Niconon sighed deeply and placed the gilded metal crown wrought with leaves and vines on his brow; he reached for his favorite green robe embroidered with purple roses and brown trim. The man caught a quick glance of himself in the plain mirror: flame red hair in wire-thin braids pulled back to the base of his skull; powder white skin with an army of tiny red freckles across the bridge of his nose; deep purple eyes with thick, long, red lashes; full pink lips that often had him mistaken for a girl when he was young.

Niconon looked away and a faint flush of worry crossed his cheeks. He was too young for this; he was only sixty-five! Why had his father left him to be king? But he couldn’t think about that now.

Ammato needed him.

He wrapped the gold sash around his thin, lean waist, tying it in a loose knot. Niconon closed his eyes and took a deep breath; I can do this, he told himself. If he could, though, why was he so filled with fear and doubt?

The king took three steps toward the closed wooden door before pausing and removing the fine metal crown from his brow; Attila knew who was king. The Kaysoinyian placed the headpiece in a dark wooden box sitting on a small table.

The king breathed in deeply to calm himself and put forth his mask used during negotiation. Niconon knocked twice on the door; after a few tumblers fell, the door opened with four burly guards standing outside with an evident slouch of boredom.
“I am ready,” Niconon spoke in a clear, even voice.

The closest guard rolled his eyes and replied with a scoff, “Come on then, boy.”

Niconon held in his contempt for the man’s words and followed him in silence as the three other guards brought up the rear of the party.

“Looks like the great king forgot his crown,” the Kaysoinyian heard two guards snickering at the third’s comment. Though he loathed it, Niconon could not stop the red from tainting his cheeks and the back of his neck; it only increased the laughter of the guards behind him.

“Silence,” the lead guard barked suddenly, bringing the others to cease their noise.

Niconon forced himself to walk with his shoulders square and back straight, even though he would have rather crawled into a corner. The bare slate walls of the Met’Yon Lower Council meeting hall closed in on the Kaysoinyian; he had to blink quickly to suppress the images in his mind of a sudden earthquake forcing the walls to cave in, trapping him within the rubble while the twins mourned more loss …

“We’re here,” the lead guard spoke in his rumbling voice that echoed off the walls, ringing loudly in Niconon’s sensitive ears.

“Thank you. I will proceed from here on my own,” Niconon replied in a tone that didn’t suit his youth.

The guard gave him a curt nod and opened the heavy door, big as everything else was in Mysoinyia. Niconon nodded back and began to walked into the room.

“You’re late, Niconon.”

The king groaned and gritted his teeth. He spotted Attila sitting in an oversized chair at a huge, wood meeting table, “Your first words to me in over twenty years are a poor choice, Attila. You speak to me as if I am one of your apprentices-”

“Intern,” Attila interrupted. His attention was focused on his clasped hands and he sighed in boredom.

“What?” Niconon retorted quickly. He stalked over to the table, furious that Attila was not even looking at him.

Attila sighed once more and raised his head, though the action was accompanied by a roll of his eyes, and gazed at Niconon, “We have internships in Mysoinyia, unlike your country’s obsolete apprenticeships.”

“Obsolete!” Niconon’s eyes widened and he nearly laughed to keep from screaming, “What do you mean! Mysoinyia had apprenticeships only two centuries ago!”

“Yes, we did, Niconon, but we realized that moving forward is the only option in life, and apprentices were keeping us from doing such and act,” Attila explained slowly as if speaking to a small child, and in his mind, he was.

This time Niconon did laugh, “So tell me, O Mighty Lower Council Member, what is the difference between an intern and an apprentice?”

Attila set his shod feet on the table, “Does it matter, Niconon?”

“I tolerated that once, but you cannot call me that any longer, Lower Council Member,” the Kaysoinyian replied on a tangent Attila could not follow.

“What?” the tall man shot back, his eyes squinted in confusion.

“You addressed me as ‘Niconon’, Lower Council Member,” the king answered, now his turn to talk to a child, “I am a king-”

“You’re no more king than I am, Niconon, we both know that! You’re just a child! Such a pity you had to be the last one to pass into maturity when Sen’Ocle died, but even after twenty-five years, you still have no control over those pesky emotions of yours,” Attila scoffed, stood, and walked away from the other.

Niconon blushed deeply and fought the wetness coming to his eyes, “I-I thought we were here to discuss the matter of my son. Not to debate whether or not I am fit to be a king. That is not your place, Lower Council Member.”

The Mysoinyian laughed, “Not my place? To tell you the truth, boy, I don’t quite know where my place is, but it’s certainly higher than yours.”

Niconon forced himself to control his anger, “I would like to talk about my son,” he spoke evenly.

Attila regarded the man for a moment and rolled his eyes, “Fine, let’s get on with it then.” He walked to the doorway of the huge room and grabbed a leather briefcase. The man came back to the meeting table and set the contraption before him.

Niconon walked around to the table and took a seat near the head of it, across from Attila, “The Second Doctrine of the Slave Trade states that the third party, as in the slave in question – my son – must be present during negotiations. But I do not see Ammato.” The king glared harshly at Attila.

The Mysoinyian sighed and looked away, “Ammato could not come. Well,” he corrected himself after seeing the fear in Niconon’s eyes, “he could come, but I didn’t want him to strain himself.”

