When Arslan seizes the throne finally, ultimately, and having fought rabidly for every acre of land, he appoints Lord Quishward as grand commander of the armies of Parus. This is a shocking decision. Not that there is fault to be found with Quishward. But everyone knows Daryoon should become grand commander. That is expected. That is deserved.
The night before his coronation, the night before this stunning announcement, with the city of Ecbatana still smouldering in its far corners from the battle that returned it to Parusian hands, Arslan calls Daryoon to his high chambers in the domed palace and says, "I have a favor to ask of you." Arslan should know better. Kings do not ask for favors. But Arslan says he is going to be a different sort of king, one who sometimes makes requests instead of solely dictating terms.
Arslan stands at his window where the smell of fire is thickest and watches flame nibble away at his city. With his back to Daryoon he says, "I want you to watch them for me. I want you to tell me the things they don't write in their reports."
This is Arslan's idea of a favor. Daryoon knows better. This is his idea of proper service. He accepts the request as his new standing orders.
Arslan does not give Daryoon a title.
This does not trouble Daryoon. While there are many things he wants from Arslan, a title is not one of them. He wants a chance to serve. That he receives. He wants, though this is not a desire so publicly known, to be granted Arslan's trust. This too is given to him in abundance.
There are still other things Daryoon wants from Arslan. But Daryoon does not believe in entitlement, and so does not press for more than what he is given. He stands at parade rest in Arslan's chambers on the last night Arslan will live as a prince and tells himself that he is a patient man.
Arslan, thankfully, is young and impetuous. He grows bored of watching the black smoke dance and abandons his window. "You'd better pay attention," he says, moving closer to Daryoon than Daryoon thinks he should. There are dark circles under his eyes, and when he moves the folds of his clothes breathe the odor of smoke. He wears no jewelry or circlet of rank. "You'd better pay attention, because now you will go to the bed of a prince, and later you will go to the bed of a king, and I want to know the difference you find between them." Arslan kisses him, and it is rough and tired and frustrated, but deep with such longing that Daryoon shudders under his hands.
Daryoon pays attention. And the next morning, dampened by a light rain that falls throughout the city and snuffs the last stubborn fires, Daryoon watches the newly-crowned Arslan appoint Quishward grand commander.
Arslan never clarifies his orders beyond asking Daryoon to watch and to report. Four days after the coronation he sends Daryoon to the fortress of Nargeth in the western hills, to find out what the Parusian officers are not telling about efforts to subsume the remnants of the Lusitanian army, now sworn to Arslan's service in exchange for their lives.
It is at Nargeth that Daryoon discovers an advantage to being a living hero: when he raises his voice, commanders pale, and their sergeants look ready to fall to their knees. At first Daryoon is startled. Then he sees the speed at which his orders are executed, and decides it is almost worth being a legend.
He also notes which commanders are apt to forget provisions for the Lusitanian units, and which commanders see all the soldiers reasonably fed and billeted. It is the latter he speaks with. Within a week, the Lusitanian units are subdivided and scattered throughout the main army.
This dramatically cuts the tendency towards uneven provisioning. It also slices the heart from Lusitanian separatism. Planning rebellion is an awkward task when the dissidents never have the opportunity to meet.
Daryoon does not return to Ecbatana for months, until the sun is again at the height of its stretch over the flat summer sky. Arslan is pleased by his report. For the two weeks of the solstice festival, he sets Daryoon to renewed study of the difference between a prince and a king. Then he sends him out again. This time, Daryoon rides to the mountains of the north.
He is still there when a late spring cracks the ice from the rivers and he reads, in a letter from Arslan's own hand, that the king has finally acquiesced to the combined urging of his councilors and has named Vorenth, the granddaughter of old Lord Zichos, to be his queen. Her lineage is pure Parusian, and beyond reproach. Narsus declares her humor to be scathingly dry, and claims to wait breathlessly for the honor of her formal portrait sittings. Arslan writes that he is pleased to find Zichos' calm intelligence shared by his offspring. Etoile of Lusitania he will take as his second wife, to soothe the pride of her countrymen.
On the day of the royal wedding, Daryoon argues deployments with the Marsbaan of the northern border region, filled with a kind of fierce joy at having escaped the entire tedious celebration.
