marlowemuses | ❥ sometimes it's meant to be

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❥ sometimes it's meant to be

Charterhouse was one of the most elite, exclusive schools in England.

It housed only boys. Boys of all ages, from ones first learning to button their pants on their own to the ones that couldn't seem to keep their pants on when in interesting company. With a campus that covered more than 27,000 acres, the schools had plenty of room to be spread across. Rich, green grass and old fashioned cobblestone streets—it was the pride of the academic world. Rich in history and pedigree, only the cream of the crop could even glance at an application, much less apply and attend. It was a school for future politicians, royalty, and celebrities. The men bred from Charterhouse were said to be the most cultivated in the world.

And, naturally, the richest. Only those from a well-to-do family could attend Charterhouse. Which was why one Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was one among the golden—like his father before him, and his father before him. The Ganseys were internationally known. Mrs. Gansey: a popular and well-known politician in the United States of America. Mr. Gansey (the Second): an ambitious and clever member parliament. Helen Gansey: fashion entrepreneur and lawyer, likely to end up going into politics once she tired of running the runway.

Richard Gansey the Third: one could only wonder what the future POTUS would do. On the campus of Charterhouse he was a golden boy. Popular—captain of the crew team yet also quite an intellectual, spending a great deal of time involved in the expansion of the library and archiving old, important texts. He was the man that everyone liked and talked to. The laughs of Ganseyboy were oft heard throughout the marble halls of the College campus. Handsome—he was more American than most of his peers, having a presidential and charming look about him, with a perfectly golden sun-kissed tan. Thick brown hair swept back neatly almost always, a square build, gentle olive eyes, and a straight nose. The sort of man that entranced those who spoke to him; that wasn't even taking the velvety, almost magical quality of his voice into account.

What the members of his crew team could never figure out was why Richard Campbell Gansey "Ganseyboy" the Third was always single. Never spoke about his sexual conquests, never brought a girl along to parties (when he attended, reluctantly), never even so much as mentioned being interested in anyone. It boggled their minds. The man spent his time with his nose in dusty old books and wandering around old buildings so often that they had grown concerned; the guy should get laid. As friends, as bros, as fellow eventual members of congress of what-have-you, it was their duty to see their beloved Ganseyboy paired off. Or, at least, getting some kind of action in his youth.

Which was why there was a plan. A plan, and a bet that eventually formed because of that plan. A bet in which a lot of money was placed. For, the subject of their little game (along with good old Ganseyboy) was the iciest, coldest, most shut off of all the students. What was the point if there was no challenge? No doubt, among the boys involved in the bet, there were a few that had been spurned by the ice prince, too. Revenge was a sweet thing. Two birds with one stone: they got Ganseyboy laid and they burned the ice prince that had burned them. Or three—someone was bound to make a tidy profit.

When one of the boys approached the ice prince's brother about setting him up with the charming golden boy on campus, the man had launched at the opportunity—for the happiness of his brother, no doubt, and he was not told about the bet.

That was how it would begin. It was a Wednesday, around 4 in the afternoon, when one of the boys dragged Gansey toward the library. The rest of the boys had made sure it was empty. The one dragging him—Charles Defonte the Second—had begged Gansey for some tutoring in history. It was agreed with Laurent's brother that he would also manage to bring Laurent to the library somehow—and the two of them would be left there together to formally acquaint.

There was no tutoring. Charles shoved Gansey into the library in front of him and then shut the door behind him and locked it. "Oh no," the boy faked a gasp, "the door has gone and locked itself, Ganseyboy! A ghost, it's gotta be. I'll go get the janitor. Be back as soon as I have lunch and then find him!" Leaving a very confused Gansey staring at the door and trying to push it open, to no avail. Locked.

"Do you really think it's a ghost?" he said to no one, because Charles had run off to tell the boys that he'd done his part.

There was another door on the other side of the library that was left for the same to happen to Laurent. Unbeknownst to Gansey, who took a seat at one of the tables and glanced around, quickly. A curious time for there to be no one else in the library.

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Laurent's smile widened at Gansey's choice of topic and how he spoke of them. It was unbearably charming, and Laurent felt a wave of desire to kiss him. So Gansey was interested in men. Maybe very much so.

"I always thought it was funny," Laurent said, setting the marked pages aside and picking up the unknown ones, like Gansey had requested, "about how the Athenians used to debate about which of them topped. Plato had some very strong opinions on the topic. Have you read the Symposium?"

