Chapter Thirteen
Tor
With an effort, Tor blinked open gummy eyes, squinting into the room and wincing at his head. He’d somehow forgotten all the ways that drinking wasn’t a good idea.
Maybe he should have forced himself to go off to training and then dinner with Pelun’s family, but the thought of being around so many people had made his stomach churn and his palms sweat.
He groaned as he remembered all his disastrous encounters with Pelun.
Tor had never told anyone what had happened by the mountain.
From the moment when he’d woken up in the camp and found the letter on his little camp desk that ordered him not to send the guards, through the agonizing wait until the scouts had come back with nothing to report, it had all been a nightmare scenario.
He’d reported back to Varex, of course, and been raked over the coals by him, by Fernila, by Yomil. He swallowed thickly, his throat parched and mouth vile.
Pelun hadn’t been impressed—obviously, since it was despicable—but he’d been unexpectedly kind. He’d said Tor had made a mistake. He’d even questioned where the guards had died, something no one had ever asked before.
Their scouts hadn’t found any bodies, but even that wasn’t definitive proof, because the exiles could have removed them.
He could already hear his brother scoffing in his mind, but if he’d been part of a raiding party that had just been routed, would he have left obvious bodies that might result in a harsh response? Of course he wouldn’t.
He thought he could dismiss out of hand Pelun’s idea that they’d somehow died naturally, but just the fact that Pelun had thought of it…
No one had ever proposed anything like that.
Varex would doubtless have called it making excuses, and he wasn’t totally wrong, but… he wasn’t totally right, either.
It was unequivocally true that if they’d not been sent into the mountains, the guards wouldn’t have died, so Tor remained responsible regardless, but Pelun had a point.
There was a balance of probability, certainly, that the exiles were involved, but…
it really could have been on the Filon side of the mountain.
Tor groaned. No matter how kind Pelun had been, it had still been a disaster.
Tor had spent weeks visiting farms and villages with Pelun, had been trying to show the best side of himself.
How had it seemed like a good idea to tell him one of the most terrible, most irresponsible things Tor had ever done?
He would truly swear the letter had ordered him to do it—but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t what the letter had said.
Varex had confirmed what he’d written, and the letter had been in Tor’s tent, stating in extremely clear black ink that under no circumstances was he to send anyone after the exiles.
And he’d been drunk, of course, demonstrating how unfit he was for command, and everything he’d said was taken as an excuse. No one had suggested any ways in which this might not be entirely his fault.
Until Pelun.
Varex had been infuriated and disappointed and horrified, and he’d gone on at length about how reckless and irresponsible and dangerous Tor had become.
It had made Tor feel about two inches tall.
He could acknowledge now that it hadn’t helped that he’d kept stubbornly insisting that he knew what he’d seen and that he’d done what his king had ordered.
Everyone had been attacking, and Tor had felt like he had to defend himself in the small ways that he could.
Yes, he’d been drinking, but it was a celebration.
He was hardly the first commanding officer to do that.
He’d done his duty and read the missive when the special messenger arrived—he’d just read it wrong, and there was no getting around that.
They’d been scathing, and Tor’s attempt to protect himself had just sounded like splitting hairs or not taking the situation seriously.
Varex had buried the fact that Tor had contravened his order, but everyone had read between the lines with the demotion. He wasn’t fit for command, and everyone knew it.
Tor wondered what would have happened if Pelun had been at that dressing down.
Or Adexa. If there’d been someone who was just a little more supportive, could it have been different?
Might Tor have come across less as though he wasn’t taking responsibility for his actions?
He had killed those twelve guards. But he hadn’t lined them up and run them through himself, and it had begun to feel like that was what he’d been accused of.
Honestly, it had felt as though his fate had been decided before he even opened his mouth. And with no one listening to him, what was the point? Why try to live an exemplary life and do what you were told when it didn’t matter anyway?
But Pelun was probably right about the drinking.
Tor had genuinely felt like he had nothing better to do, though he was so grateful for his own troop, the Prince’s guard which his brother had let him keep—probably more because Tor needed protection than because Varex thought he could manage them.
