Work Text:
Corvos, 1536 6AE
“The hell do you think you’re doing?”
There was a kid in Lyon pyr Helsos’ tent, some white-haired Elezen brat, stood right in the middle of the room with his back to Lyon at the entry flap. Whirling around at Lyon’s voice, the boy clutched a brand-new legionary uniform to his chest, still folded up in a perfect square and wrapped in a sheet of plastic. “Oen Lanatus, sir,” the kid said, raising his jaw proudly. Being Elezen, and probably not a week over fifteen summers, he came only about as high as Lyon’s elbows.
“You’re lost, oen Lanatus,” Lyon told him. “Get out of my tent.”
“I’m to report to Lyon pyr Helsos,” said oen Lanatus, his voice brittle. “That is you, is it not?” He had a snotty private school accent, and the name sounded passingly familiar—some officer in another legion? Maybe a senator? The little brat had probably had servants all his life, never even washed his own ass before. The legions would be one hell of a wake-up call.
“Look, I don’t know who sent you, but I don’t need some brat toddling after me all hours of the day, so how’s about you run along and go peel popotoes in the mess till your fingers bleed?”
Oen Lanatus glared at him. “His Radiance sent me.”
Lyon let out a guffaw. “Sure he did—and I’m the queen of Rabanastre.”
The kid took a deep breath, straightened his posture. “His Radiance sent me,” he repeated.
“Who put you up to this?” A man of limited patience, Lyon tugged the plastic-packaged uniform out of oen Lanatus’ arms. He flinched. Lyon flipped over the package to search for a century’s tag swimming within, not yet sewn onto the tunic—the IIIrd. “Paulinus?”
“I told you,” oen Lanatus bit out, “I’m to report to pyr Helsos. His Radiance’s orders. So just…” the boy hesitated, brow crumpling before he pulled his lips into a sneer, “do what you will, already.”
No, it wouldn’t be Paulinus, the boy’s centurion. He was an ass, to be sure, but not malicious. Now, Lyon was a soldier through and through, not one to sit around and read tactics or play war-games with wooden pawns, but he thought he could recognize this ploy well enough: threatened by the way Lyon had impressed the brass, some fool with more eyes than braincells meant to set a trap. It was common practice for officers to pull conscripted provincials out of the barracks to warm their beds at their whim, and oen Lanatus—provided he didn’t open his mouth—passed well enough for someone whose name very recently might have been aan.
Lyon could see it unfold in his mind’s eye; surely he was meant to tear into the boy like one of his beasts, and when oen Lanatus and all his family money cried rape, Lyon, a Landiser turncoat who hadn’t yet been in the legions long enough to earn himself citizenship, would be court-martialed before the night was through.
The only question remaining was, for what possible reason would oen Lanatus abide this? Lyon tossed the boy’s uniform aside and grabbed him by a scrawny wrist. “Come, then,” he said, “It would be awfully rude not to thank His Radiance personally, wouldn’t it?”
Lyon marched the boy across the length of the Legions’ beachside camp, only a few malms away from the enormous foot that was all that now remained of the famed Anchorite at Corvos, one of the great wonders of the Allagan world. The Emperor’s tent hardly deserved the word, the beam-and-post frame upon which the rich, heavy carpets comprising its walls were hung fixed in the ground with poured cermet.
Lyon had never had reason to enter—even go near—His Radiance’s accommodations. Through the curtain at its entrance was a small court, inside which a civilian idled at a campaign desk near to another curtained doorway leading further into the structure. Pushing himself up in a poor, sitting approximation of attention at Lyon’s entry with oen Lanatus at his side, the Emperor’s secretary demanded: “What business have you with His Radiance?”
Fixing his would-be charge with a stern glare, Lyon said, “Well? Are you going to tell him, or shall I?”
The Elezen boy seemed even smaller than he was for the dreadful hunch of his shoulders under Lyon’s hand; swallowing, he squared them. “Lord pyr Helsos wishes to personally thank His Radiance for his generosity,” he said, referring to Lyon with the Garlean title of ‘dominus’, “in rewarding Lord pyr Helsos’ exemplary service to the legions with a…” The kid hesitated then, as if he finally realized he had gone too far.
