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Kurthnaga will always look younger than Soren. Kurthnaga doesn’t seem particularly bothered by this, but Soren is. He’s younger than Kurthnaga – than his King. But Kurthnaga still looks like a boy, while Soren looks like an adult (at last), and it makes Soren far too aware of the difference between them; the difference between him and all the other dragons. Oh, Kurthnaga doesn’t care about it. Kurthnaga is overjoyed to have nephews. He’s overjoyed to have family, even if his family is the bastard half-breed son of an insane man. The other dragons though.... Sometimes they walk past Soren, and it’s like he doesn’t exist to them. Every time it makes something twist in Soren’s chest, and he can’t help but recall Gallia, when all those laguz simply ignored him.
It rankles that even now, when he is acknowledged as Lady Almedha’s son and a Prince of Goldoa, the laguz still hold their old prejudices. Soren simply cannot feel at home in these halls when so many don’t accept his existence. Soren is still an outsider, despite Kurthnaga’s frequent protestations otherwise. Soren suspects that if Deghinsea had proclaimed Soren as kin, the dragons would have made an effort to actually pay attention to him. Kurthnaga is simply too young, too innocent to truly grasp that the laguz would rather pretend Soren doesn’t exist than anything else.
The few dragons beyond his immediate family – and it is still strange to think of them as such – that do pay him any attention are all met with cold looks and bitter words. Soren isn’t blind; their eyes try to skim away from him. They want to pretend he doesn’t exist just as much as the next dragon. Only the black dragons, Ena, Nasir and Gareth find it easy to look at him. All the others.... Well, he’s the bastard son of Mad King Ashnard. Why should they pay him any attention? He’s probably just as insane as his father. If Soren could be bothered, he might take vindictive glee in loudly wondering whether being ignored by the dragons will make him hate them as much as Ashnard did. But Kurthnaga would be so disappointed, and Soren finds himself unwilling to hurt Kurthnaga, even in such a trivial way.
Instead, Soren stays in the library and reads. The dragons have many books from times gone by and they are quite interesting. The dragons themselves are largely unconcerned with scholarly pursuits – the few dragons who spend as much time in the library as Soren does are white, and they tend to regard Soren rather more favourably than any red dragon Soren has yet met – so Soren can be assured of peace and quiet.
Only Kurthnaga ever dares to intrude upon Soren’s time when he’s in the library.
Soren doesn’t look up when he hears light footsteps on the polished marble floor. He’s reading a book about the earlier years of Deghinsea’s reign and trying to sort fact from fiction. It is harder than it sounds, given the web of lies Deghinsea created over the years. Soren has yet to find even the barest mention of Lehran in any of the books, but that doesn’t surprise him. He could ask the heron himself, but Soren can hardly bear the thought of going to Serenes and seeing the herons. They are amongst the last still alive; all the beorc Soren once knew are gone. Seeing them would bring back memories best forgotten (people best forgotten).
“And how are you, Soren?” Kurthnaga asks, seating himself across from Soren. Soren knows without looking that Kurthnaga is likely smiling, ridiculously fondly. Kurthnaga simply cannot help himself. He does so love having an enlarged family and nothing Soren does can stop him.
“Busy,” Soren replies bluntly. It will not make Kurthnaga leave; nothing ever does.
“You do not have to work so hard, you know. You are a prince, Soren. Once you have done your official duties, you don’t have to find more work to be done,” Kurthnaga says softly.
Soren looks up at him and glares. “Someone has to amend the history books to reflect your father’s lies.”
Kurthnaga flinches minutely and his smile turns sad. “He was your grandfather too, Soren. He would have loved you,” he murmurs.
“With all due respect, I doubt that, your majesty.” After all, Soren’s father had hated him and his own mother was frightened of him – of his anger.
“Well, I love you,” Kurthnaga says, as if that will solve everything.
“Did you want anything in particular?” Soren asks, looking back at his books.
“I like your company, Soren. I missed you at dinner last night, as did Rajaion. He kicked up a terrible fuss that his favourite cousin wasn’t there,” Kurthnaga murmurs.
Soren frowns, but nods his assent. “I will attend tonight,” he replies and pointedly ignores Kurthnaga until the young king leaves.
Young Rajaion adores Soren, for reasons Soren has yet to ascertain. He simply lights up with joy whenever he sees Soren. His loud cries of Soren’s name should make the mage flinch and turn away, but he finds them bearable (more bearable than some noises made by young children). Ena is obviously confused by her child’s adoration of Soren, but she accepts it, and besides, Soren is infinitely patient when it comes to his cousin. It probably makes Almedha jealous; Soren’s patience regarding his mother is infinitesimal, and he is not afraid to voice it. Pelleas may have put up with her, but Soren won’t. He had all the care he’ll ever need from someone better than her, and just because they’re dead now doesn’t mean Soren will accept it from her.
Dinner is frequently a tense affair in the palace. Kurthnaga tries to keep it informal as often as he can, but Gareth insists on standing – Nasir only sits because Kurthnaga calls him family, and even then, Nasir always looks uncomfortable – and Almedha is always torn between sitting beside Soren or as far away from him as she can. Little Rajaion tends to fuss when he’s too far from Ena or Soren, and Kurthnaga doesn’t like having to give orders, even to his servants. He will probably never like giving orders, but he still needs to improve. As for the various officials, they all tend to ignore Soren and the servants obviously want to. When Soren had first come to Goldoa (for his sake, really, he hadn’t wanted Soren to be alone), the waiting staff had glossed over his plate more times than Soren could count (so different from the desert, so different from Honoured Guest and join me, Soren, I need you). Only Kurthnaga’s intervention had stopped such behaviour; it was one of the few times Soren had ever seen Kurthnaga truly angry.
