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It had been several years, since he'd been home, and that was only partly by design. Sure, it had basically been running away when he joined the army, the first time. Running from his father and from his responsibility and from his fate. But he had found himself, in his blade. His life had finally made a sort of sense, now that he knew what he was built for. He was made to fight - made to protect - and it suited him. So the years slipped away easily, with barely a thought of home.
Barely a thought for the boy he was one day meant to own.
He had thought he had closed that door, by leaving. Hoped he had secured Owain some kind of childhood and some kind of normal life just by not being there. He'd satisfied himself on that point, years ago. Part of him, a small part of him, figured the likelihood of him surviving long enough to actually ever see Owain was pretty small. If he got killed in battle, then he died doing something he believed in, and Owain was free. It wouldn't have been a bad trade off.
But honestly, he didn't think about it much.
Which is why, when they sent him back home - ostensibly to report on the state of the war to the King - he hadn't even realised it that it was near Owain's eighteenth birthday. To him, Owain was still that nine year old boy that he'd mussed the hair of and then left behind.
So he was a little frustrated, when he arrived in the city, and was immediately sent to his Father's house, only to find his father wasn't there. Or rather, he was, but he was busy and would Master Poe please wait in the hall for him. He was mildly surprised, that it wasn't Lon-qu who greeted him and told him to wait, but times changed. Maybe his father had finally realised exactly what that relationship was, and had set him free.
So Poe paced, the dark cape flicking behind him as he turned on his heel, impatient. The dark grey of his uniform was broken only by a cascade of bright silver buttons down his front, and a brilliant orange sash that ran from his shoulder to his hip. He heard the door open behind him, and was already set to immediately give his Father a good dose of sarcasm.
"You know, I could have just gone straight to the palace instead and save us both a lot of--" He stopped dead, because the man in the doorway was certainly not his father. "-- time."
Barely a thought for the boy he was one day meant to own.
He had thought he had closed that door, by leaving. Hoped he had secured Owain some kind of childhood and some kind of normal life just by not being there. He'd satisfied himself on that point, years ago. Part of him, a small part of him, figured the likelihood of him surviving long enough to actually ever see Owain was pretty small. If he got killed in battle, then he died doing something he believed in, and Owain was free. It wouldn't have been a bad trade off.
But honestly, he didn't think about it much.
Which is why, when they sent him back home - ostensibly to report on the state of the war to the King - he hadn't even realised it that it was near Owain's eighteenth birthday. To him, Owain was still that nine year old boy that he'd mussed the hair of and then left behind.
So he was a little frustrated, when he arrived in the city, and was immediately sent to his Father's house, only to find his father wasn't there. Or rather, he was, but he was busy and would Master Poe please wait in the hall for him. He was mildly surprised, that it wasn't Lon-qu who greeted him and told him to wait, but times changed. Maybe his father had finally realised exactly what that relationship was, and had set him free.
So Poe paced, the dark cape flicking behind him as he turned on his heel, impatient. The dark grey of his uniform was broken only by a cascade of bright silver buttons down his front, and a brilliant orange sash that ran from his shoulder to his hip. He heard the door open behind him, and was already set to immediately give his Father a good dose of sarcasm.
"You know, I could have just gone straight to the palace instead and save us both a lot of--" He stopped dead, because the man in the doorway was certainly not his father. "-- time."
In Owain's head, Poe had always been a giant.
That first week in the Dameron estate had been terrifying for the poor kid. He'd just lost his parents - their funerals had been modest and gentle and unerringly respectful, but still, they were gone - and he still couldn't understand why he had to stay here, in a giant house of mostly-strangers he'd only ever seen through his mom or dad's jobs. He wanted to be back home, in the house his dad built for his mom after he was born and she stopped serving. He wanted to be in his bed, with the toy sword under his pillow and the stuffed dog he propped up to guard him. He wasn't taking the adjustment well, and he kept wanting to know why his parents had to die, even if it was just to ease the knot in his tiny stomach that kept telling him it was all his fault.
He studied and he napped and he spent every other hour of every day with Kes, until the man told him, gently, of the expectations he would have to uphold when he was a little older. A life of servitude, but a life of security - walking in the footsteps of his parents, two of the most wonderful human beings in the history of the world, unflinching in their loyalty, as he would no doubt be. It didn't scare Owain, really, not on its own, but it piled on top of the confusion and the anxiety and the guilt and made it so much harder to sleep at night.
And then he met Poe, finally, seven days after his arrival, and Poe had been kind and warm and made him feel safe, tall and imposing and twice his age. He roughed up his hair and called him buddy, he gave Owain a highfive as soon as he asked for one - and then he was gone. It had only lasted for a moment, and he'd imagined, over the years, that Poe might not remember even meeting him - but he remembers. He's eighteen now, almost, and he still remembers Poe's smile every time someone mentions his name. He's distorted the memory over every recollection - with so many people around him telling him stories of Poe's bravery, of his kindness, and, of course, of his dashing good looks, it had been hard for him not to turn Poe into a kind of idolized, unattainable figure. A demigod among men. A demigod that owned him.
And a demigod among men who is shorter than him.
Owain's in his best clothes, which for a servant can only consist of a tight white shirt and formal attire. He's startled, at the sight of Poe - he still feels little, in front of him, small and unimportant and barely even anything - but he's been training for this. All those hours in the yard swinging his sword hadn't just been to train for the military. He'd been learning how to steel his confidence, how to do what needed to be done, and right now, what needed to be done was an introduction.
"Hhhhhhhhey," he says, stupidly, immediately clutching at his shirt as he steps through the open doorway. That's not what he was supposed to say - he was supposed to bow, or to fall on one knee, he was supposed to call Poe Lord Dameron and pledge his allegiance. He goes red with nerves, but he clears his throat and tries again.
"Lord-- Dameron."
He rushes it out, looking at Poe for approval for one short, short second, and then he's on one knee.
"Owain," he's tripping over himself to hold one hand out while keeping his eyes respectively trained on the ground. Fuck, wait, handshakes are for men on an equal social standing - he draws his hand back, fast.