The next years witness the construction of Arslan's ideal Parus. It is not without incident. When Shindra decides the southern plains of Parus appeal more than the friendly alliance shared by the two nations, war flares. Daryoon again rides at Arslan's side. Narsus shows naked nostalgia for battlefield strategy, and does not fail to impress. When the battle of Drangiana ends, the elephants of Shindra are dead hulks sinking into the marsh, and Lajendra's corpse is found washed onto the bank of the slow-flowing Helmand. Arslan adds a Shindran bride, the eldest sister of dead Lajendra, to the company of his Lusitanian wife and Parusian queen.
Daryoon continues to travel where Arslan can not. No one else lays claim on him. This suits Daryoon to perfection.
The soldiers of Unified Parus, living in a world where a rank matters more than a name, can not let Daryoon exist as a unlabeled civilian. They christen him the King's Arm. At first, this is a name only used behind Daryoon's back. Then a talkative junior lieutenant forgets his place and says it directly to his face. Daryoon pretends not to hear. Soon the nobles, who are equally wary of men who hold power but not a title to define its limits, acquire the term from the army's rank and file. Four months later, the vizier of the treasury says in his weekly conference with Arslan, "You will see how the King's Arm fails to make note of his expenses," and is astounded to see His Majesty collapse in a fit of unkingly laughter.
In Arslan's tenth year as king of Parus, Daryoon returns to Ecbatana in late fall after three months in the southern plains, monitoring tensions along the old Shindran border. He enters the palace unaccosted by courtiers, though his presence has certainly been observed. The denizens of the court learned long ago that Daryoon is a fruitless path to the king's power. They are better off begging Arslan himself than wasting their flowered speeches on his lieutenant.
He pauses in his own rooms long enough to drop his dirt-stained pack on the floor and to avail himself of a bath. His arrival has indeed been noticed; his valet, so infrequently required to execute his duties, waits with abundant quantities of heated water. This is a decadence provided by his rank that Daryoon makes good use of, and he strips himself of the grime of travel with abrupt vengeance. Dirt offends his sense of order.
"I have," he thinks, walking the well-known path to the king's apartments, "become spoiled by this place." But the thought is mild and lacks the sting of true self-censure. He is too pleased to be returned for the winter months to chide himself for his indulgences. His wanderlust is thoroughly satiated. Now he can appreciate the fine webs of strategy Narsus and his operatives will spin from the intelligence he has gathered. Indeed, observing Narsus these past years has awoken his own mild talent for pulling strings from behind concealing curtains.
Ahead, also, lies Arslan. Daryoon will again speak to him, and not for him. He is someone Daryoon has no need to impress or to pose for. This is, Daryoon thinks, his reward. The fruit of his labors. Though he will never tell Arslan that.
The guard at Arslan's door sees his approach, and snaps to attention with painful enthusiasm. His face is unlined; his eyes sparkle. He is far too young and far too eager to be a veteran of the war. Daryoon hopes that he never looked so foolish in his youth. He shakes his head and walks past.
He enters an antechamber, then the library itself with its great table of cedar. The room smells of sweet wood and the faint corrosion of leather and foxed paper. Documents are unevenly fanned over the polished desktop. Behind the table in a straight-backed chair sits Arslan, intent on a book. The casement windows at his back are parted several inches and permit an insincere breeze to flutter the pages, and the descending vista of Ecbatana lies like a spilled jewel box beyond. So oblivious is Arslan to his surroundings that he fails to notice Daryoon's arrival.
Daryoon sighs. At least Arslan has the small sense to sit facing the door.
"Your Majesty."
Arslan glances up from his study, but only briefly. Daryoon waits. Then Arslan looks again, and a smile breaks brilliantly across his face.
"Daryoon!" he says, blatantly thrilled to see him. Daryoon is dizzied to suddenly be the focus of that intent concentration. It is blinding, like leaving a darkened room and stepping full into bright afternoon sun.
Arslan lets his book snap shut, losing whatever page he was so absorbed in, and drops his inked pen onto a sheet paper that is likely very important. His chair rasps loudly over the floor as he rises and strides around the table to greet Daryoon, saying, "You're early. I wasn't going to look for you for another two or three days. I told myself not to even wonder when you'd show up. At least not until tomorrow."
