"You might think the locals don’t know how to cook, but, mm..." Rowan picked up the sliced pork from his plate and tossed it into his mouth, closing his eyes to chew it.
"That good?" Chester asked, taking a slice from his plate.
"That good," Rowan opened his eyes and looked at Elian, who had his head lowered toward his lap.
"Is this what you enjoyed down here, Elian? The cooking is magnificent," Rowan gently picked up another slice and held it to Elian’s lips, "here."
Lucien’s hands itched under the table to yank Rowan’s hand away from Elian, but he wanted Elian to eat... needed him to eat. He could no longer stand watching Elian emaciated right in front of him.
Elian was reluctant, but slowly, he parted his lips, ready to accept Rowan’s feeding.
"He deserves to die!" a man shouted not so far away from the table.
Elian immediately withdrew, hands clenched on top of his thighs.
Lucien snapped his head toward the man, his eyes darkened dangerously. Two tables away from them sat a chubby man with two others, each gripping a wooden tankard filled with ale.
"He’s drunk," Soren stated calmly.
The man lifted his tankard in respect to the Duke, his friends doing the same.
"Respect to you, Your Grace! You even let the son of a traitor dine with you!" He hiccuped, his ale spilling onto the wooden table and splashing onto his dirty clothes.
"Just say the words, Your Grace! And we shall have his head on a platter for you! He deserves worse!" one of the men slurred loudly.
Lucien glanced at Elian, who now looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought him here. He should have let them ride toward the town hall; at least the elders there are more appropriate in their manners.
"Kill the boy!" the first man chanted.
"Kill the boy!" his friends joined.
"Kill the boy!"
"Kill the boy!"
"Kill the boy!"
Everyone in the tavern joined, chanting and drumming their hands on the table.
Elian wanted to shrink into the thin air; he wanted to disappear. A place where he was once loved was now a place where he was despised.
He never thought he’d ever think of the Stonewall Manor as his home, but at that moment, he wanted to go ’home’. At least in there, everyone left him alone, except the Duke. But even the Duke wasn’t as vile and brutal as the people he thought would protect him.
He officially just lost his home. If he ever escaped from Lucien, where would he go?
"Enough!" Lucien slammed his hand on the table.
He could no longer sit and watch Elian lose his breath over some foolish, drunk crowd. He was the Duke; his word was law, not theirs.
Silence fell over the tavern, everyone holding their breaths as they felt the darkness rolling off Lucien’s body.
Elian didn’t move; he wasn’t sure what to expect from Lucien. It might be that Lucien was about to release him to the angry villagers to do as they pleased; after all, he was not really that different from their savagery.
Lucien stood, green eyes scanning the whole room, "You, come forward," he commanded the first man.
Slowly, the man stood, his face no longer as courageous as it was before. Visibly scared, he staggered over to Lucien, standing in front of the table with his head lowered.
"Kill the boy, then," Lucien spoke lowly, eyes locked on the man’s flushed face.
The man gulped, wringing his fat fingers together, "Your Grace, I am sorry—"
"Kill the boy!" Lucien snapped, taking a furious step closer to the shaking man.
The man literally peed his pants, his legs trembling in front of the scary Duke. He shook his head, eyes shut.
"No, Your Grace. That was barbaric of me... of everyone. Justice is for you to give, not in our hands..." He fell on his knees, hands pressed together like he was praying, "Please, forgive me, Your Grace, I cannot kill the boy!" He cried.
Lucien stared at the man, clenching his gloved hands to tame his anger. He glanced around the tavern and saw how everyone lowered their heads in shame.
"If this is how my subjects behave, then perhaps I am giving you all too much freedom. This is not how I expect my subjects to behave," he said, slowly striding over to stand behind Elian.
"Elian is my subject; what happens to him is only in my power to decide." His hand lowered onto Elian’s shoulder, holding him gently.
Elian still did not look up; Lucien standing up for him did not even phase him, for he knew that Lucien was only saving him to ruin him better in private. What was there to rejoice about?
