Chapter Text
“Him. He's my lover.” A low voice pulls you out of your daydream at the same time a cool hand envelops yours. You whip your head around to the voice. Who's interrupting your shopping?
Your liege?
A shrill lady's voice makes an indignant noise, forcing your hands to clap over your ears. Liege Blackrock's suitor, from the looks of it. Those two stick out like a sore thumb, anyway. No one in the shopping district wears silk, except for the occasional merchant who specializes in such things. Even then, the rare royal blue of her frilly dress would turn a miserly merchant's eye. “You-! You cheating invert!” she yells, silencing the market square. His hand leaves yours in an attempt to gesture her quiet.
“I understand you're upset, but there is no need for such language!” he yells in a hushed whisper. All eyes, previously blind to him, are now on them, and he knows it. “Take it up with my advisors. They are the ones who are so pushy for me to find a wife.” She quiets at that, luckily for the peace of your shopping.
“Not only are you a cheat and a queer king, but you are a liar too!” You watch awkwardly, trying to shuffle away from this lover's quarrel. He notices your slow retreat and snatches your hand back, pulling your stumbling feet beside his. Her royal snootiness eyes your outfit with a critical gaze, nose scrunching in disapproval. “He is not even noble,” she states plainly. She's right. You're not.
“It is trivial to me. Now, leave us, and do me a favor and tell my advisors why we can't marry,” he says, dismissing her with a wave. She sputters, mouth opening and closing several times before settling on a growl and an angry red face.
“Tell them yourself,” she huffs, storming away towards the direction of the castle. He sighs once the royal nuisance is out of sight and lets go of your hand.
“My liege,” you start, startling him at the sound of your voice, “is it wise of you to be declaring me your lover in such a public area?” A dust of blue covers his cheeks, a telltale sign that you would want to raise your shield if you had it with you. You know he knows you're right. Several eyes still rest on the two of you, trying to stealthily watch the aftermath of rare royal discourse. You would be lying if you said you wouldn't look either; the king never raises his voice with anyone, nor does he openly argue.
“Your voice,” he pauses. “It's familiar, but your face is not.” You blink. He doesn't recall your voice?
“I am part of your personal guard, Your Majesty.” It takes a moment, but his eyes widen in recognition.
“Ah, yes, I remember now. The one with the strange voice,” he says with a point of his finger. You wince with displeasure. Yes, you have the ability, or rather, you trained your voice to change, but this feels like an insult.
“Yes. Well, I must get back to shopping. I will see you this evening, my liege.” You turn away, intent on finding spices and maybe a new set of playing cards, but his hand pulls on yours again. You shoot a quizzical look over your shoulder at him. “Yes?”
“I need a favor from you, knight,” he begins, pulling you away from the market, “It is true that I do not fancy women, but my advisors will push anyway.” You don't like where this is going. If it shows on your face, he doesn't comment nor care. “I need you for the day. You will be my lover in name only.”
Lover to the king? Perhaps some age ago you would have readily accepted that offer, but not anymore. The last thing you need is to be revealed as a deviant in the king's court. He must sense your hesitation, face tightening in a way you've only seen him address foreign adversaries.
“You will help me with this, sir knight. They need irrefutable proof that I do not feign my seriousness. This is my truth. They need to accept it. You will come with me back to the castle,” he commands. You swallow dryly. You have no choice. There's no contesting the king.
“May I at least finish my shopping, Your Majesty? I wanted to find a gift for Captain," you ask quietly, a bit shook from his demands. He nods. You look through your satchel, breathing a sigh of relief. Let's see. You've already bought a bottle of scented bath oil for her. Just spices left, and maybe that pack of cards for yourself should you have enough spending money left.
You take your leave towards your favorite spice merchant, not expecting another set of boots to follow yours. “My liege?” you ask, stopping. He tilts his head just the slightest, eyebrows raised in silent question. You're about to tell him he may go if he wishes, but that might take too long. He's not usually one for listening to anyone beneath him. You shake your head and continue. The sun is still high in the early afternoon sky, but the spice barrels and bags are quite low outside of the store. With quickened feet, you rush past fellow citizens, who seem to part much more easily than normal. Your eyes scan the shelves as you enter before finally landing on the pods of star anise.
“Spices?” he asks, startling you from behind. You nod vigorously, tossing a handful into a cloth bag.