Then he is in front of Daryoon, gripping his upper arms with his wide, ink-stained hands. Daryoon's own hands rise, too, in reflexive reaction, until he awkwardly cups Arslan's elbows in his palms. Arslan may hold him, but he can only hold onto Arslan in return.
The image of Arslan that Daryoon carries in his mind is the picture of a much-younger prince, just as Daryoon first saw him, all wide eyes and high cheekbones. So Daryoon is repeatedly surprised after his long absences to see the source of the image as he now truly is. The cheekbones are still there, at least, accompanied by a weak chin that has never fully resolved itself. Arslan's hair has gone from platinum to honey at some point when Daryoon was not watching. Sunlight instead of moonlight. Appropriate enough, now that he is the brightest entity in the heavens. They have long been of the same height. This also caught Daryoon unawares, until he turned one day to make a comment and was shocked to find their eyes on the same level. Daryoon still has the advantage of weight and assumes he always will.
"But here you are," the golden king says.
Of course this is a statement of the obvious. Daryoon says, "The roads were unusually cooperative," and immediately regrets being so dull.
"I can, though," he thinks to continue, "if Your Majesty so wishes, leave for another two days."
Arslan tightens his grip. "You'll do nothing of the kind."
He releases Daryoon and returns to the table to fill two glasses from a decanter wet with beaded condensation. This makes Daryoon think of chilled objects, and the effects of applied heat.
"How is Thanis?" he asks, taking the glass Arslan hands to him.
"Loud," says Arslan succinctly, though his broad smile tells more. "His vocabulary has doubled since you saw him last. I think he wants to impress the world with it."
"Not a shy child, then," Daryoon says, and takes a drink. Fully expecting to taste wine, it is a long moment before his tongue registers unfermented sweetness. He stares at the glass.
"I can't drink wine while reading this dry stuff," Arslan smiles. "I'd fall immediately asleep. And you're right; he has the temperament of an explorer. He gets into everything. I arrived early for council last week and found him sitting cross-legged on the seat of my chair, saying he wanted to watch. I didn't realize he knew that room existed."
Daryoon grunts. "It sounds like he needs a keeper."
"Already thought of that," says Arslan, still grinning. "I set Elam on him."
Daryoon stares at him. Surely Elam is not the best candidate for the position. There must be dozens of young men more reliable and more responsible. With Narsus' attention absorbed by the effort of government, Elam has grown wild in the dissolute glory of life in the palace. Daryoon can not see the advantage in sending one child to look after another.
Arslan reads Daryoon's face with ease. "Don't look so shocked. It's a good arrangement. Everyone else seems to worship Thanis as they would a budding god, but Elam only takes him as seriously as anyone can a five-year old. And he's endlessly patient. Says Thanis is a welcome relief from Narsus' murky world of intrigue, if only because he's too young to lie."
"It is Elam who is too young," protests Daryoon.
Arslan frowns. "He's seventeen. When given reason, his temperament cooled quickly enough. You have not known him for years." Arslan drains the last of his drink, swallowing his good humor with the dregs. "He has only to keep an eye on Thanis. Remember what duties you bore at seventeen. I know I remember mine."
But we were different, Daryoon wants to say. We were the exceptions to every rule. Elam has not been brought up with that expectation of weight to be borne, which you and I knew from the time we left our mother's sides. That is the responsibility of aristocracy.
Or perhaps, Daryoon thinks, that uniqueness is an illusion, refined by a life of lofty isolation. It is the hubris of aristocracy. Arslan is right to say that Daryoon knows nothing of how the young have changed. He has never been in the city long enough to watch them grow.
"I forget, sometimes," says Daryoon in the slow tones of admission, "to attend to the people I once knew. I know more of your kingdom than I do of your court." He does not care to know more of the court. This is a lifelong resistance he will not compromise. "And I grow surly with advancing age."
Arslan arches a brow. "Since when has your surly attitude depended on your age?"
"I did come here to deliver a report," Daryoon says.
Arslan waves Daryoon around the table. He swings his chair out and settles himself into its cushioned seat, draping his arms with deliberate noblesse oblige over the broad, carved arms of the chair.
"Then report, Commander."
