#this started as part of figuring out how sirion and caleb came to be as they are

[curiosity-killed]

second look

part 1 | part 2

fun fact: Sirion’s name means protector/guardian bc it’s my made-up language in my made-up country in my made-up story and I can make it mean what I want

Word count: 1936

A week later, Sirion is assigned to the prince’s personal guard. Some of his surprise must show on his face, because Jemma’s lips quirk up in amusement. “He must have liked you,” she says. Two guards go with him under his command, and he stations them outside the door, to take the place of the watch before them. Sirion himself takes a deep, bracing breath before pushing open the study door. He’s never been in royal chambers before, and he can scarcely guess at the opulence of the imperator princep’s private chambers. Gold everywhere? A hundred generations’ worth of artwork and souvenirs from war? Of all the imperator princeps, only Anharad never slept here, and it was she who oversaw the rooms’ design, back when Ancelm was only a dream and the throne still sat in Aerisilia, that long-dead city remembered now only in legend. He passes through the narrow entry hall, tight and dark, and into the sunlit study. He met with the lieutenant he’s to replace – Brandolin – outside, and the room is silent and empty save for the prince sitting at his desk.

The room is sparser than he expected: bookshelves stretch nearly to the ceiling on two of the walls, and three narrow windows cut through the third, letting in long shafts of afternoon sun. Twin archways, curtained, stand on either side of an unlit hearth on the fourth wall. A grille closes off that opening, though if he’s honest, he can’t imagine how someone would find a way through that chimney anyway. “Good afternoon, S-I-R-I-O-N,” the prince signs in greeting.

Sirion bows low, arm folded over his chest, before replying. “Thank you, Your Eminence.” Wrinkling his nose, the prince slides his quill back into the inkwell and turns his attention fully to Sirion. He has dark eyes, nearly black, and they’re surprisingly intense when they’re focused on him alone. “Please, ‘Callebero’ will suffice,” he signs, using a shorthand gesture for his name. Sirion has seen the sign used around the captains and some of the senior guards, but it feels presumptuous to address the imperator princep with only a quick backward flick of his hand. His proper title requires both hands and three composite signs, and it somehow seems more fitting than this quick tilt of one hand. “You do not mind the informality?” he asks cautiously. The prince shrugs. He’s dressed all in black today with only silver trim on his sides and collar. Only his crown and the thin, drop-like earrings swaying from his ears glitter gold. It gives him a severe appearance that belies his youth. Dressed like this, he looks like the imperator princep. “The captains have been chasing after me since infancy,” he says, “and you lieutenants will one day be my captains. How can I trust you to give me your honest judgment if I insist on absurd titles and honorifics? It seems calling me by my name is at least a step toward being willing to tell me when a plan is foolhardy – or worse.” The corner of his lips quirk up towards the end, as if at the thought of anyone being so bold. Sirion can hardly imagine it. Young as he is, he is still the imperator princep – the bloodsworn commander of the empire. A word from him could sever anyone’s head from their body. “Then, I thank you for this trust, Callebero,” Sirion signs. It feels wrong, but he will have to get used to it. The last thing he wants to do is hobble his own advancement by insulting the prince over such a silly thing. For his part, the prince seems to relax at the loss of the honorifics. “And thank you for yours, S-I-R-I-O-N,” he says. Sirion hesitates before: “If it pleases you, most everyone uses ‘Sirion,’” he signs, signing the nickname twice for clarity. It’s a play on the meaning of his name, of sorts: the sign for ‘shield’ unfurling into the first letter of his name. The prince – Callebero – watches closely before nodding with a little smile. “Then, it is a pleasure to meet you, Sirion,” he signs. It seems silly, and Sirion has to fight to hide a smile. Of all things, he hadn’t expected to be amused by the prince. He settles into parade rest to keep an eye on the doors and windows. A grown adult couldn’t fit through the windows in one piece, but an arrow could make it through with enough skill and luck. The archways to the prince’s quarters are another concern, of course. According to the plans they all memorize of the palace, there is a door leading from there to the hallway and another leading to the prince’s bath, which, of course, connects to the public baths. Even with guards and servants along the route, a determined assassin could find their way to the prince through the warren beneath the palace. Curtains hang down to the floor in the archways, swaying in the afternoon breeze. A rogue gust catches the curtains and flicks open a glimpse of dark wood, a stack of books – Sirion averts his gaze. “I don’t suppose you have much practice reading proposals, do you?” The question jars Sirion, bringing his attention swinging from the entry hall to where the prince has his head braced in one hand. He glances up for Sirion’s reply. All Sirion can manage, though, is confusion. “I’m joking,” the prince says. He sighs. ��Well, more like wishful thinking. I still have – oh, seventy more petitions to read, and my eyes are starting to cross.” Sirion frowns. “Beg pardon, but you are reading petitions?” he asks. It seems an innate contradiction. For centuries, petitions have been an immutable facet of the government, the rare chance for the citizens to speak with their emperor. He’s never heard of them being written down. “Oh, right.” There’s a pause, where Sirion nearly regrets asking, before the prince goes on, “When I was crowned, it was – easier to bring the petitions back to discuss with advisors than trying to recall two hundred verbal petitions every single week. Now, I guess I’m just accustomed to the routine, and it seems a nuisance to change it. After all, not every petitioner can afford to stand in line for three hours, and it seems unjust to refuse them the opportunity because of age or injury or obligations.” Oh. Despite how juvenile he’d initially thought the prince, it’s easy to forget that he was a child when he took the throne. Sirion can’t imagine sitting in that stone hall for hours on end as a nine-year-old, much less having to remember and pass judgment on all those petitions hours later. Even as an adult, he doesn’t know how he would approach such a task. More than that, it’s surprisingly nice to hear the imperator princep think of his own people, even in a small way. For the first time, Sirion feels a genuine sense of regret for what he’d thought of the prince from their first meeting. 

