Page 95 of Dragon Slayer

~*~

They sent Iskander Bey home.

Vlad sat on his usual pew in the chapel, gaze trained unseeing on the cross. In his two years here, the crawling ivy had never overtaken it. A more romantic soul than him would have called it divine intervention.

Vlad was Roman – half. But he was not romantic. He knew the ivy had been trimmed by the hand of a slave, some boy stolen from his home after his parents were slaughtered.

He heard the scrape of new boots over stone and did not turn.

George settled next to him; the pew creaked. He smelled of soap, and powder, and floral oils. A prince cleaned up and dressed in new finery from his homeland, set to return with a contingent of Ottoman cavalry and terms of lasting peace.

Vlad said, “They trust you, then.”

“I’ve worked hard to ensure that they do.”

Vlad turned to him, then. His beard had been oiled and combed; his hair fell in pale sheets down his back. He looked every inch the prince; the persona of hostage had been stripped away.

Vlad snorted. “Will you still do it? Defy them?”

“In all my years here, that’s the only thing I’ve ever been completely sure about. Yes, I will do it. I said that I would.”

“People don’t always do what they say they will.”

“I do,” George said, gaze steady. Like he knew what Vlad was trying valiantly not to think. Like he could sense that Vlad’s stomach was folding in on itself, pulling tight with an emotion that he didn’t dare nameloss, because he’d been taken from his home, how could this parting feel anything like loss?

“Vlad,” George started, voice gentle, and Vlad couldn’t stand it.

He jumped to his feet and put three paces between them, his back to the older boy, arms folded tight across his middle. He was afraid if he let go, the horrible thing boiling in his stomach might climb up his throat; might leave his mouth as a wounded sound, or burn his eyes with unthinkable tears.

“Vlad,” George said again, and got to his feet, followed him.

Vlad sensed the hand about to land on his shoulder and whirled, teeth bared, growling. His fangs were showing; he meant to be frightening.

But George’s expression was almost tender. “I’m sorry I’m leaving you,” he said.

“Leaving me?” Vlad scoffed. But the sound that left his mouth was more of a sob than a laugh. “Do you think that I care? What are we – friends? No. Do you think thishurtsme?”

“I know that it does.” Calm and gentle. “I would spare you this, if I could, but I have to return to my people. And you have to continue being patient. Yes?”

Vlad looked away and growled. His vision blurred, and he blinked it clear, furiously.

“It’s alright to have friends,” George said. “And it’s alright to miss them.”

Vlad flashed his fangs again, and said nothing. It did hurt. It hurt. There were a dozen little ways that George had helped them, tempering the anger of the mullahs and viziers and even the sultan, probably. He’d watched over Val, and he’d known what Mehmet was, the kind of threat he’d posed. And, worst of all, he’d given Vlad hope that he could survive this; that he had the fortitude to learn, and scheme, and wait, and make his move once he was a free man. Not just a friend, but a light in the dark.

Vlad didn’t know if he could carry on alone.

“Don’t hate your brother,” George suggested. “You need him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Vlad said, honesty shaken loose by the rawness of his emotions. “I love him more than anything.”

“Then maybe you should tell him that.”

“No.” This moment now was proof enough that showing weakness – that he needed anyone – could be used against him to ruinous effect.

George sighed. “You are the stubbornest brat I ever met.” And then, before Vlad could shift away, George folded him into a strong embrace. “Take care, Vlad,” he murmured in his ear. “I’m holding you to your oath to be allies with me when you leave here.”

Despite the awful churning in his gut, and the sting of tears in his eyes, Vlad chuckled. “You had better.”

---