“That’s quite enough,” Lyon told him. To the secretary: “What do I do with him?”
“Your name?”
“Menenius oen Lanatus. My mother is Lady Virginie kir Albus.”
The secretary nodded once, then without another word rose from his desk, disappearing through the second curtain further into the Emperor’s tent. It was a strange detail, to give his mother’s name, rather than his father’s, but maybe his father wasn’t a citizen.
Left alone in the reception, Lyon regarded the boy—Menenius—as he fidgeted with the pleats on one of his brand-new uniform’s sleeves. “You have a death wish, boy?”
Menenius oen Lanatus said nothing. His hands fell to his sides, brushing his palms against the outsides of his thighs.
“His Radiance Solus zos Galvus will see you now.”
“Is aught amiss, pyr Helsos? I wasn’t expecting your audience for—hours, at least. Even the morrow.” Solus zos Galvus reclined on a chaise in form-fitting dark under-armor, a cup of perfumed wine in one hand, and correspondence stamped with the mark of the IInd Legion in Nhalmasque in the other. The lines of age were beginning to wear into his features.
“Your Radiance?”
“He’s to your liking, I hope. I can find a girl if it proves a problem,” he said dubiously, and then with good humor continued, “but they’re rarely worth the trouble of placating their fathers, if I’m to be terribly honest.”
Words falling from his lips without passing through his thick skull, Lyon said, “Are you out of your mind?”
The Emperor laughed. “I like you. You hail from the former Republic of Landis, is that right? Basch van Gabranth spoke highly of you—hence the gift.” A glint in his golden eyes, zos Galvus set aside his wine and letters, sitting up to consider Lyon. Despite the clove and anise seed unmistakable on his breath, the Emperor’s eyes were sharp; his odd manner could not be attributed to drink. “What is that look? Do they not fuck boys in Landis?”
Lyon spluttered. “No!”
“Huh,” said the Emperor mildly. “Then perhaps a demonstration of sorts is in order. I expect you’ll find it enlightening.” Solus zos Galvus rose to his feet, towering in his presence even though by Garlean standards he was rather slight. Only of a height with his waist, Menenius flinched, but the Emperor did not lay hands on him. To his secretary outside the room, he said: “Bring me… hmm. Baelsar should do nicely.”
“Sorana van Baelsar is in Lea Monde, Your Radiance.”
“No matter. I only require her son. Send him straight in when he arrives.”
Though it could not have been more than a few minutes, the wait felt interminable; for Menenius it must be that much worse, more than just how time seems to drag when you’re young. Lyon hadn’t been any older when he’d started to mess around, but that was with boys his own age, his own size, who wanted it the same and got the message if you shoved them away and told them to fuck off. Menenius was less than thrilled when he introduced himself, and who could blame him? He couldn’t know Lyon cared any more than the Emperor did what he had to say in any of this.
Finally, the curtain drew back, and a small Garlean boy let himself into the room. He had dark skin and hair, and came to about as high as Lyon’s ribs. “You asked for me, Your Radiance?”
“Gaius,” the Emperor said warmly, “these gentlemen are Lyon pyr Helsos, a decurion of the Ist century, and Menenius oen Lanatus, of the IIIrd.”
The boy gave them a curious once-over. “Gaius bas Baelsar,” he introduced himself stiffly, as children often did when faced with unexpected company, and Lyon felt an uneasy knot form in his stomach. His name was bas, not oen.
“How old are you?” Lyon asked.
Gaius glanced at the Emperor out of the corner of his eye. “Thirteen, sir.”
“Gaius here joined us in the spring. His parents are on campaign themselves in the south of Dalmasca, but they want Gaius to grow up with proper military discipline, and the Vth’s soldiers are wont to indulge the Legatus’ son.” The Emperor put an overly familiar hand on the boy’s shoulder, and addressed him: “How is the XIth treating you?”
Straightening to attention, Gaius bas Baelsar answered, “Well, Your Radiance.”
“Is that so? Not too well, I hope.”
“Like a soldier, Your Radiance.”
“Ah, good. Good,” the Emperor said. “You want to be a soldier, boy?”