“How do you go about picking the petitions to fulfill?” he asks. Perhaps it’s overstepping the boundaries of propriety, but if the prince insists on Sirion using his first name, he can’t imagine this will cause much of a rebuke. And despite himself, Sirion is intrigued. If he’d thought about the petitions at all, he would have assumed that the prince passed the task off to some committee of advisors or just picked whichever he remembered from last hearing them. The prince laughs, a bright grin flashing white over his face and scrunching up the skin by his eyes. “With great reluctance,” he says. Despite himself, Sirion can’t quite help a smile at the joke. The prince goes on, a little more serious but still far from solemn. “I try to read through all of them by at least two days before the next hearings,” he says. “That way I can think over them a bit and have my mind clear in time to listen to the next round. Each week, I try to pick which I would select if these were the only ones I heard all month. And then, at the end of the month, I make the final decision.” “That is quite a process,” Sirion remarks. The prince laughs and nods. “Yes, it’s a wonder I get anything else done,” he says before pausing. The corners of his lips are still pulled up, but he bites briefly at his bottom lip before shrugging slightly and looking up. “To be honest, though, I think it’s the part I like best about being the prince. It feels…more direct somehow, than the rest of it.” Canting his head, Sirion gives a slight nod as he processes that. As little as he knows about ruling, he does imagine it to be a distant thing. After all, with the Council of Regents in place, it seems the prince could delegate all his work and run off free. He’d always imagined that to be the prince’s will: from his first impression, the prince had seemed wholly disinclined to work at the labors of ruling. Sirion’s beginning to understand that there’s more to the young ruler than he’d initially thought — but he’s surprised now by wondering how much, by wanting to know. “Not war?” he asks. He’s not sure why he does except that he can’t help thinking of that sparring match. The prince had moved with a focus, an intensity, that didn’t come from idle study, and there was little in the world more direct than battle. Now, though, the prince stills and his expression slides into something curiously blank. There’s no anger or disdain, but the easy smile that had curled on his lips and in the creases by his eyes has dissipated. He cants his head, lifts his eyebrows in something like a shrug, and the moment’s broken. “Well, it is more direct,” he admits. “My apologies, imperator,” Sirion signs. “I overstepped.” The prince snorts, a huff of laughter that startles Sirion more than the sudden blankness, and he shakes his head as he turns back to the petitions. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “There’s a reason our title is imperator. War is the domain of the prince — I just…I guess I don’t think of it as ruling, much.” He glances up, that smile returning in amusement in his gaze. “And I told you, it’s just Callebero.” This time, Sirion breathes out a laugh and nods. “Very well, Callebero.” Satisfied, the prince’s grin grows a little and he turns back to his work. Sirion can’t quite stifle his own smile as he returns to parade rest. Despite his earlier confusion and trepidation, he feels almost relaxed now. His eyes still scan over the room’s entrances for any hint of a disturbance — even the ridiculous fireplace – and he listens closely for any call from the corridor — but it seems a more pleasant task now. The occasional rustling of papers as the prince turns over a petition and adds it to one stack or another, the quiet hum he gives of consideration, are a strange comfort. It’s evening by the time his shift ends, and he passes the duty on to the Royal Protector with a bow and full debrief. The prince has moved on from petitions to some scroll that’s longer than the desk is wide, and he looks up only briefly to bid Sirion goodnight with a smile and flick of his free hand. Walking down the torchlit hallways back to the barracks, Sirion finds himself hoping that he’s put on guard duty again.