Choosing the first page for himself and letting Gansey have the other, Laurent set the dictionary and grammar book between them, then pulled up a few resources and dictionaries on his laptop, starting to work on the translation. He chewed on his pen as he worked, making careful notes on conjugation and declension for each word before writing a loose translation of the line beneath that. It was much slower going than he was accustomed to--the photos were often difficult to read, and he couldn't simply check the annotation of an often-translated text whenever he hesitated on a verb, and the shift in dialect made his head ache, since they didn't have a grammar book for the right dialect.

Leaning over often to consult Gansey, Laurent shifted closer to him so that their shoulders were nearly touching, not minding in the least that their shoulders brushed whenever he glanced over to offer his opinion on a word in Gansey's translation, or to ask to be handed one of Gansey's books.

Gansey laughed genially when Laurent brought up the topping arguments. "I have. I agree—very funny. I would think they might switch it up depending on their mood, but who am I to say for certain? It is interesting how fans haven't changed through the years. I imagine Plato might have some very strong feelings about Game of Thrones as well, were he to see it."

Helping himself to the page he was given, Gansey set to the task of translating. As he had told Laurent, languages weren't his strongest suit, but he was dedicated to trying. They had plenty of reference material but it was harder when there wasn't anything to check it back against. What if they were totally off base? They would never know.

The closeness between them was comfortable. He barely noticed how close they had inched, closing the gap between them slowly but surely. Every so often Gansey returned the shoulder brush, asking Laurent for his opinion on a word just as often. The rain continued to pound down against the buildings, thunder rumbling, lightning flashing across the sky.

By chance, Gansey glanced up from his text and his focus landed on Laurent's lips—lovely, utterly kissable, and he was overcome with a queer feeling that he would very much like to beg a kiss off of his friend. Just one would do. It might be enough. But that was completely unacceptable. To destroy their relationship... it would be terrible. Just the very thought caused an ache in Gansey's heart. It would be painful to lose Laurent. Maybe it was crazy to feel that way having only known him for so short a time... but they met for a reason. Gansey believed that.

After a while he sat up and stretched his arms over his head, revealing a slip of belly as he did so. "This is more difficult than I expected," he admitted, yawning against his palm, "but I think I'm working on a love poem. It seems to be short. What about you?"

Laurent's eyes caught on the slip of belly, unable to resist it. "It's a play, but that's the best I can tell. The dialogue is incredibly obtuse, even for Greek drama, or I'm making a mess of the translation because I'm not used to Koine declensions." Rubbing at his face, he sighed, turning his attention to Gansey's page. "It's a love poem? Read it to me."

He leaned in close because he wanted to see--he couldn't resist the scholar's eternal hope that some of Sappho's nine books of poetry would be discovered. Gansey's shoulder was warm against his own, and Laurent realized too late what he'd done, pressing against Gansey's side and asking to be read a love poem. His cheeks and neck went red, but he stayed where he was. Pulling back guiltily would only make it more obvious.

"I think it is," he said, somewhat wary of his own translation. It helped that it wasn't a play—at least, he didn't think it was part of a play. From what he could understand it seemed to be fairly compact.

If Gansey thought anything odd about Laurent pressing close and asking to be read the poem, he said nothing about it. He was actually too worried that his translation was utter poop to realize the implications, though he did subconsciously lean back against his friend, lessening the distance between them even more.

"I arranged it in a way that makes sense to me. It might not be completely right, but... I'm confident that at least some of it is correct." At least a fair amount of the vocabulary. Grammar, on the other hand? He'd just tossed that one to the wind after thirty minutes of trying to position words.

Clearing his throat, he began,

"You, you are...
Just like the sweet apple
reddening at the highest
branch
and missed by the apple pickers...
No.
They did not miss you.
They just couldn’t reach so
high.

You are just like the mountain
Hyacinth,
trodden by the shepherds
next to the purple
blossoms."

His voice was smooth as he spoke, every so often glancing up at his friend, catching his eye. "It doesn't say who wrote it."