Daryoon does so. He brings a matching chair away from the window and aligns it to face Arslan's. In this manner they sit, and Daryoon's report becomes less of a recitation as Arslan asks for clarification and for details. Somewhere along the way it becomes a conversation.
The sun dips behind the mountain and the long dusk of Ecbatana enters like a girl swirling in her new rose dress. And still they talk.
"We should do what we can," says Arslan, ultimately, staring towards the window, "to head off such a confrontation." The glass reflects his face in dulled detail. Daryoon wonders if he watches himself, or if he watches his city. He wonders how far the two can be distinguished.
He finds it difficult to draw his thoughts back to the matter at hand. He decides he is tired, and his advice is therefore circumspect. "I don't see what we can do," he says honestly.
Arslan remains thoughtful. "Neither do I, at the moment. Still, it's something to think about." He yawns shallowly, then rolls his head to work the tension from his neck. With his throat bared and the blond shadow of his evening stubble visible, Daryoon thinks he looks like a lazy lion, bored with the prospect of another night of supremacy.
Arslan relaxes, and regards him steadily. "This was good work. I appreciate the effort."
Daryoon shrugs. "My duty and my privilege."
Those shuttered eyes do something to Daryoon's gut. He feels tense and relaxed at once, knowing what is coming. He welcomes it.
Arslan rises with another stretch. This one is less lazy, and more a casual flexing of muscle. He crosses the short distance between them, then leans down, hands gripping the arms of Daryoon's chair. With his elbows locked and his head bowed, he hovers over Daryoon, leaving him with no place else to look.
"There are duties you haven't fulfilled yet," says Arslan, in the voice Daryoon has been waiting to hear.
There is a pleasure to be gained by denying inevitable movement until the last possible second. And Daryoon does not like to rush the things he considers important. Motionless, he looks into the gray eyes above his own.
The first hint of shallow lines radiate from the corners of the lids. A deeper line, this one caused by worry instead of laughter, is already visible between his brows. A lopsided scar on the chin, where a horse lost his footing along a mountain pass near Peshua and sent Arslan tumbling to the ground. Years ago, now. Daryoon still finds it ironic that it wasn't a fight or a battle, but a chance accident that first marked Arslan's face.
Daryoon lifts his hands to sand the beard-roughened skin of Arslan's cheeks, hiding the new lines and old wounds behind his fingers. Arslan accepts the scrutiny in silence, motionless. Then Daryoon draws him down into a kiss.
This, Daryoon thinks, is wonderful. It is firm and deep and it does not need any explanation or discussion. Daryoon fills his lungs deeply, holding his breath until his head is light from the pressure and something red and silver flashes behind his eyelids. Then he pulls away, exhaling sharply and completely.
Arslan follows him, and will not let him rest. His kisses are the steady beat of a wave against rock. His tongue brushes Daryoon's lower lip and takes light but deliberate tastes until Daryoon opens and lets him in. He is lazily investigated, his own tongue touched and greeted. Then Arslan retreats.
The kiss is again of moving lips. Daryoon is pleased. He has found that the character of the first touch often determines the texture of the encounter, and this warm beat will soak through his muscle and bone. He frames Arslan's neck with his hands, tucking a thumb under his jaw to tap his pulse. Arslan twists his head restlessly, but Daryoon catches and marks his lips with his teeth. Arslan makes an indiscriminate sound and presses in hard. The pulse anchored under Daryoon's thumb strains.
Still grasping the arms of Daryoon's chair, Arslan sinks to his knees. Daryoon parts his legs to make room for Arslan's hips, and moves his hands down to hold his waist. He pulls Arslan's body close to his own, trying to say something important with the entirety of his presence.
He breaks the kiss with a breath. "Don't kneel," he says. But he does not remove his hands.
Arslan make no move to rise. Instead, he puts his face close to Daryoon's and smiles against his jaw. Freshly shaved from his afternoon bath, the skin is acutely eager for sensation. Daryoon swears he will never again feel guilt over his indulgences.
"A king should kneel, on occasion," says Arslan, tasting Daryoon's neck. Under that pressure Daryoon can count the heartbeats in his throat. "It teaches him humility."
"You don't need teaching. I finished with that years ago."