"We-- met once before, when I was young? I don't know if you remember me, but I-- I remember you. Very well. I've been waiting for the day to see you again, and - and I'm eighteen. In a few days. So... I'll be..."
He clears his throat.
"... Your property. Officially."
That first week in the Dameron estate had been terrifying for the poor kid. He'd just lost his parents - their funerals had been modest and gentle and unerringly respectful, but still, they were gone - and he still couldn't understand why he had to stay here, in a giant house of mostly-strangers he'd only ever seen through his mom or dad's jobs. He wanted to be back home, in the house his dad built for his mom after he was born and she stopped serving. He wanted to be in his bed, with the toy sword under his pillow and the stuffed dog he propped up to guard him. He wasn't taking the adjustment well, and he kept wanting to know why his parents had to die, even if it was just to ease the knot in his tiny stomach that kept telling him it was all his fault.
He studied and he napped and he spent every other hour of every day with Kes, until the man told him, gently, of the expectations he would have to uphold when he was a little older. A life of servitude, but a life of security - walking in the footsteps of his parents, two of the most wonderful human beings in the history of the world, unflinching in their loyalty, as he would no doubt be. It didn't scare Owain, really, not on its own, but it piled on top of the confusion and the anxiety and the guilt and made it so much harder to sleep at night.
And then he met Poe, finally, seven days after his arrival, and Poe had been kind and warm and made him feel safe, tall and imposing and twice his age. He roughed up his hair and called him buddy, he gave Owain a highfive as soon as he asked for one - and then he was gone. It had only lasted for a moment, and he'd imagined, over the years, that Poe might not remember even meeting him - but he remembers. He's eighteen now, almost, and he still remembers Poe's smile every time someone mentions his name. He's distorted the memory over every recollection - with so many people around him telling him stories of Poe's bravery, of his kindness, and, of course, of his dashing good looks, it had been hard for him not to turn Poe into a kind of idolized, unattainable figure. A demigod among men. A demigod that owned him.
And a demigod among men who is shorter than him.
Owain's in his best clothes, which for a servant can only consist of a tight white shirt and formal attire. He's startled, at the sight of Poe - he still feels little, in front of him, small and unimportant and barely even anything - but he's been training for this. All those hours in the yard swinging his sword hadn't just been to train for the military. He'd been learning how to steel his confidence, how to do what needed to be done, and right now, what needed to be done was an introduction.
"Hhhhhhhhey," he says, stupidly, immediately clutching at his shirt as he steps through the open doorway. That's not what he was supposed to say - he was supposed to bow, or to fall on one knee, he was supposed to call Poe Lord Dameron and pledge his allegiance. He goes red with nerves, but he clears his throat and tries again.
"Lord-- Dameron."
He rushes it out, looking at Poe for approval for one short, short second, and then he's on one knee.
"Owain," he's tripping over himself to hold one hand out while keeping his eyes respectively trained on the ground. Fuck, wait, handshakes are for men on an equal social standing - he draws his hand back, fast.
"We-- met once before, when I was young? I don't know if you remember me, but I-- I remember you. Very well. I've been waiting for the day to see you again, and - and I'm eighteen. In a few days. So... I'll be..."
He clears his throat.
"... Your property. Officially."
It was kind of amazing, just how dumb Poe Dameron could look, when the time was right. Face blank of any understanding, brows furrowed and lips parted as if half speaking a question already.
Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.
He could recognise him. Almost. See the edges of the child he once knew in the lines of the man before him. (Almost a man. A few days, he'd said.) It seemed almost impossible, with Owain having a good head on him, and more handsome than even his father had been. Had this been just a normal bar, on some lonely world, Poe would have slid right down beside him to chat him up.
A heat rose to his throat that he wasn't sure came from embarrassment or anger or being caught off guard, or all three at once. His hand didn't go to the hilt of his sword, but it twitched like it wanted to.
"No." It came out harsher than he meant it, but he stubbornly grit his teeth. He didn't step back, but he didn't reach for the hand - either when it was extended or when it retreated - his eyes instead locked on Owain's face.
"No. You won't be. I didn't come here, for this, I--" But it was dawning on him, now, exactly what was happening. Because he was worth twice as much, to the military, with his pledged at his side. Two men for the price of one. And to think, he'd almost looked forward to coming home--
His guts twisted, acid in the back of his throat, and he shook his head.
"No. You're your own man, Owain, whatever - whatever anyone else told you. And I refuse to be a part of this."
Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.
He could recognise him. Almost. See the edges of the child he once knew in the lines of the man before him. (Almost a man. A few days, he'd said.) It seemed almost impossible, with Owain having a good head on him, and more handsome than even his father had been. Had this been just a normal bar, on some lonely world, Poe would have slid right down beside him to chat him up.
A heat rose to his throat that he wasn't sure came from embarrassment or anger or being caught off guard, or all three at once. His hand didn't go to the hilt of his sword, but it twitched like it wanted to.
"No." It came out harsher than he meant it, but he stubbornly grit his teeth. He didn't step back, but he didn't reach for the hand - either when it was extended or when it retreated - his eyes instead locked on Owain's face.
"No. You won't be. I didn't come here, for this, I--" But it was dawning on him, now, exactly what was happening. Because he was worth twice as much, to the military, with his pledged at his side. Two men for the price of one. And to think, he'd almost looked forward to coming home--
His guts twisted, acid in the back of his throat, and he shook his head.
"No. You're your own man, Owain, whatever - whatever anyone else told you. And I refuse to be a part of this."
Nine years.
Nine years, he'd been told he belonged to Poe.
He'd learned to fight as well as his father, in preparation for this. He'd learned to fight as well as Poe's mother, he suspects, though he has the common sense not to brag. He'd been raised in dedication to the sword, because Poe was military, and so as was his slave. When Poe shuts him down, like a door made of concrete slamming shut, he doesn't flinch away. When Poe says you're your own man, he doesn't feel the sting of rejection, because he just-- doesn't get it. He doesn't understand. He'd spent his whole life waiting to finally meet the man in front of him as an adult. The man who - while shorter than him - still feels like a giant. More so than ever, with that fire in his voice. A giant he's impossibly unworthy of, but a giant he's going to stand beside.