“Yes, Your Radiance.” Gaius stood straighter under his Emperor’s hand, lifting his chin proudly, all boyish confidence. As best he could without turning his head, Gaius’ eyes sought the Emperor’s approving nod.
“What is a soldier’s duty, bas Baelsar?”
Gaius promptly replied, “To serve his commander, Your Radiance.” Menenius, in his own new legionary uniform still creased and wrinkled from its packaging, seemed to wilt at Lyon’s side, shoulders slumping under Lyon’s hand. They were an eerie mirror image of the Emperor and his boy.
Unsettled, Lyon let go of Menenius oen Lanatus, and stood instead with his hands limp at his sides.
“Correct,” said the Emperor, satisfied. He patted the kid’s shoulder, then ruffled his short-cropped hair. He sat himself down on the chaise lounge once more, crossing one leg over the other, and Gaius pivoted on his heels to face him, awaiting orders as would any legionary. “Would you like to serve in this legion one day? My legion?”
Gaius hesitated.
The Emperor gave him a comforting smile. “Your mother needn’t know your answer,” he assured. “Nor must your answer be yes only to assuage me. ‘Tis only a self-aggrandizing question from an old man.”
A long moment passed as the boy considered, and then, all in a rush of breath, he said, “I would like that, Your Radiance.”
“Are you prepared to serve me now?”
“Yes, Your Radiance.” He spoke without hesitation, looking up at his Emperor with trust and devotion, and Lyon could no longer bear to watch this—he’d be damned if he was going to sit here with his thumb up his ass whilst the Emperor…
“This isn’t necessary, Your Radiance.” Menenius looked up at him incredulously, his features twisting into horror as Lyon continued, “Let the boy leave. Your point has been made.”
“Oh?” said Solus zos Galvus. Raising an eyebrow dubiously, his cold eyes locked on Lyon’s. “What point is that?”
Lyon dodged the question. “Let him go,” he repeated, desperation creeping into his voice.
“I’m hardly keeping him here, decurio,” the Emperor said. Turning his attention to the boy, he told him, “You may leave if you wish.”
Gaius fidgeted uncomfortably, his hands behind his back twisting into each other, a web of interlocked fingers. “I’m here to serve, Your Radiance.”
“Ah, that’s my good boy,” said the Emperor. He reached up from the chaise with a languid arm to ruffle Gaius’ hair again, as if petting a dog. “Now take off your clothes for me.”
“Don’t,” hissed Menenius oen Lanatus. Eyes carefully forward, he tugged at the leg of Lyon’s trousers to keep his attention. Bristling, Lyon obeyed—for the moment.
Gaius bas Baelsar spun his head around to look at Lyon and Menenius behind him, then back again to his Emperor. “Your Radiance…?” he asked, all wide-eyed confusion. The poor kid, he really didn’t know.
“Strip, soldier.”
The boy swallowed. “Y-yes, Your Radiance.”
And so he did. Gaius’ hands came up uncertainly to his shirt-collar and he began to work his way down the row of buttons down the front, slowly baring his chest. He was well-built for a boy of thirteen, or at least well-built when judged against fifteen-year-old Menenius, who, like all Elezen youths, could only be called ‘scrawny’. A healthy layer of fat obscured Gaius’ ribcage, and he’d clearly not skimped on his push-ups; there was the clear beginnings of a toned belly and strong arms, obvious to anyone who cared to look—as the Emperor clearly did, his cock stirring under his tight-fitting under-armor. With a placid expression on his strong features, Solus zos Galvus slung his arms over the back of his chaise and settled in to watch the show. He had the gaze of a predator, sizing Gaius up as if weighing how difficult he will be to catch against how good he will taste.
Of course, Gaius bas Baelsar was already caught. Looking up at the Emperor for encouragement, he received it from a nod, and let his shirt slip to the floor. When he reached next for his belt, Lyon chose a starburst medallion upon one of the rich carpets lining the walls to stare at. Though he knew enough of Solus zos Galvus to know it would not go unnoticed, he at least held onto the hope it would go unremarked upon. And it did, for a while, until Gaius’ clothes all lay at his bare feet in a crumpled pile and the Emperor said to Lyon, “Is aught amiss, pyr Helsos?”