"I forget," says Arslan. "You'll have to show me again." He rucks up Daryoon's shirt and lays his cold fingers against his belly. Daryoon breathes in sharply. Then the fingers open his pants and Daryoon, willing to cooperate, lifts his hips for a moment so Arslan can pull his clothing down to his thighs.
"You were a horrible student. You never listened," Daryoon says. He watches as Arslan takes his penis in both hands, and rubs one of those very cold thumbs through the wetness on the very hot head. He tries to think of every foolish mistake Arslan ever made on the practice field and enumerates them one by one as Arslan touches him.
"It's a wonder you didn't kill yourself," he finishes. Arslan moves one hand to his scrotum, pulling firmly, rolling the balls with his fingers, and Daryoon groans.
"I'm listening now," Arslan says against his collarbone, and starts to move his head lower. Roughly, Daryoon hauls him back up by the armpits and kisses the breath from him. Arslan murmurs something unintelligible. From the tone, and from the rapid squeeze-stroke given to his penis, Daryoon guesses it is encouragement. He wonders when someone last dared to lay a hand even casually upon the king's person, much less man-handle him into position.
This is how they stay for long minutes, kissing unhurriedly, as Daryoon kneads his fingers into the muscles of Arslan's back and Arslan's hands work with purpose between his legs. Daryoon hisses when Arslan does something particularly right, and Arslan laughs soundlessly against his mouth and does it again. They fall into a slow, swaying motion.
Daryoon jerks his hips from the seat of the chair. "There," he grunts, and jerks again.
"What, there?" teases Arslan. He mocks with his words, but not with his hands, so steady and finely focused. Wonderful hands, Daryoon thinks, and watches them move against him, long-boned and faintly tanned, fingernails chewed to the quick, still very pale against his blood-flushed penis.
He wants to keep looking, but knows from efforts past that the end feels better when his eyes are closed, so he sees nothing but gold sparks under his lids as the first pulse swells and breaks. He releases a half-choked grunt at the pleasure of it all. His hips roll, drawing out each curl of sensation to the last faint ripple and quiver.
He realizes he can feel again when Arslan kisses him lightly and he starts. "It's me. Just me," Arslan says, and Daryoon subsides. But now he feels cold, and he tugs his pants back up to his waist.
Arslan's smile is wry, though not without warmth. He pulls his stained tunic and the shirt underneath up and off in a single tangle of cloth. He stands and backs to the window as he undoes his pants, then kicks them off to bare an erection that lifts firmly away from his body. He turns to throw open the windows. Daryoon sits in his chair, puzzling over Arslan's actions, but admiring the view he presents.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Arslan says, levering up to sit on the broad sill. He takes his penis in his hand, shifting a little on his hard seat, and starts to slide the skin near the head up and down. "Nothing much," he amends, lips parted and somewhat breathless.
Daryoon frowns and gets up. "It's not completely dark yet. And stop that." He seizes Arslan's wrist and pulls his hand away from his lap, setting it firmly against the sill. Arslan lets him. "You're just showing off," he says. He kneels, looping his arms under Arslan's knees and palming his ass to tug him forward. Better, Daryoon thinks.
"It's my window," Arslan says in an utterly reasonable tone of voice, the voice Daryoon knows he uses to explain the obvious to his five-year old son. "No one can see anything, not with you down there. Are you sure you want to be down there?"
Daryoon ignores him. He cards his fingers through Arslan's tight amber curls and noses the seam in his skin where his leg meets his hip. Arslan squirms, but then Daryoon tongues the underside of his erection, and he goes suddenly still.
Daryoon thinks he might be inclined to smirk, except that he has other things to do with his mouth. One hand wraps the base of Arslan's erection in a snug clutch, and he applies lips and tongue to further wet the crown. "Yesss," says Arslan. The heavy muscles in his thighs are rigid. His ankles dig with pleasing strength into the small of Daryoon's back.
This, Daryoon thinks with satisfaction, is something he knows how to do well. Here is the pinnacle of these years of paying attention. Liberal with low words of praise, Arslan is easy to follow in his pleasure, but Daryoon is careful to feel for the tightness in his scrotum, the clench of muscle under his hand, and to back away whenever Arslan comes close. Arslan is liberal in his curses, too. Daryoon chuckles, and that makes Arslan curse even louder.