But - nine years.
Nine years without an independent thought. Nine years without even considering the idea that he might want to leave or the thought that Poe might reject him. Lissa and Lon'qu were happy and in love and their lives were perfect, both in his memories and in the stories he's heard. He owes a great debt to this family, and the idea of leaving - the idea of bringing that much shame to the Dameron repuation - why would he want to do that? Poe's reaction is so fucking ludicrous, to him, that he doesn't even register the words for what they are. He just frowns, for a second, but he pushes on, fearing maybe he's not being clear.
"... So, ah--"
He hesitates, and he sinks lower on his knee, hunching his back to show his subservience. He puts his hands on the floor, wondering if that might help. Genuflecting, entirely. Devoted.
"I'm-- an excellent swordsman," he says, and there's confidence in his voice, even as he falters, directs it to the ground, and wonders what the fuck I refuse to be a part of this means. "I've trained my whole life - in preparation of serving you in battle. I can fight by your side, I can take commands you might issue me, I can-- my life is yours to do with as you wish. I can fight, I can die, whatever it is you need. My loyalty begins and ends with... uh. You. Obviously. Like I said."
His hands are shaking, a little, and he has to curl his fingers to keep them tight. This isn't-- this isn't how this was supposed to go. Poe was suppose to be happy, not-- whatever this is.
Nine years, he'd been told he belonged to Poe.
He'd learned to fight as well as his father, in preparation for this. He'd learned to fight as well as Poe's mother, he suspects, though he has the common sense not to brag. He'd been raised in dedication to the sword, because Poe was military, and so as was his slave. When Poe shuts him down, like a door made of concrete slamming shut, he doesn't flinch away. When Poe says you're your own man, he doesn't feel the sting of rejection, because he just-- doesn't get it. He doesn't understand. He'd spent his whole life waiting to finally meet the man in front of him as an adult. The man who - while shorter than him - still feels like a giant. More so than ever, with that fire in his voice. A giant he's impossibly unworthy of, but a giant he's going to stand beside.
But - nine years.
Nine years without an independent thought. Nine years without even considering the idea that he might want to leave or the thought that Poe might reject him. Lissa and Lon'qu were happy and in love and their lives were perfect, both in his memories and in the stories he's heard. He owes a great debt to this family, and the idea of leaving - the idea of bringing that much shame to the Dameron repuation - why would he want to do that? Poe's reaction is so fucking ludicrous, to him, that he doesn't even register the words for what they are. He just frowns, for a second, but he pushes on, fearing maybe he's not being clear.
"... So, ah--"
He hesitates, and he sinks lower on his knee, hunching his back to show his subservience. He puts his hands on the floor, wondering if that might help. Genuflecting, entirely. Devoted.
"I'm-- an excellent swordsman," he says, and there's confidence in his voice, even as he falters, directs it to the ground, and wonders what the fuck I refuse to be a part of this means. "I've trained my whole life - in preparation of serving you in battle. I can fight by your side, I can take commands you might issue me, I can-- my life is yours to do with as you wish. I can fight, I can die, whatever it is you need. My loyalty begins and ends with... uh. You. Obviously. Like I said."
His hands are shaking, a little, and he has to curl his fingers to keep them tight. This isn't-- this isn't how this was supposed to go. Poe was suppose to be happy, not-- whatever this is.
The righteous indignation - not towards Owain, but on his behalf - flared so deeply and so strongly in Poe that he wanted to throw a fist through a wall. It shouldn't have hit him so hard. He should have expected it, but somehow he'd thought - somehow he'd thought just running away would end it--
He swore, roughly, and far more colourfully than his station would generally allow, and then he was stepping over to grab Owain's shoulders and try to get him standing.
"Stop it. Don't do that. Don't -- I'm not doing anything with your life, alright? Listen. Whatever they've - told you - it's all just--" He let go of Owain's shoulders to gesture with annoyance. "This? This is fucking bullshit, is what it is. Who set this up? Was it Dad?"
He swore, roughly, and far more colourfully than his station would generally allow, and then he was stepping over to grab Owain's shoulders and try to get him standing.
"Stop it. Don't do that. Don't -- I'm not doing anything with your life, alright? Listen. Whatever they've - told you - it's all just--" He let go of Owain's shoulders to gesture with annoyance. "This? This is fucking bullshit, is what it is. Who set this up? Was it Dad?"
Owain staggers to his feet, a thousand lessons about obedience ringing in his head - stay down, do as he says, show respect, he's in charge. There's no trace of fear in him, no insecure flinches or quiet preparations for punishment, because that was never how he was trained, there was never a fear of violence or retribution in this household. He just-- he hadn't been warned of this, and he's not sure he's a smart enough man to think on his feet and know the right thing to say.
"No, Dad didn't-- I mean, Kes-- I mean, Lord Dameron? Other Lord Dameron-- didn't--"
He rubs at his eyes like he has a headache, but - despite himself, despite the horrible situation, he finds he's grinning. He's heard that curse word before, whispered in the dark by servants his age who giggled and complained about their jobs. It's kind of amazing, hearing it come from Poe.
The smile fades.
"Your father took me in when I was nine." There's a whisper of hurt in his voice, because he'd braced himself for the thought that Poe might not remember, but it's so much worse to seemingly have that confirmed, after all the years of daydreaming about how happy he might be to meet him again. "You're - military, so... you needed a pledge who could fight with you."
He leaves the rest of that thought unspoken. He could have said, quite easily, that he could have been pledged to Poe years earlier, if he'd only been here. Instead, he just apprehensive folds his arms over his chest, standing there like he has no idea what to do with himself.
