An Angel Called Eternity

To Bet on Losing Dogs - Ilias I: Through Another's Eyes

Ilias I: Through Another's Eyes

The Eleventh Day of the Third Moon, 873 AD.
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.

He went through the motions that had been drilled into him time and time again, not daring to disappoint the matron and master a second time. He still had a black eye from when he'd slept in and been woken up in a most stinging way, the master throwing out a punch really quite hard and the matron's temper being brought to boil, and for what? Because he'd accidentally slept longer than he'd meant to? He wasn't too worried anyway; the master hit hard, but the matron hit a hell of a lot harder. Not that he'd ever voice any of that out loud, of course. He wasn't suicidal, thank you very much.

He did his best to put the events of last week out of his mind and focus on his dancing, and the 'encouragement' of the master.
"Relevé my sweet, on point, en garde!"

He forced himself not to grit his teeth, nor to show any displeasure whatsoever. He needed to maintain complete composure if he wanted to get out.

There was someone new that night. He hadn't ever known royalty to enter such establishments before, especially someone as young as this one seemed to be; the boy that walked in couldn't have been much older than he was, maybe a little younger in honesty. And he was royalty, there could be no mistaking it no matter the roughspun cowl about his frame. He walked too surely, his face was too well-coloured and healthy, he was at the very least a lord.

Wait, was that... yes, surely it was. But Ilias had never... this wasn't his memory. This was... it couldn't be a dream, it was too real, but...

The young royal paid for the night with him. More than anyone had ever paid before as well, a full gold coin. Then there was nothing. No expectations, no disgusting acts, no fear. They just... sat there and talked for a while. Come the morning he was out of the matron's house and led in a featherbed in the honest-to-Saints royal palace whilst the prince curled up in a chair and tried to sleep there. Strange how it all worked out, especially as this wasn't his memory.

The young cupbearer shot awake with a heavy gasp. That dream, that memory, it all felt so real, but it couldn't have been his. He was all to aware of his own memories, but he could taste copper in his mouth, his feet still ached from the hours of dancing, and the area around his left eye still felt tender, as though he had really been punched.

Peculiar.

He shook his head and readied himself. He had work to do today, and he couldn't waste time on strange dreams and the like, no matter how much his prince seemed to do so in his spare time. Still, perhaps Seventh could be approached and asked about this matter? Ilias thought he got on well enough with the seer to warrant a few curious questions answered at least.
Then again, maybe not. The details of the dream were already being forgotten, flitting away like leaves on a cold breeze. He shook his head and left his room. First things first, getting his Grace his morning meal so that he might break his fast. Shouldn't take long.

The previous day had been... tense, he thought as he moved with practiced ease through crowds of courtiers and throngs of petitioners, making his way through the palace. His Grace was well within his rights to do what he did, by Ilias' estimations anyway, but the young cupbearer hadn't been stupid enough to think that the execution of every dissident nobleman would leave no mark on the prince's reputation. Not that Ilias cared much for those fops.

Even so, there was a danger there. Rhema was supposed to be the wild and impulsive one, not Lykourgos. He would support his prince and ruler to the very end, with no reservations, but he knew others wouldn't see things this way.
But, he reasoned as he weaved through a particularly dense group of people, he wasn't being impulsive. Just extreme.