Laurent's lips parted, utterly enthralled by the poem, particularly as Gansey recited it. His translation, spoken in his exquisite, mint-tinged voice. It was beautiful, and Laurent almost allowed himself to believe that Gansey meant him. "Gansey, that's lovely. It sounds like Sappho, but I don't recognize it, and I'd worry that it's only wishful thinking on my part to find a poem by Sappho. It's not in Aeolic Greek, I don't think." He ran his finger over the page, considering. "So this would have to be a translation. And it's probably not Sappho at all. You said you had a book of Sappho?"

He ran his fingertips over the translation again, awed. "Oh, but it might be. It's so beautiful. Your translation of it is powerful, Gansey."

The compliment made Gansey smile—he seemed to do a lot of that around Laurent. "I can only hope I've done it some justice." Whoever it was written by. If was indeed one of Sappho's it had to be a translation, which would be a fascinating find. How poetry could move across language several times over and still be powerful.

"I do have some Sappho. Let's see..."

The bookcase was on the other side of his friend. Room having grown chilly from the storm, Gansey didn't have much desire to get up and walk over to it when the blankets were so comfortable. So he opted to stretch across, their bodies very close as he bent forward on his knees in front of Laurent to reach for the book.

"This one." Catching it by its spine, Gansey tugged the book free and relaxed back on his calves. "It's been a while since I've read them. Which of hers do you like best?" Since he seemed to be very fond of her.

"I don't know if I could pick a favorite." Laurent was hyper aware of Gansey reaching across him, practically in his lap. Gansey's shirt rode up as he stretched and Laurent's mouth watered at the sight of bare skin, begging to be kissed or touched. He wondered if Gansey was ticklish.

Swallowing hard, Laurent reached for the book, paging through it. "I ought to lend you my Anne Carson translation. It's the most exquisite thing. She's a poet, and a classicist, and she includes and translates even the fragments. There are pages with just a word, or just a few letters, and somehow that's just as heart rending as any of the poems. I wish I had something comparable for Catullus. He's so passionate and so sharp-edged and clever. But I don't think I'd want to love like he does. Sappho loves like it's a gift, don't you think? Even if it isn't reciprocated, she gives her love like it's something beautiful, like the act of giving is enough. With Catullus, I feel like whether he's in or out of love, he's just all sharp edges and cuts. Everyone bleeds."

Laurent paused with the next page between his fingers, eyes unfocused. His own words got under his skin, and he felt the aching certainty that he was far more like Catullus, which could only lead him to hurting himself and everyone he tried to love. Shaking off the melancholia, he turned the next few pages quicker, focused on his actual task. "Here it is. Look.

Like a sweet-apple
turning red
high
on the tip
of the topmost branch.
Forgotten by pickers.
Not forgotten—
they couldn’t reach it."

His long, pale fingers spread across the words, reverent. "Your version is more like a love poem. And, look, they put the next stanza separately, like it's a different poem. I'd get my copy, that has the Greek and tends to be clear about where the breaks are in the manuscript, but." He glanced toward the window and lifted a brow at a flash of lightning.

Shrugging, Laurent returned his attention to the texts. His eyes lingered on Gansey's translation. "Keep that," he said, cresting his thumb briefly over the bottom of the page. "I like it very much."

Gansey followed Laurent's gaze toward the window. The rain was still relentless in its downpour, not taking a single break. They had said it would be a bad storm.

Even though he was sure the book translation was truer than his, it pleased Gansey to hear that Laurent liked his rudimentary version. There was the possibility that whoever transcribed it had changed some words to their own taste; which, again, made the whole thing fascinating.

"Then I'll give it to you," he said. "To keep." With gentle hands he took the page and folded it along the tear crease, smoothed it down with his finger, and removed the page from his book. Before he folded the page he signed his name at the bottom, a sweeping G and small slanted ansey. Then he pressed it into Laurent's hands.

"Hopefully one day I'll get better at translating. Then I'll give you another poem." To compare the difference. Obviously. That was all.

( It wasn't really all. )

Laurent had no rational reason for taking it, but he wanted it. He wanted the page, messy with notes and translated verbs, He wanted the bold, confident G and the sharp ansey, so that he could etch the letters onto his heart, even if it would be a forgery. Staring at the folded page in his hand, he felt like an impostor, taking the poem so that he could pretend it was about him, for him, a love letter from Gansey. Folding it, he put it into the pocket of Gansey's sweatpants.

He felt suddenly unworthy. Now that he trusted Gansey, knew Gansey, it didn't seem quite so impossible that they should be friends. It did, however, feel impossible that Gansey could ever love him.