"No, Dad didn't-- I mean, Kes-- I mean, Lord Dameron? Other Lord Dameron-- didn't--"
He rubs at his eyes like he has a headache, but - despite himself, despite the horrible situation, he finds he's grinning. He's heard that curse word before, whispered in the dark by servants his age who giggled and complained about their jobs. It's kind of amazing, hearing it come from Poe.
The smile fades.
"Your father took me in when I was nine." There's a whisper of hurt in his voice, because he'd braced himself for the thought that Poe might not remember, but it's so much worse to seemingly have that confirmed, after all the years of daydreaming about how happy he might be to meet him again. "You're - military, so... you needed a pledge who could fight with you."
He leaves the rest of that thought unspoken. He could have said, quite easily, that he could have been pledged to Poe years earlier, if he'd only been here. Instead, he just apprehensive folds his arms over his chest, standing there like he has no idea what to do with himself.
"What?" The anger is suddenly cut through with confusion, and Poe shakes his head roughly as if he's trying to clear it.
"When you were nine--" That didn't make sense. He shook his head again. "Why would Dad take you in? That's not--" He let out a hard, breath, the anger quickly flooding back in.
"That wasn't the point. You were supposed to get that time with your family, and have an actual childhood and not just get thrust into some ludicrous-- I can't believe he would do this--"
"When you were nine--" That didn't make sense. He shook his head again. "Why would Dad take you in? That's not--" He let out a hard, breath, the anger quickly flooding back in.
"That wasn't the point. You were supposed to get that time with your family, and have an actual childhood and not just get thrust into some ludicrous-- I can't believe he would do this--"
Owain runs his hand over his bicep, like he's cold, the mention of his family making him physically tense and draw away.
Poe was never told, then. It makes sense, to a degree. Distracting one of the best knights in the military with news about deaths from home - the deaths of people he barely met - so soon after he was first deported? No. Lon'qu would have been a familiar enough face to Poe, but after Shara's death, Lissa retreated into her own home to raise Owain. Their deaths wouldn't have meant much to him, and the circumstances behind them must have been left in Owain's hands to share. It's his family, after all. His story, for his master.
"They - died. Protecting me. An attack, for being a part of this family. Bitterness, I think, stemming from your mother marrying outside of her station. Revenge, maybe. I don't know who was behind it, but I was the one who was supposed to die. Dad took an arrow to the heart and mom took a sword to the gut and I was the only one still alive."
Nine years old, hiding under the bed, terrified of more footsteps that never came.
"Your father might have taught me how to fight in order to defend myself," he says, flat, a thought he's had a thousand times before, "as well as serve you in the life you've chosen to live."
Poe was never told, then. It makes sense, to a degree. Distracting one of the best knights in the military with news about deaths from home - the deaths of people he barely met - so soon after he was first deported? No. Lon'qu would have been a familiar enough face to Poe, but after Shara's death, Lissa retreated into her own home to raise Owain. Their deaths wouldn't have meant much to him, and the circumstances behind them must have been left in Owain's hands to share. It's his family, after all. His story, for his master.
"They - died. Protecting me. An attack, for being a part of this family. Bitterness, I think, stemming from your mother marrying outside of her station. Revenge, maybe. I don't know who was behind it, but I was the one who was supposed to die. Dad took an arrow to the heart and mom took a sword to the gut and I was the only one still alive."
Nine years old, hiding under the bed, terrified of more footsteps that never came.
"Your father might have taught me how to fight in order to defend myself," he says, flat, a thought he's had a thousand times before, "as well as serve you in the life you've chosen to live."
"That's--" But whatever Poe thought 'that' was, never left his lips. Instead, he grit his teeth together and took a step backward, turning his shoulder towards Owain and looking off across the room.
He raised a hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, the rage like a tidal wave against his heart. And to think. To think. He'd actually come here, fully expecting to see Lon'qu here, at his Father's side, like he always was--
He pinched his nose harder, as if he could pull himself back into the moment by just a sharp bit of pain. Nine years. Nine years, and his father hadn't even told him. And Owain--
How the fucking hell was he supposed to do right by him, after even just being connected to his family had done so much wrong?
"Fucking cowards," He hissed under his breath. Going for Lissa, for Lon'qu, because they weren't people they were property, and here he was, completely unable to even try to avenge their death. Nine fucking years too late.
His hand did go for his sword hilt, then. But not to draw it. He pressed hard down on the cold metal, the end of the scabbard lifting sharply, dragging the edge of his cape up with it. He was just trying to think. He was trying to think, but he was so angry--
"Where's my Father?"
He raised a hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, the rage like a tidal wave against his heart. And to think. To think. He'd actually come here, fully expecting to see Lon'qu here, at his Father's side, like he always was--
He pinched his nose harder, as if he could pull himself back into the moment by just a sharp bit of pain. Nine years. Nine years, and his father hadn't even told him. And Owain--
How the fucking hell was he supposed to do right by him, after even just being connected to his family had done so much wrong?
"Fucking cowards," He hissed under his breath. Going for Lissa, for Lon'qu, because they weren't people they were property, and here he was, completely unable to even try to avenge their death. Nine fucking years too late.
His hand did go for his sword hilt, then. But not to draw it. He pressed hard down on the cold metal, the end of the scabbard lifting sharply, dragging the edge of his cape up with it. He was just trying to think. He was trying to think, but he was so angry--
"Where's my Father?"
He's been locked away in this house for a long, long time. He hasn't seen much anger, other than his own, which he's almost always internalized and kept quiet until it was shredding eveything inside him. The few scant punches he'd thrown in isolation at an unfeeling wall or the few times he cut the training dummy a little too hard with his sword to relieve a buildup of tension were all incomparable to this.
Poe, like fire. Angry, over Owain's life. Over his family's deaths, as if they were a personal loss. Owain's heart skips a beat, but he doesn't notice, nor know what it means.
"He-- said we should have some time alone." He looks over his shoulder, back through the door he came through. "I - imagine he's gone. We could try and find him... but if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be found."