“No, Your Radiance.” The words were sour in his mouth. Prolonging the inevitable, Lyon looked first to the boy at his side. Menenius was staring straight at Gaius, his features locked into a trapped sort of snarl, all fear and useless fury. Lyon could well imagine him comparing and contrasting their bodies, their heights—Menenius was older, but Elezen were late bloomers, so he was both more slim and shorter than the Garlean boy, who was already himself dwarfed before Lyon and the Emperor.
He seemed even smaller now, naked in the middle of the room. His back was to them, for which Lyon was grateful—he was attracted to men, not half-grown little boys, and while of course he had seen his share of children clad in little to nothing in all his years in the military, there was a wide gulf between the sight of Dalmascan youths kicking around a ball in the street and this. Solus zos Galvus looked Gaius bas Baelsar over, head to toe, and Gaius’ hands balled up behind his back. His shoulderblades creased as he forced himself to stand ever straighter while he was inspected.
“Oil,” the Emperor ordered with a snap of his fingers, and on cue a silent servant-girl set into action. Lyon had almost forgotten the staff were there—a testament, perhaps, to how well-trained the servants of the truly upper-class Garleans were, with their own alphabetized rank in the social hierarchy even a step above the common citizen. Amongst the lower-ranking military officers like the sea of decurions, these servants were poorly aped with those new soldiers, or those with fewer compunctions might threaten a pretty-faced local girl into compliance: neither oen nor aan faded into the background as this girl did, invisible until called upon.
She retrieved a flat-bottomed amphora of oil and a shallow bowl from a set of cabinets, then poured a portion of oil to set on the low table beside the Emperor’s chaise longue; so doing, she disappeared into the background once again. The Emperor did not acknowledge her.
“Prepare yourself,” he told Gaius, nodding to the bowl of oil. And then, “You know how boys take it, don’t you?”
Lyon had hoped—no, ‘hope’ wasn’t the right word at all. Lyon had assumed Gaius’ reticence to strip was because he and Menenius were present; that the Emperor had been buggering him for months. That was no better, of course, than buggering him for the first time now, but Lyon already felt sick watching this unfold, and if the Emperor had to explain the birds and the bees to the kid before he raped him, Lyon would— he would—
Lyon let out a scoffing laugh at his own expense, and Menenius—not privy to Lyon’s internal monologue, and surely thinking it a reaction to the Emperor’s question—flinched. And wasn’t that telling? If the Emperor had to teach Gaius bas Baelsar what sex was before forcing the boy to have it for the first time, Lyon pyr Helsos would do absolutely nothing, save feel a bit bad about it. He was standing here and watching now, after all, and doing nothing to stop it. He’d barely even argued. Lyon was under no illusion that he was as bad as the Emperor, but his own conduct was nothing to be proud of. This was not news—he was a defector, after all. When the dust settled, Lyon Helsos would always find himself on the winning side.
“I know how!” Gaius blustered, boyish pride apparently so wounded by the implication that at thirteen he may not know everything there is to know about sex that for a moment he didn’t even seem afraid. Almost chastizing, he continued: “I’m not a child, Your Radiance.”
Now it was the Emperor’s turn to laugh. “As you say,” he said, neither agreement nor disagreement. “I trust you’ll need no guidance, then. Go on, soldier.” He shooed the boy on with a wave of his hand.
And all that bristly teenaged confidence drained away. With both shaking hands, Gaius gingerly lifted the bowl of oil, looking around the room in hopes of finding the correct place to settle. “Do you… wish to watch?”
“What kind of question is that, boy?” snapped the Emperor, which Lyon took to mean ‘yes’. Gaius seemed to come to the same conclusion, kneeling down a few steps away from the chaise and set the bowl of oil on the carpet, careful not to spill. Addressing Lyon, the Emperor said, “Come, sit,” and gestured beside him.
Some part of Lyon, till now, had been awaiting their dismissal—surely the Emperor would consider his point well enough made? This is what we do here, and you will do the same to prove you’re one of us. Some sort of test of loyalty now his rank in the Garlean army was high enough he was privy to some information of any use, mutually assured destruction. Lyon did not need to watch every agonizing moment of Gaius bas Baelsar’s debasement to understand what the Emperor expected him to do. As he was now being ushered to sit and—and enjoy the show, reality began to assert itself. Lyon acquiesced, settling on the plush upholstery, and Menenius made to follow.