He could imagine Gansey with someone warm and sweet, someone full of laughter and goodness. Someone worthy of him. Laurent felt sharp-edged and mousey. Golden sons like Auguste and Gansey married glittering, generous aviatrixes and entrepreneurs. Not self-absorbed, temperamental scholars.

He didn't deserve Gansey, and Gansey was the only person he'd ever wanted. The realization ached. This was more than just a crush, it was a bone-deep yearning. He'd found the epitome of what he wanted, and it was Richard Gansey III.

Knowing that made it better and worse. Gansey deserved better, and Laurent was pretty sure he was unlovable anyway. But, he supposed, at times like this, he could pretend. It would be easy, to imagine that Gansey was his boyfriend, and that the sweet, romantic domesticity of the moment could remain forever.

"Thank you," he murmured, putting the book of Sappho back on the shelf and reaching for the dictionary again. The love poem was like a brand in his pocket, but Laurent's face was as masked as ever.

When he gave Laurent the poem he tried to read the other man's face. Look for something there, something that might give him that push and a reason to venture into less than platonic territory. It would be logical. If it seemed like Laurent felt whatever chemistry he was feeling too, addressing it would make sense.

But there was nothing there to see—his expression was as it ever was, and for a moment Gansey's heart sunk. Of course. Right. Mentally berating himself for letting his thoughts stay again he stood, stepping over to his desk to flip through some papers. No one had ever drawn his attention quite like Laurent had and the normal admonishment of you've been blessed with so much already, stop wanting what you shouldn't have wasn't working as well as it normally did. His family was well off. He'd always lived a privileged life. He'd even been given a second chance at everything. Who was he to try and push himself on Laurent, who clearly hated the idea?

Friendship. That was what he'd been lucky enough to be given and he should be more grateful for just that.

"Would you like something else to drink?" he ventured, picking up one of his journals, "Or something to eat? We've got snacks. Some snacks. A break might be a good idea."

"Yes," Laurent said, eyes trailing Gansey everywhere he moved, addicted to the sight of him. They'd eaten some of the food that Laurent had gotten from the dining hall, but he hadn't gotten much, and it was the odd side dishes from the beginning of the buffet: a roll, some potato salad, several olives, three chicken wings. He was cold once he got up, but he did his best to ignore that, trailing along at Gansey's side as they went to the kitchenette.

"I'm not picky. What have you got?" Leaning an elbow on Gansey's shoulder, he peered into the fridge, considering the options and taking some deli meat and cheese to nibble on, licking his fingers between bites. "Maybe more hot chocolate. Or wine." Laurent's eyes narrowed with playful, wicked challenge, suddenly burning to know whether Gansey was the sort of teenager who kept a secret stash of alcohol. "You look like you've never broken a rule in your life, you know. Even if I do have the very incriminating knowledge that you are easily goaded into dangerous climbing excursions."

Having the weight of Laurent's elbow on his shoulder was pleasant. Comfortable. Even if he knew better than to pursue he could still enjoy little things, right? It was a gesture of trust. Ease. Truly, he was blessed.

The fridge didn't offer much aside from those deli meats and cheese. There were eggs, a couple of left over containers of Chinese food, and and a pack of bacon. Not so much as a sign of a vegetable. It wasn't so much that Gansey didn't know how to cook (though his skills were rudimentary at best). But paired with often forgetting to eat at all and having a penchant for pizza? It didn't often happen.

At the accusation that he was a square Gansey grinned, eyebrow raised. "Is that so? What makes you think so? Is it the polos?" Ronan always said it was the polos. Or the plaid. Or the boatshoes. Everything. Everything, mostly.

"We have a few things," he said, opening a cabinet to the side of the fridge to reveal a bottle of both red and white, among other couple of other various kinds of liquor. He was a year older than Laurent as it was and his unofficial roommate was about as Irish as they came. While Gansey wasn't the kind to ever get drunk, he enjoyed a drink or two on occasion. Moderation. Ronan enjoyed a bit more than moderation (a point of their fights, fairly often) but they were working on that.

"There's also beer in the bottom of the fridge."

As for food, he shifted over, reaching for another cabinet. "We mostly buy food that doesn't spoil easily. Things like pasta, sauce, whatever's quick and easy. Ah—we also have some instant brownie mix?" Waving the red box so that Laurent could see, "How good are your baking skills?"