"No one... and I mean, no one is to call him a traitor. From now on, Elian Morel is to be known as the Duke’s royal attendant. A disrespect to him is a disrespect to me. And I do not take disrespect so well. Am I understood?!" He glared at the crowd.
"Yes, Your Grace!" the crowd echoed.
"We’re leaving," Lucien said to his men at the table and gently pulled Elian up by the arm.
"Are we—"
"No. We stay and enjoy the food," Rowan placed a hand on Chester’s lap, stopping him from following the Duke and his attendant out of the tavern.
Before he lowered his head to his food, he caught a strange look in Soren’s eyes and smirked, "Enjoy your food, Doctor, think less," Rowan said.
Outside, the sun was setting, the clouds darkening.
Elian stood quietly behind the Duke, feeling complex. He felt grateful, but at the same time, he didn’t.
He watched Lucien mount the horse and offer his hand to him.
Elian looked at the offered hand, then at the Duke, his eyes searching for the motive behind this sudden defense. Finding nothing but a heavy, unreadable intensity in Lucien’s gaze, he finally reached out.
Lucien’s grip was firm, pulling him up with a strength that felt less like a master commanding a servant and more like a man desperate to keep hold of something slipping through his fingers.
Lucien didn’t make him sit behind. Instead, he pulled Elian around, guiding him into the saddle first so that Elian sat nestled securely against his chest. Lucien’s arms wrapped around him, his hands finding the reins with a possessive grace, effectively boxing Elian in.
The horses broke into a trot, leaving the village behind. The adrenaline of the tavern began to fade, replaced by the damp, cooling air of the evening.
Elian stared ahead at the thickening tree line, his heart skipping a beat when he realized they weren’t turning toward the manor path.
"Your Grace," he whispered, his voice small and brittle against the rising wind. "The manor is the other way."
Lucien didn’t look down; he kept his eyes on the darkening trail. "I know."
"Where are we going?" Elian asked, a flicker of genuine fear piercing through his numbness.
"To my cabin," Lucien replied, his voice uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual sharp edges. "It is quiet there. You don’t have to hear them, and you don’t have to look at anyone."
Elian fell silent. The woods were closing in, the trees becoming silhouettes against a bruised, purple sky. He should have been terrified of being taken further into the isolation, but the thought of the manor—of the silent, empty rooms that reminded him of his loss—felt infinitely worse than being alone with the Duke.
Suddenly, the sky broke. A cold, relentless rain began to fall, turning the dusty trail into slick mud.
"Damn it," Lucien muttered, though there was no real anger in his tone.
He pulled Elian flush against him, his leather cloak swinging open to shield them both. He tucked Elian’s head beneath his chin, his arm tightening around Elian’s waist with an almost desperate strength.
"Hold on," Lucien commanded, his voice vibrating against Elian’s ear.
He spurred the horse forward, moving faster through the downpour. The rain lashed at them, but inside the circle of Lucien’s arms, it was warm and oddly protected. The Duke’s heavy cape was soaked, the scent of wet wool and clove clinging to him, but he didn’t care. He was bent over Elian, effectively acting as a living shield against the storm.
Elian felt the Duke’s chest rise and fall against his back, a steady, rhythmic thrumming. The cold rain made the warmth of Lucien’s body feel like a sanctuary. Elian’s hands, which had been clenched in his lap, slowly unfurled, his fingers brushing against Lucien’s forearms. He didn’t push away. He couldn’t. For the first time in days, the suffocating weight of the world felt like it was being held at bay by the man who had caused it all.
"We are almost there," Lucien whispered, his breath warm against Elian’s temple. The tenderness in his voice was so startling that Elian’s chest ached. "I’ve got you, Elian. You’re safe."
Elian leaned back, just a fraction, pressing into the Duke’s solid heat. The rain continued to pour, washing away the dirt of the road, but beneath the storm, in the shelter of Lucien’s arms, the hatred Elian had been nursing felt brittle, ready to snap and turn into something far more complicated.
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