He looks at Poe, fingers drumming over his arm. He hesitates, noticeably, before he speaks again.
"Why are you... upset with him?"
Poe, like fire. Angry, over Owain's life. Over his family's deaths, as if they were a personal loss. Owain's heart skips a beat, but he doesn't notice, nor know what it means.
"He-- said we should have some time alone." He looks over his shoulder, back through the door he came through. "I - imagine he's gone. We could try and find him... but if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be found."
He looks at Poe, fingers drumming over his arm. He hesitates, noticeably, before he speaks again.
"Why are you... upset with him?"
He drew in a hard breath, and then raised a finger, just one, to point at Owain, and then shake it, for emphasis.
"Because of you. Owain. Because you're not a sword, or a jacket or some other damn heirloom that I'm meant to carry around, and he knows that. He spent. Nine. Fucking. Years. Not telling me what happened, when I thought--"
The finger was gripped back into a fist, then held tight at his side.
"I should have been here. He didn't tell me because he knew I would come back and he knew I'd put an end to this whole fucking--" Hard breath. In and out. In, and out, trying to put all the rage aside for one fucking minute, because there was something more important.
"I'm sorry. About your parents. They were - I loved them very much. And I'm sorry I wasn't here, to save them. When I should have been."
"Because of you. Owain. Because you're not a sword, or a jacket or some other damn heirloom that I'm meant to carry around, and he knows that. He spent. Nine. Fucking. Years. Not telling me what happened, when I thought--"
The finger was gripped back into a fist, then held tight at his side.
"I should have been here. He didn't tell me because he knew I would come back and he knew I'd put an end to this whole fucking--" Hard breath. In and out. In, and out, trying to put all the rage aside for one fucking minute, because there was something more important.
"I'm sorry. About your parents. They were - I loved them very much. And I'm sorry I wasn't here, to save them. When I should have been."
"No, it's-- I-- you loved my parents? That's-- wait, put an end to-- wait--"
It's starting to fall into place, brick by brick. Poe... hates this, with every fibre of his being. The thought of someone serving him, the thought of someone waiting on him hand and foot - Owain gets it, now. Poe can't stand it.
His eyebrows pinch and he feels like he's swallowed salt water. He tries, he honestly tries, to see things from Poe's perspective, but he can't. Nine years. Nine years of having it drilled into him that he's following in his parents footsteps, that he'll be able to make them proud, by giving away his identity and his life and his everything. Nine years of hinging what little self-worth he's grown up with on a single dream to be good enough for Poe.
Maybe if Poe had come home sooner, Owain wouldn't be in so deep. It might have been possible to save him, once. As it is, he just freezes in place, struggling to be good.
"If--"
He swallows, and there's too much emotion in his voice for a slave. He gets rid of it.
"If you want to do right by them-- then-- don't send their son away."
It's starting to fall into place, brick by brick. Poe... hates this, with every fibre of his being. The thought of someone serving him, the thought of someone waiting on him hand and foot - Owain gets it, now. Poe can't stand it.
His eyebrows pinch and he feels like he's swallowed salt water. He tries, he honestly tries, to see things from Poe's perspective, but he can't. Nine years. Nine years of having it drilled into him that he's following in his parents footsteps, that he'll be able to make them proud, by giving away his identity and his life and his everything. Nine years of hinging what little self-worth he's grown up with on a single dream to be good enough for Poe.
Maybe if Poe had come home sooner, Owain wouldn't be in so deep. It might have been possible to save him, once. As it is, he just freezes in place, struggling to be good.
"If--"
He swallows, and there's too much emotion in his voice for a slave. He gets rid of it.
"If you want to do right by them-- then-- don't send their son away."
It was, of course, the most effective argument that Owain - or his father - could have made. And he knew it. He didn't think Owain knew it, because he didn't have to. Poe knew exactly what kind of training the pledged went through. Knew that if he hadn't run away, Owain would have been at his side even at thirteen. So even as the righteous anger still trembled in his bones and in his breast, the responsibility and the guilt hit heavy right behind.
Kes had done this. So that Poe wouldn't be able to say no.
And he had left, rather than face his son.
Poe swallowed, hard, unable to look directly at Owain, glaring at some far point across the room, instead. When he finally spoke, every word was direct, and pointed, and careful.
"I'm not sending you away." He couldn't, now. How could he? He couldn't pretend to care about Owain's autonomy and then refuse to accept a choice that he made.
Even though Poe knew he couldn't make another choice.
"I won't- I won't stop you. From leaving. Or staying. That's your choice, Owain, even if no one else in this damn universe seems to think so. So I won't -" Hard breath, and he finally turned to meet the man's eyes. It was impossible to keep the very real grief out of his own. (A grief not solely for Owain's parents.)
"I'm not going to strip you of that choice, too. But if my Father refuses to face me, then I'm not going to stand here waiting for him to."
Kes had done this. So that Poe wouldn't be able to say no.
And he had left, rather than face his son.
Poe swallowed, hard, unable to look directly at Owain, glaring at some far point across the room, instead. When he finally spoke, every word was direct, and pointed, and careful.
"I'm not sending you away." He couldn't, now. How could he? He couldn't pretend to care about Owain's autonomy and then refuse to accept a choice that he made.
Even though Poe knew he couldn't make another choice.
"I won't- I won't stop you. From leaving. Or staying. That's your choice, Owain, even if no one else in this damn universe seems to think so. So I won't -" Hard breath, and he finally turned to meet the man's eyes. It was impossible to keep the very real grief out of his own. (A grief not solely for Owain's parents.)
"I'm not going to strip you of that choice, too. But if my Father refuses to face me, then I'm not going to stand here waiting for him to."
He hangs on every word Poe says with far too much willingness to listen. Every slow and careful sentence, every decision, every promise, Owain listens to with an attention that had to have been trained into him. His parents could walk straight through that front door, and Owain would still watch Poe like a hawk until he gave him his dismissal, his blessing to reunite with them.