They’d stuck with him no matter what, and it had bothered him on a level he’d never acknowledged that it hadn’t felt like his brother had done the same.
After all, it wasn’t like Pelun or Rinil or the rest of Tor’s troop approved of what had happened. But they’d somehow managed to condemn the action and still support Tor.
Instead, it had got to the point where his brother had now decided his life needed yet another correction and ordered him to bond. (Or, thankfully, not quite. But Tor knew that’s what he’d meant.)
So here Tor was, executing his own plan to counteract his brother’s officiousness, only it wasn’t going at all how Tor had imagined.
Pelun had finally started warming up to him…
and Tor had told him about one of the most terrible things he’d ever done.
And yet… Pelun had been upset but understanding.
He’d offered Tor hope and possibilities while still deploring the harm that had been done.
And he’d acknowledged Tor’s drinking and just told Tor that he liked him better without it.
Not that he was a disappointment. Not that he was letting people down.
Not that he should be doing more with his life.
He hadn’t asked or ordered him to stop. He’d just shared how he was feeling and then left Tor to make his own decision.
That had gone shockingly well, given all the missteps Tor had made.
And then what had he done? He groaned again, flinging his arm up to cover his stinging eyes.
Tor had known from nearly the first time he’d met the man that he and Pelun had very little in common.
They certainly didn’t approach relationships or liaisons in the same way.
They’d been slowly and painstakingly building their way to a totally unexpected friendship, and drunken Tor had destroyed it in one foolish moment of greed.
Yes, he’d been incredibly curious to know what kissing Pelun would be like.
Yes, the man had been incredibly tempting, coming to check on Tor and forgiving him for the terrible thing he’d done.
Unfortunately, drunken Tor hadn’t checked to see if Pelun was actually interested in him.
Drunken Tor hadn’t considered that he’d been drinking most of the night and probably smelled like a sewer.
Drunken Tor hadn’t thought about weighing the possible consequences if things went wrong.
Drunken Tor hadn’t asked if he could kiss Pelun.
No, drunken Tor had just taken what he wanted, and that was never all right.
Drunken Tor was a fool, and now sober Tor had to deal with the consequences.
He couldn’t blame Pelun for throwing his drink at him, and he could only hope that if he apologized abjectly enough, Pelun would eventually forgive him. Again.
So Tor summoned a servant, who politely didn’t say anything about the fact that it looked and smelled like Tor had been bathing in alcohol. The tub was brought up and filled with steaming water.
As Tor sank into the bath, he groaned once more, feeling an intolerable amount of pity for himself. He laid his head back against the lip of the tub. The heat seeped into his muscles, and he couldn’t help but relax even as his mind circled around his foolishness over and over again.
He’d been trying to seduce Pelun since he got here, with a marked lack of success, but this morning, he hadn’t been thinking about succeeding at his goal, he’d been thinking about how much he wanted to kiss Pelun.
Because he’d seemed so very kissable. Even now, there was a part of Tor clamoring to do it again—to do it right. He hadn’t had enough time with those soft lips, with the feel of Pelun’s body beneath his fingers, radiating such appealing warmth even through his clothes.
Tor seemed to remember finding Pelun the most unremarkable of Unremarkable when he’d first arrived. He couldn’t quite track when that had changed and he’d wanted to kiss the man and pull him into bed instead—not just to pass the time but because he genuinely liked Pelun.
And he thought that Pelun was coming to like Tor—actual Tor—right up to the point that Tor had mauled him without asking while drunk.
Because he was a fool.
There was really nothing new about him being a fool, but the potential consequences felt more severe. It had been a long time since Tor had made a real friend, someone who didn’t see the High Prince and wasn’t trying to curry favor.
Tor hadn’t expected to come out of this with a friend, and he surprised himself a little with the force with which he craved that, wanting Pelun and his serious attitude and his devotion to his people—and his unwillingness to accept Tor and his charm when he thought they were empty.
Only now Tor had been reckless and accosted the man. Pelun had fled after throwing Tor’s drink in his face, and that meant Tor needed to be clean, presentable, and perfectly sober before he issued his apology.