Page 1 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)

Bristles sweeping against stone floor, Favian’s arms moved the broom’s handle back and forth in a motion so habitual he barely had to pay it any mind.

The hint of a smile appeared on his face when a horse peaking over its enclosure’s gate nudged his shoulder, and he would have loved to pause and scratch the mare’s soft muzzle had he not a thousand other duties to take care of before lunch.

Once he was done sweeping the stable floor, Favian refilled the trays of those horses that were already out on the pasture, arranged the gear required today, and fetched water for the outside troughs.

As the sun continued to rise, Favian wished he had remembered to wear his hat today, but he did not have time to fetch it from the quarters he shared with his brother.

Favian’s beige skin was lighter than that of most of Livenza’s population, his ashy blonde hair an outlier.

He tanned easily, but summer was just beginning, and his body had not yet gotten used to the longer hours of intense sunshine.

King Amondo had perhaps intended for the physically demanding stable work to stifle Favian’s contentment, but he had learned to love it here.

Despite the inevitable smell, it was one of few workplaces on the palace grounds steeped in mostly fresh air, and, on a particularly clear spring day, the smell of flowers would waft over from the blossoming patches beyond the pasture, infusing the place with the scent of poppies and cyclamens.

His favorite, the lily of the valley, was almost out of bloom, the final blossoms starting to wilt.

Favian enjoyed working alone more than the constant rustle of people in the kitchens, the weapon-heavy armory, or the risks of working directly in His Majesty’s sleeping quarters.

He missed the time when he had been allowed to run errands, to go to town, but the interactions with other people had never been what had made those visits enjoyable.

On the contrary, Favian had always been content by himself; in his mind, not having to concentrate on other people’s words for long periods of time was a perk.

It was difficult for him to focus on a lot of verbal input or too many voices at once, and he was even less skilled at actively participating in lengthy conversations with anyone.

Well, not anyone.

There had been one exception, but Favian tried to let it occupy as little space in his mind as possible. It had been five years since his life at the court had changed significantly, and he had accepted that reality a long time ago.

He was finished with the stables for the forenoon.

Favian allowed himself five deep breaths, then he made his way to the hall. No matter how little the king and queen enjoyed being reminded of their son’s liaison , the lavish meals required as many hands as they had. This was his job now.

Once he arrived at the busy kitchen, Favian was swarmed by voices, even louder than usual. He tried to find the source of the commotion but was unable to identify anything out of the ordinary until Nico came rushing toward him, hands wet. “Have you heard?” he asked, voice high.

“Heard what?”

“The war’s over! He’s coming back!”

Favian froze.

His heart stopped.

The political implications were secondary.

Nico’s grin was wide. His brother was the only one whom Favian had confided in about that night five years ago, and it had taken quite some time for Nico to measure his excitement, the topic occupying a majority of their conversations for months after.

Ever since that fateful day, Nico had envisioned His Highness’ eventual return, shared his ideas of the perfect reunion between Favian and the prince, and insisted on his belief in their romance.

Favian, however, no longer knew what their little teenage adventure had even been, if their night in the attic had ever meant more to the prince than fun and games. The concept of romance was as foreign to Favian as the kingdom Livenza had spent the past five years fighting.

Besides, he couldn’t shake the impression that Nico’s insistence on his romantic life had something to do with Nico’s own explorations.

He was now close to the age Favian had been when he had last seen the prince, and Favian frequently found the door to their quarters locked from the inside when he came to their room at unexpected times.

He did not blame his brother for the moments of privacy; time for solitude was rare in the palace.

Brown hair, bright eyes, and full of laughter, Nico was quickly growing up to be a favorite at the palace.

The servants loved him, visitors enjoyed his quips, and even the king and queen were occasionally seen smiling whenever Nico was around.

Favian felt it strange that they had never seemed to enjoy their own son’s similarly energetic nature.

“Favian?”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Favian looked his brother up and down. “When will His Highness return?” he asked tightly, but Nico shrugged.