The grief in Poe's eyes makes his heart break, and it might be the only thing that could waver his attention. His eyelids flutter for a second as he looks down, trying to break eye contact, but something in him pulls him back. He watches Poe, repeating his words in his head, trying to find the right thing to say and settling on honesty. That seems to be the kind of master Poe is. One who wants honesty. It's the only reason he's been getting so much of it so far.
"I haven't been stripped of any choices," he says, slowly, just as certain as he is wrong.
He has no possessions to his name, other than the sword his father left him, his mother's ring and a piece of her staff. Even his clothes, the fine ones he's wearing included, are just uniforms. If Poe wanted to leave, it wouldn't take long for him to pack.
"Your father has been a very kind and generous man, to me." Owain pauses - not for effect, not because there's a realization brewing in his head that he's complimenting the man who raised him in servitude - but because it wouldn't feel right to leave this estate, for the first and last time, without saying so.
"If you want to leave - I'll follow you anywhere you want to take me."
The grief in Poe's eyes makes his heart break, and it might be the only thing that could waver his attention. His eyelids flutter for a second as he looks down, trying to break eye contact, but something in him pulls him back. He watches Poe, repeating his words in his head, trying to find the right thing to say and settling on honesty. That seems to be the kind of master Poe is. One who wants honesty. It's the only reason he's been getting so much of it so far.
"I haven't been stripped of any choices," he says, slowly, just as certain as he is wrong.
He has no possessions to his name, other than the sword his father left him, his mother's ring and a piece of her staff. Even his clothes, the fine ones he's wearing included, are just uniforms. If Poe wanted to leave, it wouldn't take long for him to pack.
"Your father has been a very kind and generous man, to me." Owain pauses - not for effect, not because there's a realization brewing in his head that he's complimenting the man who raised him in servitude - but because it wouldn't feel right to leave this estate, for the first and last time, without saying so.
"If you want to leave - I'll follow you anywhere you want to take me."
"I'm sure he has been," Poe replied, unable to keep the bitterness fully out of his voice. But he caught it while he was saying it an closed his eyes very tightly and let out a breath.
"That's not - Look. I'm going to the Palace. They'll give me rooms there, I'll give my report. If you want to come, you can meet me there. But I'm not going to stay in this city, Owain. I'm going to ship back out as soon as they let me. So don't - don't just say you're coming. Actually think about it. Then whether you change your mind or not, meet me at the palace. Alright?"
"That's not - Look. I'm going to the Palace. They'll give me rooms there, I'll give my report. If you want to come, you can meet me there. But I'm not going to stay in this city, Owain. I'm going to ship back out as soon as they let me. So don't - don't just say you're coming. Actually think about it. Then whether you change your mind or not, meet me at the palace. Alright?"
He doesn't need to think about it. The fact that Poe wants him to think about it makes him panic, and his face goes pale. There's a tiny, tiny imperceptible shake of his head, but that, at least, he stops. Such a thing would be unbecoming behavior for the pledged.
But again - Poe values honesty.
"I don't want to be away from you." There's not the slightest trace of embarrassment in his voice - just a truth, nine years in the making. "I've been waiting to see you again for half my life. Reliving the same two or three memories I have of you, holding onto them, sleeping with them in my chest. And now I'm-- I'm actually talking to you-- you're here. I don't want to lose that. We're supposed to be... they said you'd always be there. We'd always be together."
He looks at Poe with the loneliness of a kid without a family who grew up being told you're made for someone, you're his and his alone, he's yours, you belong to each other, you're everything to each other and you don't even know it yet. The still uncertain hope of a boy days shy of becoming a man, wanting to know what the fuck it is he's done wrong, to make the person he's made for see him as a burden and a flaw.
But again - Poe values honesty.
"I don't want to be away from you." There's not the slightest trace of embarrassment in his voice - just a truth, nine years in the making. "I've been waiting to see you again for half my life. Reliving the same two or three memories I have of you, holding onto them, sleeping with them in my chest. And now I'm-- I'm actually talking to you-- you're here. I don't want to lose that. We're supposed to be... they said you'd always be there. We'd always be together."
He looks at Poe with the loneliness of a kid without a family who grew up being told you're made for someone, you're his and his alone, he's yours, you belong to each other, you're everything to each other and you don't even know it yet. The still uncertain hope of a boy days shy of becoming a man, wanting to know what the fuck it is he's done wrong, to make the person he's made for see him as a burden and a flaw.
He managed to hold Owain's gaze through it. Somehow. Even as his expression twisted into something unreadable and his chest felt squeezed like a vice. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and he thought he'd fixed this and instead all he'd done was make it worse--
A lump caught in his throat and he finally turned his gaze, angrily glaring at the wall, trying to swallow. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
He wanted to argue. He did. But he couldn't - he could see the pain and the loneliness and he couldn't do it. He should be better than this, should fight for what he believes in.
But in the end, Poe always fought for the people he loved. That was the cause, beneath it all.
"Okay." The word ground out of his throat and he ducked his head to run a hand through his hair, the fire still there, deep, but being quickly doused. "... Alright. I'm not going to... I'm not going to just leave you, okay, so don't- worry about that. Let's just... let's just go."
A lump caught in his throat and he finally turned his gaze, angrily glaring at the wall, trying to swallow. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
He wanted to argue. He did. But he couldn't - he could see the pain and the loneliness and he couldn't do it. He should be better than this, should fight for what he believes in.
But in the end, Poe always fought for the people he loved. That was the cause, beneath it all.
"Okay." The word ground out of his throat and he ducked his head to run a hand through his hair, the fire still there, deep, but being quickly doused. "... Alright. I'm not going to... I'm not going to just leave you, okay, so don't- worry about that. Let's just... let's just go."
Relief washes over Owain, and in an instant, he looks his age. No tension in his shoulders, no worry lines on his face, just - vibrancy, even if only in passing. Poe's going to let him stay. Okay. Okay, then. He can do this.