Today, Soren sits beside his cousin and eats quietly. Rajaion babbles about his lessons today, and Soren corrects him when he makes a mistake. The court tutors sitting further down the table obviously take offense, given the way their postures tense and they have to visibly restrain themselves from glaring at Soren. It is almost laughable that they would rather not acknowledge Soren’s existence than argue with him over semantics.
“Thank you for joining us today, Soren,” Kurthnaga comments during a lull in conversation.
“You asked me to, your majesty,” Soren replies.
Kurthnaga smiles gently. “Still,” he murmurs. “How is your research coming along?”
“Slowly. Your father left much out of the history books, and it is difficult to sort fact from fiction,” Soren says.
“I could arrange for Lehran-” Kurthnaga begins.
“No, no, that will not be necessary,” Soren interrupts.
Kurthnaga pauses, a brief frown flitting across his face, before understanding comes. “Oh, I- Well, would you like to tell me about what you have discovered?”
“I fear it would bore everyone,” Soren says dryly. There is a snort from the other end of the table; Soren doesn’t bother to look, sure in the knowledge that Kurthnaga is already glaring at the culprit.
“Perhaps after dinner then,” Kurthnaga murmurs. Soren nods his assent before turning back to his food and little Rajaion.
It won’t be the first time Kurthnaga has asked Soren to his rooms; Kurthnaga is ever the attentive uncle. Soren holds no illusions regarding Kurthnaga’s actual interest in Soren’s work. He simply wishes to spend time with his nephew, even if said nephew would rather not spend any time with him at all. Regardless, most of the palace’s occupants seem to think it unseemly for their King to spend so much time with a Parentless. The rest of the evening passes with far less conversation, and none of it directed at Soren, apart from Rajaion’s incessant questions. When he starts to yawn, Ena quietly excuses herself to take him to bed. Kurthnaga rises not long after and motions for Soren to accompany him.
The short journey to Kurthnaga’s private chambers passes in silence. The guards do not give Soren a second look – not from any training they’ve received, but because to them, Soren might as well not exist. By this time tomorrow, Soren fully expects them to have forgotten that Soren went to Kurthnaga’s chambers at all. They have before. It’s actually a good thing in this case; if they don’t recall Soren’s presence, then they can’t tell anyone about it. Kurthnaga is blissfully unaware that there are people who wish Soren harm, but Soren is not so oblivious. There are many who feel Soren is unworthy, and truly, Soren agrees with them. He’s no prince, and he’s definitely no king. But he’s still second-in-line, and well. As Soren well knows, royalty will stop at nothing to get the throne (Ashnard destroyed his entire family just to get it).
Kurthnaga pushes the door open for Soren and follows him in before calmly seating himself before the fireplace.
“Have you progressed much further?” Kurthnaga asks, his voice soft.
“Unfortunately not,” Soren replies. “As I said earlier, it is difficult.”
Kurthnaga’s expression turns pensive. “And you would rather not see Lehran again?”
For a moment, Soren is silent. “Meeting people from the war is still... difficult,” he admits.
“You came to us,” Kurthnaga comments.
“He- I was asked to. I promised I would.”
“Soren... you have to let go. They’re gone now, Soren. We’re still here. You still have friends, Soren. You still have family,” Kurthnaga says, taking Soren’s hand.
Soren simply stares at their joined hands, taking in all the differences and all the similarities. Their skin tone is blatantly different, but Kurthnaga’s hands are just as delicate as Soren’s. If Soren looked up, he would see hair just the slightest bit greener than his own, and red eyes like his. Even his Brand is like a dragon’s markings, although they are far more detailed.
Their relation cannot be denied, but that is all Soren wants to do.
He doesn’t know why he kisses Kurthnaga, and he doesn’t know why Kurthnaga lets him. He simply does, in that space between thought and rationality. Perhaps their conversation had triggered some long ignored impulses (he hasn’t wanted since he died, they weren’t like that, and later it had been easier to just not think at all), or perhaps Soren simply had too much wine at dinner. Maybe he’s just tired and bitter and wants to crush Kurthnaga’s innocence, tear it away from him and show him the world Soren has always known.
It doesn’t explain why he pushes Kurthnaga back against his chair and kneels over him and pulls at their robes – Kurthnaga makes a soft gasp and he tries to say something, but Soren doesn’t want to talk anymore – and keeps pressing angry, biting kisses to Kurthnaga’s lips. It doesn’t explain why Soren grasps them both and moves his hips against Kurthnaga’s, or why he practically drinks down Kurthnaga’s anguished sobs. It takes him a moment to realise why they’re so familiar, and then it comes to him; he himself sounds almost the same as Kurthnaga (he had always loved Soren’s voice). This is his uncle he is touching so deliberately, kissing so forcefully and Soren cannot bring himself to care.
“Soren, I-” Kurthnaga murmurs, body quaking and his hips twitching upwards.
“Don’t say anything,” Soren replies, twisting his hand and burying his face in Kurthnaga’s neck.
Kurthnaga thankfully remains silent, except for a tiny noise when they both tense and shake. The young king strokes his finger through Soren’s hair, and he murmurs nonsense into Soren’s ear and it is so like him that for a moment, Soren forgets where he is.
“Don’t leave me,” he says before he can stop himself.
Kurthnaga replies “I won’t,” and wraps his skinny arms around Soren like he can protect him.
“Not you,” Soren hisses, wanting to struggle free but lacking the strength. “Not you.”
Kurthnaga simply holds Soren tighter, and Soren doesn’t cry, doesn’t weep for everything he’s lost (or thrown away).
“You’ll always have me,” Kurthnaga whispers, so softly Soren’s sure he’s not meant to hear it, “Always.”