”
Auguste nodded. “Fair.” He himself had not been a believer either, until dying. Damianos would figure that out someday. “Do you dabble in the occult?”
Damen’s laughter had a hard edge. “I have no time for that tripe.”
“Interesting.” Auguste began to pace back and forth. He was still a little unsteady on his new feet, and nearly tripped over them more than once. It was probably easier to just stand still, but he always thought better if he was moving.
“Do you have any other ideas?” Damen eventually asked.
Auguste did not look up from the flattened trail he was making in the flower bed. “No.”
“Then you have to tell Laurent,” Damen said. “If there is anything at all that can be done, he will know of it.”
It was spoken with such certainty that Auguste reacted automatically - with a loud, whooping gale of laughter. He didn't expect the deep, rich sound that echoed back to his ears. That alone stopped his laughter almost as soon as it had begun. The absurdity of the idea might have otherwise kept him going for hours.
“My little brother is an incredible skeptic,” he said, once he had recovered. “What makes you think he would entertain this?”
Damen seemed unmoved by Auguste’s mirth. “He's bound to have read a book on the subject at some point in his life. And even if he doesn’t believe you, he’d do anything in his power to help me if he thought I was in trouble. Trust me.”
Trust me. Auguste did trust him on that point, because he couldn’t count how many times Laurent had voiced a similar sentiment while crouched at one of his shrines. However, Auguste knew that Laurent’s willingness to speak to him at one of his shrines was very separate from any kind of paranormal inclination. Laurent spoke to the shrines simply because it made him feel better. It made him feel like Auguste was still there with him. Laurent had no expectation that Auguste was actually listening, and would certainly be mortified if he knew that he was.
“I can try to broach the subject,” Auguste admitted, “But it will be . . . awkward.” He thought of the way things had gone this morning, when his attempts to talk to Laurent had led to the almost-kiss.
“Yes, I can see why. But you have to try.” Damen paused, and pressed his lips together. Auguste saw him swallow and physically push the next words out. “You see, the ceremony tonight is-”
A third voice pierced the air. “Who the hell are you talking to?”
Auguste turned. It was the man who had fallen into step beside him earlier. He was standing underneath the arched trellis, holding onto it as though he could not stand without support. He was gaping.
“First you left your chambers in rags, and now you’re talking to yourself,” the man said, after a sweeping glance over the gardens. “Damen, are you sure you're well?”
Auguste looked back at the real Damen, who was again so pale that he looked almost gray. It took much longer than it should have for Auguste to remember that the real Damen was in fact a vacated soul, and therefore this irritating man could not see him. He was Damen, for now.
He cleared his throat. “Hello, um-”
“His name is Nikandros,” Damen whispered.
“Nikandros!” Auguste cried. “So nice to see you weren’t trampled by the crowd.”
Nikandros flashed a smile that left his face a little too quickly. “It was a close call, but I managed.”
Silence. Auguste felt his heart at the base of his throat as Nikandros stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable in the shifting shadows cast by the trellis. Who the hell are you talking to? He was still awaiting an answer.
“I was . . . practicing my speech for the ceremony tonight,” said Auguste. It seemed like a perfectly plausible idea, so he ran with it. “I think I’ve finally got it down.”
Damen hitched in a breath. “Auguste-”
Nikandros interrupted Damen with a loud, long crack of laughter. Auguste blinked. What he had said was not traditionally funny, but perhaps Akielons were easily amused. He turned to Damen for some kind of reassurance; he did not find it. Damen had a palm spread over his face.
“At least your sense of humor is still intact,” Nikandros said, coming forward and clapping him on the shoulder. “But you really need to get yourself together. You were expected in Council with the kyroi half an hour ago, but I managed to stall them. I told them you were feeling antsy about tonight.”
“I hope they understood,” said Auguste, for lack of anything better to say. He was almost afraid to say anything else, with Damen looking that way. “Thank you for covering for me.”
“What are friends for?” Nikandros asked dryly. Then he frowned and leaned to the side, looking past Auguste. At the memorial statue. “Why do you keep looking back at that statue?”
“It . . . helps to practice if I feel like I have an audience,” said Auguste.
Damen groaned.
Nikandros laughed again, but it sounded as though it had been squeezed out of a tube. “Interesting choice of audience,” he remarked.
He took a few steps back and just stood there, staring, as though he expected Auguste to follow him. Auguste returned the stare, wanting desperately to look back at Damen. But it would do no good for this man to think he was crazy. It would only make things harder for Damen when - if - he got his body back.
“I’ll be along shortly,” said Auguste. Leave. Now. Please.
“You really need to come now. I cannot stall them forever.”
“No, Auguste,” Damen said. “Don’t!”
Auguste’s stomach felt heavy. It would do no good for this man to think him crazy, and it would be even worse if the kyroi thought so, too. There would be no way to solve this if he ended up in the physician’s quarters, suspected of having some kind of mental defect. And such a thing would guarantee that Laurent would never believe him.
“Yes, of course,” Auguste said to Nikandros, stepping forward. “Lead the way.”
NIkandros flashed a tight smile and turned, displaying his broad back. He headed for the latticed iron doors that led back into the palace. Auguste used the opportunity to turn back to Damen, who had gone from gray to almost white. Standing as he was against the white marble statue, it was hard to see him.
“Do not waste time in the Council chamber,” Damen said. “Go to Laurent!”
“It will do us no favors if everyone thinks you’ve gone mad,” Auguste whispered, snatching a look over his shoulder. Nikandros continued walking toward the doors, apparently oblivious.
“I don’t care if they think I’m crazy,” Damen hissed. “This is more important than that.”
“How can you say that? If everyone thinks you’re mad, Laurent will never believe me!”
Damen’s next words cut Auguste so deeply that he completely lost his train of thought.
“The ceremony happening tonight is Laurent and I’s public consummation,” he said. “So unless you want things to get even more awkward, fixing this is your top priority.”