“Not you,” said Solus zos Galvus sharply. Pinned under the Emperor’s glare, Menenius froze, and wavered. “You’ll take your place at his feet if you know what’s good for you, boy.” Menenius slumped to the floor in defeat. His back to the heavy leg of the chaise lounge, cold industrial steel, the kid brought his knees up almost to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, watching the other boy as raptly as Lyon, at his age, remembered watching criminals hanged.
If only this were even half as quick. Gaius bas Baelsar did, indeed, make something of a show of it: sitting on his heels facing his audience, with his knees parted to square off with his shoulders, Lyon had an unobstructed view of Gaius’ face and body, the first, sparse hairs growing in above his soft little cock, the beginnings of puberty. It felt dirty, looking at him, but Lyon could feel the Emperor’s eyes on him. He had little choice.
The boy had learned this somewhere—that much was obvious. He dipped his shaking fingertips in the oil, dragged them up the inside of one bare thigh in a clumsy, hesitant mimicry of the so-called ‘dances’ you could see Miqo’te girls doing in any port city across the three continents. It left a smear of oil across his skin, reflecting back blue-white under the ceruleum lamp. Gaius avoided touching his own cock, bringing his slick fingers down behind his testes immediately. Worrying his lower lip with his teeth, the boy’s shoulders curved inwards and his hips raised up as he tried to find the angle to catch his rim.
“Go from behind,” the Emperor corrected. “Let us see you.” He was enjoying himself, if no one else was; his erection strained in his trousers, a small, dark spot on the fabric where his cockhead lay tucked against his hip.
Gaius looked up at him, startled. “I—” he began, and then thought better of it. “As you wish, Your Radiance.”
To facilitate the new position, the boy brought his free hand behind him as well, balancing on the ball of his palm as he brought his hips jutting up and forward. His oiled fingers easily able to reach from behind, the pose forced Gaius to jut out his chin as well, his neck extended. The complete impression was undeniably sensual, and—to Lyon, at least—incredibly disturbing to see from a young boy. The look on his face made matters no better, nor his unsteady hands. Finding his hole with his oiled fingers, Gaius’ features scrunched up, and then he pressed in.
It hurt less than the boy expected, that much was clear. Gaius’ pursed lips and furrowed brow slowly began to smooth out, surprise passing over his features and relief following in its wake. Having seemingly discovered taking it up the ass was only mildly uncomfortable, some of the boy’s fear subsided, and he began to work his finger in and out. A single, oil-slick finger, by the looks of it.
Lyon pyr Helsos waited for the other shoe to drop.
“You must be firm with them,” the Emperor told him as an aside, a casual glance over his shoulder to Lyon at his left hand as Gaius continued the task of inexpertly working himself open. With a nod to Menenius, sitting miserably at Lyon’s feet, “Your boy was born in the final months of my dictatorship. Gaius, the first year of my reign as Emperor. Both of them to wealth and status. Neither of them have known hardship the way you and I have. They’ve never known what it’s like to have to go without—be it without food on the table, without heat in the long winters, without the common respect due all men…”
The Emperor was a remarkable orator; the passion in his voice during this impromptu speech on his settee had Lyon for a moment forgetting that he had not had a hard life himself, not by any reasonable definition. He had never gone hungry or cold, and he rather doubted Solus zos Galvus ever had either. His choice to defect to the Garlean Empire had come with its share of disgust from his countrymen, and it wasn’t all rainbows and chocobo chicks in the legions, don’t misunderstand him—but if the Emperor meant to use this speech to convince him raping a child was somehow warranted, that bearing that trauma was by any stretch of the imagination equivalent to being called a savage by a Garlean (or a godless heathen if you were one), he was sorely mistaken.
“An easy life makes you soft,” the Emperor went on. “Greatness is born of hardship, and ambition of poverty. If you want to raise your children with the drive to achieve their true potential—if you want them to yearn for power—you must make them understand what it is to be powerless. That’s enough,” he said suddenly, and snapped his fingers when Gaius did not immediately recognize that it was he who had been addressed.