"Can I--"
He's had nine years of being told he needs to ask Poe for permission, when he needs to do something for himself - not necessarily because that's what Kes believed was right, but because it was how things were done, and if Owain didn't learn, he would have embarrassed himself (or worse) when he and Poe were in the presence of other nobles. He's had nine years of that - but it's clear to him now, more than anything, that Poe would just resent him for sticking to his station.
So he falters, trips over himself, and stops talking so suddenly it's like someone cut out his tongue. His stomach twists in knots, his throat hurts... he has no idea how to just ask Poe for something, too many conflicting lessons fighting in his head. This isn't how today was supposed to go.
"I have--"
He rakes his fingers hard across his arm, that same bicep he's been fidgeting with. Fuck, fuck, he's a bad pledge, he's bad, he can't even talk to his lord, his parents would be fucking furious-- the reaction comes on hard and fast and way too easily, too many nerves all at once that threaten to burn him alive.
"Things... in my room. Can we--"
"Can I--"
He's had nine years of being told he needs to ask Poe for permission, when he needs to do something for himself - not necessarily because that's what Kes believed was right, but because it was how things were done, and if Owain didn't learn, he would have embarrassed himself (or worse) when he and Poe were in the presence of other nobles. He's had nine years of that - but it's clear to him now, more than anything, that Poe would just resent him for sticking to his station.
So he falters, trips over himself, and stops talking so suddenly it's like someone cut out his tongue. His stomach twists in knots, his throat hurts... he has no idea how to just ask Poe for something, too many conflicting lessons fighting in his head. This isn't how today was supposed to go.
"I have--"
He rakes his fingers hard across his arm, that same bicep he's been fidgeting with. Fuck, fuck, he's a bad pledge, he's bad, he can't even talk to his lord, his parents would be fucking furious-- the reaction comes on hard and fast and way too easily, too many nerves all at once that threaten to burn him alive.
"Things... in my room. Can we--"
A flash of anger through his chest, but again, not aimed at Owain. Aimed at the world that makes him think that he needs to ask Poe's permission for something like this.
"Look- just- 'Poe, I need to get some things from my room'. Okay? That's all you need to say. And yeah. We'll grab whatever you need."
"Look- just- 'Poe, I need to get some things from my room'. Okay? That's all you need to say. And yeah. We'll grab whatever you need."
He repeats the words he's been given - replacing Poe with Lord Dameron - but he hesitates before leaving. He's supposed to walk behind Poe, at all times, unless he's acting as a bodyguard and putting himself in harm's way. He again doesn't know how to navigate etiquette here, with a master who flies so violently in the face of everything he ever learned - but they figure it out, one way or another, and end up in Owain's room.
It seems shockingly small, less because it's a tiny room and more because it's shared with four or five other servants. His bed is the most bare, a single with white sheets pushed under the window so he can read with the best lighting, and he takes everything he owns from under the mattress he'd stashed it all. It's all he has to his name - it's obvious, in the fleeting look he takes over the pathetically bare bed and the lightly stained wall - that he's saying goodbye, sentimental, like he never expects to sleep here again.
The ring and the splinter of wood he puts away in his pocket. The sword, he straps to his back. Only then does he look at Poe.
"... To the Palace, then."
It seems shockingly small, less because it's a tiny room and more because it's shared with four or five other servants. His bed is the most bare, a single with white sheets pushed under the window so he can read with the best lighting, and he takes everything he owns from under the mattress he'd stashed it all. It's all he has to his name - it's obvious, in the fleeting look he takes over the pathetically bare bed and the lightly stained wall - that he's saying goodbye, sentimental, like he never expects to sleep here again.
The ring and the splinter of wood he puts away in his pocket. The sword, he straps to his back. Only then does he look at Poe.
"... To the Palace, then."
He doesn't argue the name, even though he makes a face. He can argue it later. He stops before they leave, though - his unwillingness to see his father not extending to the servants he grew up with - and he has a few brief conversations as they leave the house. He stops at his father's office, motions for Odin to wait, and strides up to the man's desk. Two minutes later, he and Owain are leaving the house, and there is a letter waiting for Kes.
You had a chance to make this right, was all it said.
The Palace itself isn't a building - it's a complex. An entire wing set aside specifically for the military. So though they go through the main gate, they take a sharp right afterwards - walking for several minutes until they reach the part of the complex that houses the Palace's military barracks. It doesn't take much, to get them seen to. Poe pulls the chain around his neck, flashing the silver medallion of his rank and station, Shara's ring clinking quietly against it. His audience is scheduled - 9 am the following morning - and they are shown to their rooms. There is one main bed, and a cot, and almost as a point of pure rebellion, as soon as they enter, Poe goes straight for the cot and throws his bag onto it, claiming in.
"When did you eat last?" He asks, not even turning around as he moves to undo the clasp of his cape.
You had a chance to make this right, was all it said.
The Palace itself isn't a building - it's a complex. An entire wing set aside specifically for the military. So though they go through the main gate, they take a sharp right afterwards - walking for several minutes until they reach the part of the complex that houses the Palace's military barracks. It doesn't take much, to get them seen to. Poe pulls the chain around his neck, flashing the silver medallion of his rank and station, Shara's ring clinking quietly against it. His audience is scheduled - 9 am the following morning - and they are shown to their rooms. There is one main bed, and a cot, and almost as a point of pure rebellion, as soon as they enter, Poe goes straight for the cot and throws his bag onto it, claiming in.
"When did you eat last?" He asks, not even turning around as he moves to undo the clasp of his cape.
Owain had kept his head down, through most of the trip. He'd never really left the walls of the house, other than to sit in the yard and draw or write - he had everything he needed there, with tutors and training and a small, surrogate family. He's actually kind of scared to be away from the tiny portion of the Dameron estate he remembers most clearly as home, because he is, at the end of the day, a pledge. Well-respected and treated with dignity, but a second class citizen with a target on his back. He's terrified he'll do something wrong, this far into the Palace, bump into the wrong person, say something stupid, and--
He thinks of his mom and his dad and he keeps walking.
