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Derek hears them arrive before he sees them. The excited cheers from the crowd carries all the way up to his bed chamber. Looking out through the window, they are mere dots slowly moving across the ground far down below. He anticipates the knock on the door and tries to remain stoic when it opens to reveal one of his servants, despite his heart beating out of his chest.
“Your Majesty,” the servant says. “The knights have returned.”
Derek doesn’t speak, afraid that his voice might betray the mix of fear and joy currently taking residence in the pit of his stomach. He simply nods and leaves the window to take the lead through the winding corridors of the castle, the servant following him diligently. The tension within Derek grows with every step closer to the courtyard. Word of the victory of his army against his power hungry uncle in the North had, of course, reached him weeks ago, but the message carried numbers and not names. He knew of the size of their losses, but not of its greatness. More importantly, he didn’t know which of his knights would greet him once he walked through the doors into the courtyard.
The noise of the crowd is nearly deafening in the entrance hall, his people welcoming the brave knights that had fought for them in a distant land.
For the briefest of seconds Derek thinks that he would slaughter them all without hesitation if it meant that the knight, his knight, waited for him past those doors.
The doors open. Derek is bathed in light and the immediate silence of the crowd. Ten of the knights of his court left a year ago to lead different factions of the Royal Army, but only six have returned. They sit tall and proud on their horses, their backs straight but their weariness evident in their eyes and their hardships visible in the grime caked into their hair and clothing. Derek searches their faces frantically, finding Boyd and Isaac and Scott and… Derek would have fallen to his knees with overwhelming relief if only he let himself. Instead he closes his eyes, allowing himself a second to breathe, to find the king within, the one that needs to speak.
“Please dismount, brave knights. Return to your quarters. Wash the war away. Tonight we’ll celebrate you and our triumphant victory.”
Derek has since long come to terms with the fact that he won’t be remembered as a very inspirational or charming ruler, but his short words are met with a jubilant cry from the crowd yet again as the knights dismount their horses. His knight is embraced by strangers and Derek wishes he could join them. Instead he steps back into the shadows of the castle. No one notices how his hands are trembling.
The same servant that had gone to fetch him upon the knights’ return is the one to follow him back to his private quarters.
“I do not wish to be disturbed before getting dressed for the festivities,” Derek says. “Whatever may happen, it will have to wait.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty.”
The doors close behind him and he waits. The crowd in the courtyard has dissipated; he sees it through the window and there’s no sign of the knights or their horses. He waits until he can’t anymore. He has already waited a year. Twenty minutes or so shouldn’t be a major feat but it feels as such when he finally succumbs and grabs a lantern to light the way through the secret tunnel hidden behind the tapestry a few feet from his bed. His robes drag against the damp stone floor and he has to duck his head if he doesn’t want to hit it against the ceiling.
The chamber the tunnel leads him to is simpler, smaller and warmer than his own.The bed is one he’s well-acquainted with. Most days he prefers it to his own. He wouldn’t ever tell the owner of the bed as much. It would make him positively insufferable.
There’s a copper tub situated in the middle of the room, obviously brought in recently and filled with hot water. The dirty garments of a knight having been entrenched for far too long in battle are dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Previously mentioned knight, and coincidentally the owner of the bed, sits in the hot water, his head leaning back against the edge of the tub. He can’t see Derek, but nevertheless, he still speaks.
“Your Majesty,” he says and it’s enough for Derek to put down the lantern and stride across the room, finally allowing himself to fall to his knees next to the tub, next to the Knight’s head.
“Stiles,” he croaks while reaching for him and his voice is broken and weak, a far cry from the steadiness he had shown in front of his people in the courtyard.
Stiles’ face is thinner, the hollow darkness beneath his eyes deeper and his tousled hair sullies Derek’s fingers with dirt when he buries them in it. Derek can see scars on his naked body through the clear water, scars that weren’t there when he left. His smile is the same though, that glint of mischief, that teasing quirk of his lips that always drives Derek mad with affection, with anger, with lust and with love.
“You worried,” Stiles accuses him gently, a wet hand closing around Derek’s wrist.
“I did,” Derek confesses without shame.
“I told you I would come back to you,” Stiles reminds him. “I promised you.”
“You did,” Derek agrees and he feels the thickness in his throat before his sight is muddled by tears.
Stiles’ lips against his are a familiar comfort. They do nothing to stifle the tears this time, but they instantly soothe the heartache Derek has been carrying with him since the day Stiles left to fight in Derek’s name. Derek releases a shuddering breath when Stiles’ wet fingers cup his cheek, when his thumb drags across Derek’s tears.
“Don’t leave me again,” Derek begs quietly, brushing his nose against Stiles’.
It’s a ridiculous suggestion and they both know it. Stiles won’t have a choice when duty calls. Derek won’t have a choice. He will have to send him away yet again.
“Never, my king,” Stiles says anyway and seals the empty promise with another kiss.