"It's the face, really," Laurent said, smile widening as he teased his friend. "You have this earnest look to you, which is only enforced by the polo shirts and your apparent general determination to be decent and considerate." He took the bottle of red, digging through a drawer until he found a corkscrew. "And the glasses. And the tweed."

Pulling out the cork, Laurent left it on the counter, still pinioned on the corkscrew. Rinsing out his mug, he filled it halfway with wine.

When Gansey asked him if he could bake, Laurent just raised an eyebrow at him. "It has instructions, right? Just follow the instructions."

"I think the tweed looks dashing," he grinned as he bent to grab a bowl from under the sink. The rest of his clothes... well, he couldn't really defend those. Polo shirts were nice, though you never saw a reckless hooligan wearing one.

Plopping the bowl and the box onto the counter, he made to grab a spoon from one of the drawers as well. "Together," he insisted, handing the spoon to Laurent when he finally found one suitable. Easy instructions or not, brownies made together always tasted better.

Cracking the box open, he dumped the brownie powder into the bowl. It came with a packet of fudge which he added generously, for extra chocolatey flavor. With a dash of water the mixture was ready for mixing‐which he left for Laurent as he punched in some numbers on the stove to heat it up.

"No one, other than you, has ever used the words 'dashing' and 'tweed' in the same sentence," Laurent said. He held the spoon he'd been handed, and took a sip of the wine with his other hand.

Frowning when he was expected to mix, Laurent handed him the mug in return, simply pushing it on him and letting go, expecting that he would take it. He stirred the mixture in the bowl. It seemed far too thick, so he added a splash of wine.

Consulting the box as he stirred, Laurent frowned at the bowl. "It's still lumpy. Is it supposed to be lumpy?"

Pointing at the bowl, he leaned against the counter and watched Gansey. Sure, he could be more helpful, but this was far more entertaining.

Laurent put the chocolate-covered spoon in his mouth while he waited for Gansey's expert consultation on the mixture.

"Lumpy?"

Squinting into the bowl, he studied the mixture, trying to judge if it mattered if there were lumps or not. Wouldn't they just melt down? Is that what happened? Did they much care, as long as it was chocolatey and sort of solid?

From what the images on the box told him, some lumps were okay. Well. Theirs had more than some, for whatever reason, but they weren't trying to impress anyone.

"I think it's fine." Glancing up, he eyebrow arched yet again when he saw Laurent sucking on the spoon. So much for any more mixing with that spoon, eh? "Oh, you little fox," he laughed, shaking his head as he swiped his finger into the bowl, catching some of the mixture and quickly swiping it across Laurent's nose playfully. Then he stuck his finger into his mouth to suck the rest of it clean, licking up the length.

Laurent twitched in surprise at the swipe of chocolate to his nose, compounded with the playful nickname. No one had ever dared touch him in such a disrespectful manner before, with the occasional exception of Auguste. No one had ever dirtied his perfect appearance.

He was perplexed, wondering if this was simply how friends behaved. And then he saw Gansey lick chocolate off his finger and his mouth went dry. Frozen in place with shock and lust, Laurent stared at him, spoon still in mouth as he tried to process the series of events that had just happened.

"I think it tastes fine," Gansey continued, as though what he had just done wasn't utterly erotic. Sucking the last bit of chocolate from his fingertip, he tried to remember where the baking pans were—they were so rarely used... probably in one of the cabinets, too.

Before he could bend down and figure out which one actually housed the tin, he glanced back at Laurent, noticing how his friend had suddenly gone quiet. Staring. Ah... maybe he didn't like that?

Gansey offered an apologetic look, "Sorry, did I surprise you? I'll clean you up." It was the least he could do, considering he was the one that did the chocolate smearing. Licking the taste of chocolate his lips, he glanced about for a paper towel, or a napkin.

Trying to recover his wits, which had never before been anything but swift and sharp, while his brain insisted on replaying on a loop the image of Gansey licking his finger, Laurent took the spoon out of his mouth. He set it down on the counter.

Accepting the napkin, Laurent cleaned the chocolate off his nose. He felt distinctly awkward, suspecting that his response had been incorrect, but he had no idea what the right answer was. He was used to being silver-tongued and charismatic, able to charm any number of short-tempered dowagers.

Gansey was a different animal entirely.

"Thank you," Laurent said, head still spinning from the strange newness of this situation. Baking. Teasing. Lust.