But he does not ask to come. Does not even order it. Daryoon knows the exact steady pressure that Arslan wants, but decides he will not give it to him unless he asks.
He looks up and meets Arslan's eyes. Of course he is not going to ask. Daryoon can see the the slight squint that says he will be stubborn over this. Daryoon sucks fiercely. Arslan's eyelids flutter, but he does not stop watching.
Daryoon imagines what he must look like to Arslan, down here on the floor, and it brings a warm flush to his face. He feels a bead of sweat trickling into the corner of his eye and blinks it away. All he can smell is sweat and frustration. He can be more stubborn than Arslan, he knows. It was he who taught Arslan to be stubborn.
"I don't need you," Arslan says.
Daryoon silently agrees. He carries no rank in Arslan's entourage. Everything he has done has been on the weight of that one favor asked those many years ago, and none of it is strictly necessary. There are three wives and a hundred courtiers, a hundred thousand subjects who would do the same as a favor to the king. Daryoon runs the tip of a finger over the thin skin around Arslan's opening and Arslan flinches.
"I never have," he chokes out.
Daryoon hums and moves both his tongue and that finger in similar fluctuating spirals. He waits.
"Daryoon, please."
Pull, draw, touch, suck without merciful quarter and beloved man prince king you know I do everything you ask of me.
When Arslan comes he leans back and shouts. Daryoon is abruptly afraid he will lose him to the night outside of the window, that Arslan will become empty and light and be swept away. He grabs his hips with a kind of blind fear that will show as bruises in the morning. He drinks and shivers and holds on for the sake of Arslan's life.
Arslan heaves a shuddering sigh. He grips the rough block of the window frame and trembles as the night air curls over the sweat on his body. He tilts his head back, showing his face to the sky's indigo expanse.
Daryoon releases Arslan, but stays on the floor with his head resting against Arslan's bare thigh. There is nothing but Arslan and the stone of the wall to look at. He idly rubs a finger up the round swell of Arslan's calf, kicking up blonde hairs, then down a gray fissure in the granite of the wall.
Daryoon remembers that he is tired. He wonders which bed he will sleep in.
A loud knock sounds against the door. Startled, Daryoon tries to whirl around, but he is still on his knees and awkward.
Arslan touches his neck. "It's all right. It's someone with my supper. They do that when I work through the evening."
Daryoon nods and Arslan's hand falls away. He gains his feet and runs a brief hand through his hair and down the front of his shirt as he walks to the door. With his hand on the latch, he pauses and looks back. The king is in pants and shirt-sleeves, staring out the window, as supremely unmoved and composed as is his formal portrait in the great hall.
Daryoon opens the door. A bland servant stands with a tray balanced on his upturned palm. He blinks.
"My lord. Supper for His Majesty." His voice is as beige as his face. He adds, "And for you, my lord."
Daryoon fills the doorway as the Colossus does the harbor of Rhodes. The servant's blank expression shifts to a mild frown, and Daryoon watches him realize he will not be gaining entrance, and will therefore be unable to complete his duties to the extent he prefers. Slowly, he lowers the tray and offers it to Daryoon.
"Will you require anything further?" tries the servant.
"No," says Daryoon. He closes the door with his booted foot. The tray he deposits on the table as he walks to stand next to the king.
Moonlight flows though the valleys well beyond Ecbatana's walls, but Mount Elvend sits with his stone back to the moon and throws his shadow cloak over the city proper. Lamplight blooms like uncertain metal flowers of gold and copper. It swells and subsides as doors open and close in time with the breath of thin curtains through open windows. A door slams somewhere within the lower floors of the palace, and laughter trickles up from the kitchen courtyard.
"The problem with a city as old as this one," Arslan says, "is that things are located where they are because that is where they have always been, and no thought is given to the logic of it. Do you remember the market on Nur? Just where the road widens before the Temple?"
Daryoon does not answer, but Arslan does not seem to need it. "It was a maze," he continues, "and a horrible place to get any business done. It would take half an hour to cross a space no larger then this room. Did you know it burned to ash in the fires? We burned half the city trying to get in. And then we rebuilt it. They rebuilt the Nur market, too. In the exact same stupid place."
Arslan tears his gaze away from the night. "Where will you be in ten years, Daryoon?"
Daryoon smiles at him.