“Yes, Your Radiance,” the boy said breathlessly, disentangling himself and falling back onto his heels with obvious, if short-lived, relief. “My apologies, Your Radiance. Where… where would you have me?”
“Here will suffice,” the Emperor said, patting his thigh. “And do bring the oil.”
Gaius’ legs shook with the effort when he stood—his thighs having borne the majority of his weight these last minutes—and his hands were no better, the bowl threatening to spill. He set it down with a clatter on the table beside the chaise.
“Good boy,” offered the Emperor. It was a scrap, but the boy ate it right up, ducking his head to hide his embarrassed flush. Who hurt this kid? Sparing Gaius one additional indignity, at least, Solus zos Galvus had him wait at his knee whilst he undid his own belt, freeing his hard cock. He patted his thigh again, and, swallowing hard, Gaius bas Baelsar clambered into his lap.
Hells, but he was so young. Perched in a grown man’s lap, it was impossible not to compare them. It was clear already that one day, Gaius would outgrow the Emperor, but that day was still a long ways off. For now, Solus zos Galvus stood head and shoulders above the boy, and even astride him, Gaius’ eyes were only level with the Emperor’s own; his knees held wide apart by the girth of the Emperor’s thighs, Gaius was forced to hold up his weight on the balls of his feet.
The Emperor’s hard cock perched upright between their bodies, and while it was not quite so thick as Gaius’ wrist, it was not much smaller, either; his own little cock, by contrast, could not have been more than two ilms in length, and had taken no interest in the proceedings. There was still baby fat on the boy’s cheeks. Lyon watched the Emperor dip his fingers in oil and usher Gaius up further onto his knees, up, up, and then guide him back down.
Oiled hand holding his cock steady, the Emperor’s other hand found Gaius’ shoulder. His palm covered Gaius’ collarbone in its entirety, and he brought his elbow up to the level of his shoulder, ready and able to apply the maximum force. Lyon found this in itself unsettling, how while the boy had been nothing but perfectly compliant this whole time the Emperor was poised to overpower him, knowing it was only a matter of time before Gaius’ instincts forced him to fight back.
Lyon wasn’t ashamed to say he’d been around, and he liked it rough, sometimes—rougher than most, anyroad. He knew that even when you wanted it, overstimulation or outright pain could overcome your senses, cause you to struggle, and that being made to take it anyway could be a high like nothing else, when you were with someone you trusted. This… was not that. The kid had no idea what he was getting into, and if it weren’t clear enough from how resentful Menenius had been from the moment he walked into his tent to find him there, neither boy had any choice in the matter. Gaius had deferred to the Emperor’s every whim, had even been given the option to leave and forgone it—but that was immaterial. He could have, Lyon was now certain, fought every step of the way, bit and scratched and begged to be allowed to go, and still they would have ended up here, because it seemed that as much as the Emperor relished and got off on Gaius’ compliance, he must have wanted to make the boy hurt.
He was going to struggle, yes, but that was only an inevitability because Solus zos Galvus had bid it so—he could have instructed Gaius in how to prepare himself properly, how to breathe and bear down, he could have told the kid to use more than one bloody finger to work himself open, could have let him take more time before calling him up into his lap. This was cruelty, plain and simple. This was the man Lyon pyr Helsos had chosen to pledge his loyalty to.
Gaius bas Baelsar did not scream straight away. The first thrust, the Emperor’s cockhead forcing its way past his rim, took the boy’s breath away, and his face scrunched up with pain. Out of his open mouth slipped these horrible little gasping inhales with each additional fraction of an ilm the Emperor won, his hands clutching at the upholstery with a death grip. When zos Galvus relented for a moment, deep enough inside that he no longer needed to hold himself steady, and lifted Gaius up by his armpits before dragging him back down—that’s when the boy let out a scream. The Emperor was not even fully seated.
“Quiet, boy. You’ll learn to endure it.”
Gaius sobbed. “Please, please…” His hands found the Emperor’s shoulders, and he tried to push himself up and away with the leverage that provided him—but the Emperor was bigger, and stronger, and even from beneath him, had no trouble prying Gaius’ hands off his shoulders with one of his own, trapping them as if bound in front of his body. Now left with only his shaking thighs to support his own weight, Gaius could only submit.