“I don’t know, they called for an announcement only like an hour ago and only said that the war is over. Nobody won.”

Favian could feel his brother’s gaze on him, likely trying to decipher what was happening in his head, his heart. If only he knew.

“I don’t understand why they didn’t call you. Even Ma was there!”

Their mother’s presence in the central building was, indeed, noteworthy, mobility issues usually keeping her tied to her place of work among the weavers, lace makers, and embroiderers.

Favian could think of a few reasons as to why he had not been called to the announcement. He wasn’t going to engage with any of them at this point in time.

“We should probably not spend so much time worrying about it, then. Let’s get to work.” With that, Favian made his way to the stoves, expecting Nico to return to the dishes.

Favian promised himself he would visit his mother at the weaving mill again, hoping he could make time soon.

After a short discussion with the head cook, Favian quickly washed away the dirt from today’s work, then he and Queen Irmina’s designated table maid began moving plates of food out into the dining hall.

Even the smaller marbled banquet hall the majesties used for private meals spread further than the quarters Favian and Nico shared.

Tableware had already been set, so Favian made sure to arrange the dishes in the majesties’ preferred composition.

The aroma was strong as always, the platter of roast duck, the bowls of spiced vegetables, the fish and buttered crabs, the pot of mushroom and truffle soup, the sliced bread drizzled with olive oil and rosemary, and the goat cheese-stuffed pockets of dough making Favian’s mouth water.

There was always a risk of dishes cooling down spread out on the table, but the king and queen enjoyed the privilege of choice more than the illusion of a longer meal.

Only dessert would be served separately.

Until then, Favian’s place was at His Majesty’s side.

And if one of the dishes had turned cold before King Amondo got to eat, someone would pay for it.

Favian’s quiet nature, coupled with his ability to follow orders precisely, had resulted in his presence becoming a staple at every meal.

He was expected to serve the king’s dishes right at the table, no matter his primary duties as a stablehand.

This post was most likely to bear the consequences of the majesties’ disapproval, and Favian much preferred being on the receiving end himself rather than putting one of his peers in the position.

He could bear the complaints, the insults, the hands. He had been doing it for years.

Once everything was aligned, Favian took his place precisely three steps away from the table to the right of the king’s empty chair and trained his eyes on the floor, raised just enough to recognize the dishes on the table but low enough to not meet either of the majesties’ eyes.

The doors were opened, and the rulers of Livenza strode into the hall. King Leonardo Amondo I took his seat at the head of the table, while Queen Irmina settled herself on the table’s left-hand side.

Favian’s chest seized. He had hoped that His Majesty would comment on his son’s return, but King Amondo merely eyed the table and gestured for Favian and his wife’s table maid, Lelia, to begin plating the food.

The meal was held in uncomfortable yet familiar silence. The only words spoken were commands. “Soup,” or “Duck,” and the occasional “What are you waiting for, imbecile?” if they weren’t fast enough.

Outside of these, the only sounds were the smacking and slurping from the lips of a man who did not need to care for the thoughts of his subordinates, while his wife delicately swallowed piece after piece without so much as acknowledging the grandeur of the spread.

When they were done after what, to Favian, felt like an hour, His Majesty got up.

He looked Favian up and down, then sought out the eyes usually trained on the floor in his presence by lifting Favian’s chin with a single finger, sharp nail scraping across skin.

“Make sure tomorrow’s lunch is set for three,” he commanded.

Favian nodded automatically, voicing a “Yes, Your Majesty,” before the instruction registered.

Tomorrow.

His Highness would be back tomorrow .

King Amondo’s gaze remained on Favian, no doubt searching for his reaction to the prince’s impending return. Favian hoped, prayed to whichever of the Gods might listen, that his face would not betray the turmoil in his gut, the frantic pace of his heartbeat.

It was not the first time His Majesty’s fingers touched him, but it was the first time they landed on his face without force.

“You will not seek him out when he arrives.”

Favian said nothing. He was frozen in place, his eyes still held by the king’s piercing gaze.