Niconon’s violet eyes widened and terror forced numbness upon his legs, “What?” he whispered, “What happened to my son!” the king yelled.

“He will be fine,” Attila assured the man, but did nothing to quell the younger’s rage.

Niconon stood, inadvertently tipping the huge chair he sat in over, and nearly lunged across the meeting table; his eyes clearly depicted his strong emotions, “What. Happened. To. My. Son!” his voice made Attila flinch and unconsciously draw back.

“Calm down, Niconon,” Attila spoke, but he regretted the words a heartbeat after his mouth closed.

The Kaysoinyian king threw himself across the table and grabbed the collar of Attila’s shirt while balancing on the edge of the carved stone. He pulled Attila forward with unnatural strength, “What happened to my son?” Niconon interrogated in a dangerously low voice.

Attila pried Niconon’s grip from his shirt, but was unable to meet the monarch’s eyes, “A-about a week ago, I hosted a family gathering. My eldest son holds a strong grievance against you, and took it out upon your youngest son,” Attila explained reluctantly.

Niconon perched on the edge of the table like and exquisitely carved statue before a cry of rage ripped from his throat  and he jumped off the table to tackle Attila, bringing both men to the floor. The king held Attila’s neck in a death grip while Attila forced himself not to struggle, for fear of making Niconon’s anger grow.

Leaning forward as he straddled the tall man, Niconon lowered his face into Attila’s, “You let your son attack mine?” the Kaysoinyian kept his voice at a whisper; his eyes were cold and harsh.

Attila gritted his teeth and replied, “I did not allow it. My son made his own choice. He was punished accordingly.”

“I don’t care! He hurt my son!” Niconon screamed; tears lined the rims of his reddened eyes and he bit his lip to keep from sobbing.

Attila groaned as he pried Niconon’s fingers from his neck and flipped the younger man over on his back and held the king down by his wrists. The Mysoinyian barely flinched as Niconon struggled with all of his will to escape.

“Just give up, boy,” Attila ordered to the king.

“You let my son be attacked!” Niconon wailed. Tears started to fall down his cheeks and his body shuddered with sobs, “W-what would you do if-if one of your children were hurt?” the king asked softly, his eyes wide with the utmost sincerity, “And if that child was your weakest, most fragile, most vulnerable child, what would you do?” Niconon breathed in deeply and his body shook as he exhaled.

Attila rolled his eyes, “I don’t know what I would do, but I certainly wouldn’t act like a child about it!” He yelled into Niconon’s face.

“Well how do you expect me to act, Attila, considering I am a child!” Niconon retorted. He struggled to be free of Attila’s hold but his arms and legs were firmly pinned.

Attila paused and looked to Niconon who thrashed in vain, “It is so strange,” he spoke softly; Niconon stopped moving and watched Attila warily, “When I look at you, I see your son, but you speak and I hear your father. Who are you, Niconon?” Attila finished. He removed a hand from Niconon’s wrist.

“As I have … have said before,” Niconon spoke in a broken whisper, “We are here to talk about my son, not about me.”

“Very true,” Attila muttered. He removed the pressure from Niconon’s limbs and stood; the Kaysoinyian followed in suit.

Niconon wiped the tears from his face and pushed away his humiliation to be dealt with at a later time, “How did you acquire my son?”

Silence filled the room as both men moved to sit across from one another at the table before Attila answered, “My youngest son, Nyloyn, is a member of the Third Doctrine Force-”

“Slavers,” Niconon muttered in a disgusted voice.

Attila nearly made a sharp, sarcastic retort, but thought better and merely nodded his head, “Yes, slavers. He, along with the rest of the Force, were in Kaysoinyia. Y our son just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t give me that look; I have done nothing wrong, Your Majesty. Just because your country does not practice slavery does not mean you are to condemn those who do. I contacted you within two weeks of the acquisition, exactly as the Second Doctrine of the Slave Trade states.”

“Did you buy him?” Niconon asked.

“What? No, he-he was a gift. From my son,” Attila replied.

Niconon sighed, “When did you learn Ammato was my son?”

“He a slip of the tongue,” responded Attila.

Niconon traced the grain of the wood in the table, “How long do you wish to keep my son? I need an offer.”

“Ten years,” said Attila after a moment’s hesitation.

“Two,” Niconon shot back.

“Eight; I go no lower.” Attila stared at Niconon.

“Four; I go no higher.” Niconon returned the gaze.

The two men sat in a silent staring contest for nearly two minutes before Attila spoke, “Six it is, then?”

Niconon nodded reluctantly, “I will agree, but I have a condition to meet.”

“Which is?” Attila questioned with one dark eyebrow cocked.

“I wish to come to your home and stay with my son one night,” Niconon replied; his violet gaze did not deter from Attila’s azure.

Finally, Attila nodded his head and euphoric joy flooded Niconon’s veins, “But,” Attila spoke commandingly, “you cannot wear those clothes.”

“I know,” Niconon nearly cut in, “I brought Mysoinyian clothing. It’s in my guestroom.”

“Were you planning this?” Attila asked in disbelief.

With a shake of his head, Niconon replied, “No, but I like to be prepared.”