“For Captain. She's been quite the help in my life,” you explain briefly, tying the satchel closed and moving to the cloves. Just a few of those. And some cardamom pods.
“How about some of those?” He points to a glass jar filled with dried rose buds. You shake your head.
“Too expensive. Roses aren't in season right now.” They never are, not in Blackrock. It's too cold most of the time, and they're too hard to care for. The only roses you've seen are the ones in the royal gardens. You tie up your spices and take them to the counter, ignoring your king for now.
“20 coins,” the smug merchant declares. You gasp.
“I know a scam when I see it! These are nowhere near that valuable, you sticky-fingered egg,” you contest, pulling out your coin bag and placing 10 on the counter. “They are not worth half a month's pay. 10 and no more, or I will never come back.”
“That's quite extreme, isn't it?” Your king whispers into your ear. You shush him with a glare. Everyone says that— you picked it up from your mother, and she hers, and so on. Of course he wouldn't know. You're not sure he's ever bought anything in his life. He probably has servants do it.
“You'll sooner bankrupt me at that price. For you, friend, I'll lower it to 18,” he offers. You turn your nose.
“Friend and loyal customer. 16.” You've been coming here with your mother since you were a babe, making your own spice blends and purchasing an occasional tea leaf cake if you had extra funds. You place six more coins on the counter. He sighs dramatically and takes your coins while you take your spices in turn.
“We do not pay you only 40 coins a month,” he says once you two are out of the shop. You smirk, counting the rest of your money.
“No, but he need not know that.”
“You little fiend!” You laugh, and he can't help but chuckle with you.
“Do you find enjoyment in lying to others?” You know he jests. You can tell from the smile that reaches his eyes.
You know he doesn't mean it. How could he? He doesn't know.
“Let us go now. What was it you needed me for, my liege?” You switch the subject, deciding to get those cards another time. Hopefully he'll grant you another day off soon if you entertain his ludicrous request. He gives a small nod of approval, boots clicking against cobblestone road as he pulls on your hand once more.
“My advisors have been pushing for me to marry a fine noblewoman who may produce me an heir,” he says with a sigh. You nod along, feeling a pang of sympathy. It's true he's pushing 50, and yet he has not expressed a single inkling of interest in any female suitors, at least from what you've personally seen.
“And you wish for me to stand in for your lover?” You walk beside him, approaching castle grounds now. You need not see their faces to tell your fellow guards are appalled at the sight of your intertwined hands.
“Precisely. Every time I have spoken with them, it turns into a heated debate. With you there, it should quiet those rapscallion mouths of theirs.” His shoulders automatically pull back as he steps onto the drawbridge, commanding respect as your colleagues bow before him. He stands tall and proud, chin tilted up in a display of confident pride.
If only you could look like that.
“Should I put my armor on?” you ask. In truth, you don't want his advisors to see your face.
“No. They will need to see that you're a man. They did not like the last time I tried to pull the wool over their eyes.” Oh well. Maybe they won't recognize you like he didn't. The two of you enter the castle, traveling up a staircase to a room you've been to only a few times before. Hopefully they won't ask for a physical inspection. You wouldn't pass.
You can hear shouting from behind the door. Perhaps you should come back later? He opens it before you can protest, forcing you into a whirlwind of argument. The royal pain in the ass is there, yelling at advisors who likely don't deserve it. Their scrutinizing gazes land upon your interlaced fingers, and she jabs a soft finger in your direction, shouting, “Him! See?!”
Their eyes fall upon you instead. Your chest tightens. You stumble over your words for a moment, but liege Blackrock interrupts for you.
“Yes. It's true. I have been courting this fine lad during my time with her,” he declares wistfully, removing his hand from yours only to pull you closer by your shoulder. He's truly playing up this whole lover thing.
“He's lying scum! I'm sure of it!” she shouts at the advisors, and he takes a moment to shoot you a look while their eyes are away. You need not words to understand what he's asking. You place your hand on his waist, leaning your head on his breast.
“Er, pardon me for speaking out of turn, Your Majesty, but you have been saying this same thing for years now.” Your eyes dart to the advisor, some graying man. A lord of house Thune? You can't recall. The king's eyes narrow at him nonetheless, warning him of his next words.
The silence stretches. Perhaps this was enough to convince them? “If you'll excuse us,” he begins, but a younger lord objects when he really shouldn't.