He looks between the bed and the cot once they're given a place to stay, and he realizes pretty quickly what Poe's done, flushing a little red. He sits on the very, very corner of the bed he's been given and figures he'll sleep on the floor once Poe passes out and try to wake up before he does so he doesn't know - it's better that than risk being seen in the sleeping quarters reserved for nobility.
When Poe asks him a question, a few words run through his head pretty quickly - two square meals a day, dawn and dusk, snacks at noon - a schedule he had to keep when he was on cooking duty. It takes him a moment to realize he doesn't actually remember when he ate last.
"Uh." He scratches the side of his cheek. Looks to the cape, sees the brand, looks to his sleeve-covered bicep, looks away.
"I've been... excited. And nervous. About seeing you. So..."
So, he hasn't eaten.
He thinks of his mom and his dad and he keeps walking.
He looks between the bed and the cot once they're given a place to stay, and he realizes pretty quickly what Poe's done, flushing a little red. He sits on the very, very corner of the bed he's been given and figures he'll sleep on the floor once Poe passes out and try to wake up before he does so he doesn't know - it's better that than risk being seen in the sleeping quarters reserved for nobility.
When Poe asks him a question, a few words run through his head pretty quickly - two square meals a day, dawn and dusk, snacks at noon - a schedule he had to keep when he was on cooking duty. It takes him a moment to realize he doesn't actually remember when he ate last.
"Uh." He scratches the side of his cheek. Looks to the cape, sees the brand, looks to his sleeve-covered bicep, looks away.
"I've been... excited. And nervous. About seeing you. So..."
So, he hasn't eaten.
He drapes the cloak over the back of a chair, then pulls the cloth completely free from his throat and undoes another couple of buttons loose with a sigh.
"Sorry. That can't have been-- I didn't know you'd be there." Gallant, he had not been. That was for sure.
"The mess hall will be closed, but we can probably get into the kitchens. Usually if I smile enough they let me grab a bite." He turns, finally, and looks at Owain - properly looks at him - for the first time. Not as a symbol of this world's manipulations, but as - just a man, sitting on the edge of a bed, looking nervous.
(When described that way, it wasn't even a situation unfamiliar to Poe.)
"Look, before we - anything - I'm not going to answer to Lord Dameron. At all. If we're in public and you want to be respectful, you can call me Captain Dameron, but otherwise you call me Poe. There's only one Lord Dameron, and I am not my father. Yeah?"
"Sorry. That can't have been-- I didn't know you'd be there." Gallant, he had not been. That was for sure.
"The mess hall will be closed, but we can probably get into the kitchens. Usually if I smile enough they let me grab a bite." He turns, finally, and looks at Owain - properly looks at him - for the first time. Not as a symbol of this world's manipulations, but as - just a man, sitting on the edge of a bed, looking nervous.
(When described that way, it wasn't even a situation unfamiliar to Poe.)
"Look, before we - anything - I'm not going to answer to Lord Dameron. At all. If we're in public and you want to be respectful, you can call me Captain Dameron, but otherwise you call me Poe. There's only one Lord Dameron, and I am not my father. Yeah?"
"No, I wasn't--" He's holding his hands up, twitchy with panic all over again. "You shouldn't apologize to me. It's not-- people might not-- I don't know how people feel about nobles apologizing to... their, uh."
He trails off. Fuck, fuck, Poe's not going to want to hear that, Owain, you fucking idiot. He starts to stumble over an apology, an acknowledgment that Poe can do whatever he wants to do and Owain's not in any place to restrict his behavior, but-- the sight of him undoing those buttons makes him nervous, and he loses his train of thought, turning his head away.
He watches the wall, for a moment, balling his fists up in his lap before he's ready to look at Poe again.
"Captain Dameron."
He has two things to ask. He swings his legs a little as he tries to decide between them, as if The Captain would only allow one question of him at a time, and he ends up just spluttering both of them out a breath away from each other.
"Why don't you like your dad?" A pause. "Isn't smiling your way into the kitchen super immoral?"
He trails off. Fuck, fuck, Poe's not going to want to hear that, Owain, you fucking idiot. He starts to stumble over an apology, an acknowledgment that Poe can do whatever he wants to do and Owain's not in any place to restrict his behavior, but-- the sight of him undoing those buttons makes him nervous, and he loses his train of thought, turning his head away.
He watches the wall, for a moment, balling his fists up in his lap before he's ready to look at Poe again.
"Captain Dameron."
He has two things to ask. He swings his legs a little as he tries to decide between them, as if The Captain would only allow one question of him at a time, and he ends up just spluttering both of them out a breath away from each other.
"Why don't you like your dad?" A pause. "Isn't smiling your way into the kitchen super immoral?"
"I don't care what other people think about it. You're a person, with feelings, and I was kind of a dick. So - apology required." Maybe not given in the most graceful way possible, but. There it was.
He was about to comment that Captain Dameron was really only meant for in public and not in private, but then he was given two questions very quickly back to back. He let out a snort, and raised a finger.
"Okay, first, it's not immoral to charm the kitchen staff into letting me eat when I missed a meal. I could make it an order, if I wanted, and send some poor private to fetch it for me, but what's the point in that."
He raised a second finger.
"Secondly, I don't - not like my dad. I love my dad. But he's wrong. About a lot of things. About you. And about me. And I'm not in the mood to try to fight a battle with him I've been waging for a decade, when I know it'll end with him ignoring every damn thing I said, anyway."
He was about to comment that Captain Dameron was really only meant for in public and not in private, but then he was given two questions very quickly back to back. He let out a snort, and raised a finger.
"Okay, first, it's not immoral to charm the kitchen staff into letting me eat when I missed a meal. I could make it an order, if I wanted, and send some poor private to fetch it for me, but what's the point in that."
He raised a second finger.
"Secondly, I don't - not like my dad. I love my dad. But he's wrong. About a lot of things. About you. And about me. And I'm not in the mood to try to fight a battle with him I've been waging for a decade, when I know it'll end with him ignoring every damn thing I said, anyway."
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