Laurent took a larger gulp of wine.

"Of course."

Finally finding the tins, he pulled out a square one that would make the brownies nice and fat rather than spread out and thin. Turning the bowl over it, he watched most of it pour into the tin nicely, folding like it was supposed to, even if it was rife with lumps. Gives it some character, he figured.

Tossing the tray into the oven, Gansey leaned back against the counter with the bowl, content to continue licking some of the chocolate batter for a bit. The added wine complimented the taste, though he was pretty sure that the directions did not exactly call for wine.

He slid his finger through what batter attached itself to the bowl and licked it from his finger again. The last thing he really ate was the pizza—the roll and picking at what small things Laurent had managed to grab before the blackout didn't count—though chocolate batter probably wouldn't satisfy him either.

"What's your favorite food? And dessert?"

"My favorite food?" Laurent repeated, having to think for a moment. "Duck confit, I suppose. We have a chef in Vere who makes it as a specialty. My favorite dessert... hm. Maybe creme brulee? Or pavlova. Something creamy and utterly decadent."

He smiled, having not really thought about it before, but he loved luxury and decadence, though he was more likely to deny himself such things when he was feeling particularly depressed or self-loathing.

Refilling his wine, Laurent held out the bottle to him. If Gansey was going to keep licking his fingers like that, Laurent was going to need more wine in order to deal with it. And if Laurent was drinking, Gansey was going to be drinking. "You're not drinking enough."

"There's wine in the brownie mix," he pointed out, but took the bottle anyway. No harm in one glass. So he likewise rinsed his mug before pouring in some wine. Chocolate and wine was a good mix, particularly because the wine they had was sweet and not dry. A swig from the mug went down easily. The tastes mingled on his tongue.

"Want some?" Offering the bowl by placing it between them, Gansey leaned against the counter and cupped the mug between his hands. "I can't make duck or pavlova but I can make you pasta in vodka sauce," he chucked, looking down into the mug at the richly red liquid as he spoke.

"Or breakfast."

It wasn't long before the scent of brownies baking filled the dorm. Quietly, Gansey realized that he would no longer be able to drink sweet red wine or eat chocolate without thinking about Laurent. Or how very much he would like to beg a kiss off of the man.

"There's only a splash of wine in the brownie mix. And you're baking it," Laurent countered, smiling as he watched Gansey move around the little kitchenette. "Pasta in vodka sauce, huh? How much vodka do you put in?"

Gansey's presence felt warm and wholesome, like sunlight. Laurent wanted very much to bask in it.

Or, even more so, cuddle close for warmth. It was cold in the dorm, and Laurent regretted leaving the blanket with their study materials. He hugged an arm around his own waist, leaning a little closer to the oven and trying to ignore the gooseflesh on his arms. "All right, tell me about yourself," he said, with a playful curve to his lips. "So I don't have to bother requesting a dossier from the Veretian secret service."

"As much as the occasion calls far," he answered without hesitation, looking back up at his friend with a smirk.

"And I'm sure your secret service would be very confused with what they found, if you did that." There was a laugh to his voice as he pushed himself up from the counter, "You're cold, aren't you? Hold on."

It was a bit chilly with the storm. The oven gave off some heat, but not very much. Gansey padded over to his desk and swiped his school cardigan off the chair, returning and draping it around Laurent's shoulders as a means of warmth. It was the cardigan from the winter collection so it was thick, and smelled of mint and his mild cologne.

"There. That's better, right?" Returning to his mug for another sip, he appraised his friend from over the rim. "Now—you'll have to be more specific than that. What would you like to know?"

Laurent's heart lurched as Gansey wrapped the sweater over his shoulders. It was warm, and it smelled like him. Laurent ached with longing, feeling dizzy with it. He'd never imagined that anyone could have an effect like this on him. "Everything," Laurent said, attention caught by a tiny freckle on Gansey's throat. He couldn't help but imagine stepping into Gansey's warm, strong arms and kissing that spot, tasting it.

"But since I already know you can go on for hours if I ask you about any Welsh kings, let's start with the mundane details. Family. Birthplace. Upbringing. Religion? That's important to Americans, isn't it?" Laurent lifted a brow, and there was an atheist's inherent disdain hinted in the question. Vere provided for religious freedom, but the vast majority of the population was not religious, and there was a distaste for 'superstition'.

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