“Lord Thune is right.” Ah. So you were correct. “We've never met or seen any of your supposed ‘male relations’ for years, and yet you bring this one and expect us to believe this isn't some ploy again? The last one was to get rid of the lady of Stillwater, if I recall.” The advisors murmur in agreement. Liege Blackrock blushes a light blue. Oh dear. You squeeze his waist a bit tighter and tilt your head down to look. Frost is already building on his boots.
“In all 30 years of your rule, you've never expressed interest in men.”
“Who cares about that? Blackrock still needs an heir!”
“Perhaps you haven't found the right lady, Your Majesty.” The temperature around you drops.
“Are you sure it's not curiosity and nothing more?”
“Forget about that! He cannot seriously be a sexual deviant! What would the people think if they knew their king partook in sodomy?” one advisor says, earning a growl from your liege. It takes all of your willpower not to leap to his defense. You are pretending to be his lover. Not his knight. No matter how familiar this all feels, you must remain quiet. No matter how much you know he would want support for this, you remain silent. It's not your turn to speak, and it never will be.
“That's enough.” His voice booms across the room, silencing all as a layer of frost covers every surface in the room. The table and chairs shine from the reflected sunlight, and a bit of ice hangs over to make icicles. It's terrifying to anyone else, but to you it's a semi-regular occurrence. Being by his side, you usually get to witness every facet of him, from kind to angry, to bold or humorous, and everything in-between. “You will accept this. He is my lover. That is final,” he declares, pulling you out of the room with him. You shut the door for him.
He remains dreadfully silent. The journey to your unknown destination is long and unpleasant, filled only by the clicking of his heeled boots and shuffling of fabrics as you walk. His body, once relaxed and held high, is tense and rigid. His shoulders remain stiff. His hands clench, squeezing yours not uncomfortably so.
“I'm sorry,” you say automatically, breaking the silence. His head turns to yours, just enough to see you. You need no words to sense his confusion. “I know what it feels like. They still do not believe you, do they?” He shakes his head, sighing quietly. Your heart breaks seeing his down-crested eyes, beautiful blues dulling in depression.
“I do not think they ever will. Not unless I marry,” he replies quietly, voice heavy with sorrow.
It hurts seeing him so. You have to make this better.
“Fancy a drink?” His head visibly perks up at that. Perfect. His usual smirk returns, and he pulls you in a different direction this time.
“Only the finest for tonight! Forget those lackwit advisors. Let's enjoy ourselves,” he declares, mood lifted already. It brings a smile to your lips, but strangely it makes your heart leap seeing him so delighted. Perhaps it's your empathy for his situation.
You stop in front of cellar doors, watching him fling them wide open. “From your own stores?” you ask, “Your Majesty, I couldn't possibly.”
“Nonesense. It's the least I owe you.” He disappears inside, resurfacing with a fine bottle of wine. Looks a bit strange. The glass of the bottle is a pale white, and there's no cork. “Imported,” he answers your silent question, “made from a different sort of grain and flavored with fruit and sugar.”
“And where shall we drink? I confess I don't wish to see your advisors again,” you ask, thinking perhaps he has a private room of some sort. You wouldn't know, only being a knight.
“My chambers, of course,” he answers, guiding you through the castle. Your face heats, but you don't dare argue. Not after the conflict earlier. How bad could it be? It's private, yes, but what if someone sees you enter his room with him? What would they think? With a bottle of wine no less!
He walks deeper into the castle, past the defensive walls and closer to the inner circle. He stops you at a plain door, unlocking it with a key, and opens it for you.
“After you,” he says after you remain frozen for too long. He ushers you inside, shutting the door and locking it behind you. You're not sure what you were expecting, but it's lavishly beautiful. In the middle of the room against the wall lies a bed fit only for a king with what seems to be soft silk sheets and pillows covered by the thickest fur blankets you've ever seen. On the nearest wall by the window sits a fine round table made of lacquered wood flanked by two equally lavish looking velvet-lined chairs, which is exactly where he goes.
He sets down the bottle after clearing the table of the chess board that was atop it, pulling out one of the chairs for you. You oblige without question, continuing to take in his luxurious chambers while he opens a door, to what you can only assume to be his closet. He's even got a locked chest by the foot of his bed. One can only wonder what's inside. Perhaps some treasured trinket? Or maybe some heirloom, never meant to see the light of day lest it crumble to dust.