Solus zos Galvus turned his attention to Lyon, sitting beside him. “It was a practice of the Allagans”—thrust—“to take young men and women to bed”—thrust—“in exchange for one’s mentorship.” He carried on heedless of Gaius’ little half-sobs, only raising his voice to be heard more readily above them. “Think of your boy as—ah—a student as much as a gift. Lady kir Albus and Lord tol Lanatus will expect you to teach Menenius all that you know.”
“You can’t mean to say his parents would want me to rape their son,” Lyon found himself arguing, his voice rising in dismay. He looked between the Emperor and Menenius at his own feet. The boy met his gaze for a heartbeat, and then he had eyes only for the floor. Lyon’s heart ached as it normally only did for his beasts when they were injured.
“‘Twas good enough for the Allagans, was it not? Their civilization achieved heights seen on this loathsome star neither before nor—did I not tell you to be quiet, boy?” He tugged at Gaius’ trapped wrists in irritation, making the kid fall forward into the Emperor’s chest. “You’d think I’d shot you, for all that mewling.” He let an irritated huff out past his back teeth.
Gaius’ breath hitched with every motion commanded of him by the Emperor’s hand spanning his hip, but he swallowed back his cries. “Apologies, Your—Your Radiance,” he managed, his forehead resting upon zos Galvus’ shoulder. Watching him worry his lower lip between his teeth, Lyon pitied the boy for his Garlean eyes—in Gaius’ place, Lyon would have wanted to shut them.
Satisfied with this response, the Emperor returned his attention to Lyon. “As I was saying. Under your mentorship, Menenius will grow into a man, and having experienced powerlessness, he will come to covet power, and that, in turn, will make him great. His parents will be glad—as van Baelsar will be glad to hear her son was chosen by the Emperor himself.”
The aforementioned’s sobs had by now somewhat evened out, not making much more sound than the occasional gasp—His Radiance had ordered his silence, and so silence His Radiance would have. You’ll learn to endure it, the Emperor had said, and it seemed he was right. Despite the oil, a trickle of blood charted a course down the back of Gaius’ thigh, collecting in the crook of his knee.
Lyon made a pained sound. “I see,” he said. He wondered why it was their inability to manipulate aether that earned Garleans their reputation among the five races, and not whatever this shit was. At his feet, Menenius leaned closer, the back of his head resting against Lyon’s shin. Lyon put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, a steady presence behind him. He must be terrified, thinking this was what sex was like, what it was always like. Lyon wanted to assure him otherwise—would have to make a point to do so when they were finally dismissed. He wasn’t sure when he’d begun to care about the brat.
He wished the Emperor would just get on with it and finish. Another man, and Lyon would have assumed performance anxiety. “But I do like to think myself a generous man, and a reward for your patience serves my own goals just as well…” he mused. At first, Lyon didn’t know what he meant by it—a roundabout explanation for the way Menenius had shown up at his tent?—but then zos Galvus took hold of Gaius bas Baelsar by the scruff of the neck, finally letting his hands go free. “Behave,” he warned, “or else I won’t invite you back.”
So saying, the Emperor shoved the boy down so that while he was still riding his cock, Gaius’ sobbing, snotty face was pinned to Lyon’s crotch. If any gods cared to listen to a traitor, Lyon prayed now that the kid’s shuddering breath so close was not enough to make his cock stir. He wanted no part in this.
Lyon pushed Gaius out of his lap and stood. If speaking out of turn was one thing, to up and walk out of the Emperor’s audience was for a man with a death wish—but so was defying his direct order, and though he was a defector, a brute, and at times a coward, Lyon pyr Helsos was not a monster, and he would not rape a child tonight. Caught between a goobbue and a wall, he’d rather sign his own death warrant and save van Gabranth the trouble. “Thank you for your generosity, Your Radiance. And the demonstration. It was… clarifying,” he landed on. He waved Menenius up. “Come on, boy. Time we take our leave.”
Solus zos Galvus’ laughter followed them out of the tent as they fled.