Vestal Venom - Part 8

He made it back to his room with a pitcher of water and the fruit as the sun began to turn the sky pink. He may have been in a rush to get away from the Ilysian men, but he was still lost, and now perturbed at the general for foiling his only surefire plan of returning the rooms in a timely manner. But his frustrations didn’t change the fact that he had left his prince’s side without permission. His pulse quickened in anticipation as he pushed open the wooden door to a deathly quiet chamber. He looked around and noticed the prince was no longer on the couch where Baptist had left him. Then there was no getting around it - he already knew.

“Nice of you to join me this morning.”

The slave bristled, searching for his cool voice and finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes sharp, an irritated smirk on his lips.

“What stole you from my bed?” He continued as Baptist stepped into the chambers, closing the door behind him.

“I noticed we had no water.”

He would see right through it, but Baptist was tired. Much too tired to be on high alert as he should’ve been.

The prince appraised him as he took confidence steps nearer, presenting the fuzzy fruit in his palm.

“A peach,” The prince said in surprise, his brow arched. “Where did you get this?”

“The kitchen.”

If the prince knew that Baptist had a secret, midnight engagement with the king of Ilyos, then it would surely be a bad day. And maybe lying would have been worse, but Baptist was feeling temerarious. Until, of course, his master’s blue gaze settled on him, sad and distant, drilling guilt deep into his gut.

“Peaches are from across the sea.” The prince broke his gaze with the slave eventually, leaving something bitter in its wake, as he sank his teeth into the fruit. As with the others, juice ran down either side of his chin, a sight that would’ve stirred Baptist if not for the lead ball weighing his belly. “I’ve had them only once in Burke.”

“Burke?”

He didn’t mean to sound as alarmed as he did, but he was distracted and drowsy, and his prince was wickedly skilled at toppling any guard a man could mold.

The prince looked up, studying his slave’s expression.

“Yes,” he said, using the corner of a blanket to wipe his mouth. “Burke had connections across the sea. You’re Burkean, didn’t you know?”

Of course, he knew that his country had trade routes across the seas – it was only natural for master voyagers. It took the slave by surprise that Prince Heiko had visited. And granted, it sounded silly to think that a Simonese prince wouldn’t visit their neighboring allies, but growing up, Baptist lived in the capital city. In all his years, he had never heard news of Simonese princes visiting. Not even the then Prince Ingo.

The prince considered Baptist for a moment more before extending the fruit to him, close to his mouth.

“Try it.”

Baptist stole a quick gaze over his master’s expression, before sinking his teeth into the soft skin and softer meat. The sticky juice did not spare him. It dripped down the front of his chin and onto his chiton. It was sweet though, delicious - worth the mess.

“There’s a pit in the middle.” The prince said. “It’s a seed. It can be planted.”

Baptist watched his master as he polished off the small fruit, exposing the dark brown pit.

“We’ll have it planted back in Simo.”

Prince Heiko stood and slid it into a riding bag, not bothering to wrap it. He turned to his slave and parted his lips to speak, before noting the stain on his collar.

“Truly a child. Running around the palace at night, stealing sweets, dirtying your clothes. You’re lucky I’m kind to children.”

Baptist was too tired to even blush at the comments.

“Undress and bathe,” His master commanded, pointing to a tub that must have been delivered sometime that morning. It was constructed of wood with cloth lining it.

He nodded and quickly stripped, stepping into the lukewarm water.

“Wash your hair, it’s tangled beyond assistance, at this point.”

The prince exhaled and crossed for the couch. He picked up the book on Haroma that he had fallen asleep to.

Without having the eyes of his master on him, Baptist made quick work of yanking the snags from his hair. His body was treated much more tenderly, even though bruises were beginning to fade to a jaundice yellow.

“There’s scented oil beside you for your hair,” His master informed without looking up. “I will not have you smelling like a slave. Or an Ilysian.”

Baptist was quite used to oils. It was one of the prince’s more impertinent habits. Perfumes were for those of high status in Simo - or at least perfumes of high quality. For guessable purposes, slaves of the palace were allowed a numbered variety of scents. And for even more guessable purposes, Prince Heiko ignored that etiquette.

He reached for the glass vial and pulled the stopper from it, pouring some floral scented oil into his palm and massaging it into his hair, helping the curls bounce and reform.

Satisfied that he was clean, he stood and grabbed a cloth to wrap himself in. He crossed for the couch and sat beside the prince, yawning.

“Stupid boy.” The prince said, shaking his head slightly before reaching over and cupping the side of his slave’s head, guiding it down to his lap. “The wrestling spectacle is in two hours. Sleep while you can.”

Baptist didn’t fight him. He inhaled the scent of the prince - an intoxicating amalgam of talcum and an element of sweetness Baptist has yet to source - and quickly submitted to sleep.