He returns with two crystalline glasses, setting them down and interrupting your musing. He spots your gaze on the chest and chuckles softly. “Don't ask, because you'll never find out,” he answers before you can ask. You weren't going to, anyway. It's probably personal, and you're in no place to ask. He takes his seat and twists the wine open, strangely enough, and pours you each an ounce. You raise your eyebrows. That's all? He must sense your confusion, and pours you an ounce more. “It's meant to be enjoyed in small amounts,” he says, setting down the bottle in favor of his cup. “Cheers to ourselves! And not those buffoons.” He gulps down his shot, as do you. It burns hotly down your throat. Perhaps you shouldn't have gotten that extra ounce. You finish it with a gasp and a wince.
“Strong, isn't it?” he chuckles, pouring you each another serving. “Let's see if you can keep up with me.” He takes the glass and downs it once more. You reach for it, hesitantly bringing it to your lips. The fruit— strawberry? It doesn't do much to help the strong flavor or scent. Still, you offered to drink with him so you must. The hot liquid burns down your throat again, and your stomach is already reeling.
“Please, I can't handle another,” you plead with him, shaking your head as he reaches for your cup again.
“Bah! You lightweight,” he teases with a grin. His cheeks are already tinted as red as the strawberries likely used to flavor the wine, but that doesn't stop him. He pours and downs another drink.
“Those advisors,” you begin, swallowing the taste of wine away, “Why are they so…”
“Idiotic?” he huffs, cutting you off, “I do not know. Perhaps it is because they're old and oafish.” He sighs, staring into his empty cup. His sparkling blue eyes fall at the corners again. Oh how you wish to wipe that look off his face!
“Perhaps you are in need of new ones? I would not want those sorts of people in my life again.” You're not sure why you're sharing this. Of course, the alcohol does its work, but…
“Careful, sir knight. You speak as if you dare know how this feels,” he says, dangerously low.
“N-no!” you stammer, raising your hands defensively. You do! You know it all too well, but how could you possibly explain?
Well… there is one way.
You clear your throat, relaxing your voice box, and take a deep, shaky breath. You open your mouth, trying to speak. He does not look amused.
“Well?” he says, crossing his arms.
“Your Majesty…” you start quietly. His eyes widen, hearing your true voice. Not the deep, masculine one you've taken for so long— the only one he knows from you. The feminine one.
His lips quirk up into a smile. “So you are a deceiver in my court?” You know it's a jest, but it hurts. You shake your head.
“I'm—”
“I know of what you are.” He pours another drink for you both, then takes his glass. “To us. And to hell with those who oppose us!”
“T-to us!” you cough, adjusting your voice again and raising your glass against his. You can have one more if it's for this. It's bad luck to toast and not drink, after all. You sigh. With your belly full of wine, it's only natural that you'd get warm. You pull at the hem of your shirt discretely, trying to increase cool airflow. It's as if your whole body is covered in a blanket though, and it helps none.
“Warm? H-here. Sh-tay still,” he slurs, pressing a cool palm to your cheek. Your cheeks warm more, as do his, though blue of course. You hum as he draws on his wellspring of magic, dousing your flushed body in cool frost. His palm remains, though.
“You're so-o cold.” You hum. He hums. It's kind of nice. “So… do I still need t’ah pretend?”
“Huh?”
“As y'er lover or some such.”
“Oh,” he pauses, hand pressing firmly against your cheek, “Yyyyyyess…” You hum in thought, staring at his blue-flushed face.
“Hmmm…” you hum. His lips part slightly. You can smell the fruity wine on his breath. “M'kay,” you reply. He grins broadly.
“Perfect! N-now,” he hiccups, “You have-ta play the part.” He stands, circling to your side of the table.
“Hm?”
“My advisors,” he starts with a huff. He need not say more. You nod, rising to your feet.
“O-kay. S-so, wha’d'ya mean?” You stumble against him, using his strong shoulders to support yourself. He grins stupidly, unable to hide his excitement.
“C-come sleep wit’ me,” he declares, pulling, but more like stumbling, to the bed with you. Normally you would protest such wording, indignantly spouting for clarification.
“Mmm… yeah,” you say, flopping into the bed. He crawls over you, shuffling to the other side and making a mess of the neat bed. The two of you lie there, not even bothering to pull up the covers in the heat of the night created by alcohol and, what you would later learn to be, blossoming feelings.