Chapter Text
They said he was a benevolent ruler, just and fair. From his rulings on feuds and land to his light hair, he was sunshine, and no one saw it more than the dark-haired boy who stood beside him all day.
The six knights were required to shift around the throne room every hour, on the hour, and George counted each second until the rotation would bring him to the right of Dream’s throne. There, feet from the king, he could hear every word Dream said, each deliberation, hear his wheeze of a laugh when he was pleased, smell the pine scent that clung to him. Once, he had shouted at a commoner who slandered his sister, Princess Drista, banning him from royal audiences. The authority in his voice ran through George like the cold water of a mountain stream.
George had left home—what was left of it—at sixteen to train for the kingdom’s military. After two years of training, his captain noticed his exceptional observation skills, and exceedingly quick reaction time. The captain recommended him for service within the palace, and he swore into the guard, hand on the holy book.
“My life is yours, majesty.”
That was the promise he’d made.
After some months, George found himself an official knight of the guard, standing at attention during throne room audiences, and trailing the king wherever he went.
It was those assignments that messed with his head. The throne room wasn’t so bad—he could pretend he was counting down to the time until he would have to guard the most dangerous post—the one right next to the king. There were dozens of other people in the audiences, and never silence. It was the days he had to watch the king dine alone, having to tear his eyes off Dream’s throat as he drank wine in smooth swallows, having to escort him, distressed and hair adorably rumpled, from cabinet meetings to military briefings, and, worst of all, stand at attention during each ball and cotillion, when he had a lady on his arm.
Princesses, neighboring queens, even a duchess or two here and there. The king was gallant to all, the perfect host. Everyone knew he’d need to marry soon, and an alliance was being searched for more desperately than the fountain of youth. Ball after ball, the king’s advisors matched him up with maidens, each more elegant and intelligent than the last, all wearing jewel-toned gowns that whispered as they swept the ballroom floor. Princess Madrida had been the last, a redheaded girl in a velvet, emerald-colored gown who had made Dream laugh as they sat down to dine together. George still had the image frozen in his mind, Dream’s hand splayed over her back as he led her to the dance floor, smile enraptured.
No expression had passed over George’s face, but jealousy gnawed at his insides more furiously than any hunger.
~
Setting aside uncomfortable memories, George brought his attention back to the throne room, and realized was two hours from his favorite position. The chamber was a hexagon shape, with doors directly opposite the throne. At each of the six points of the hexagon stood the guardian knights, staves in hand, swords strapped to their backs, and faces impervious. The sunlight streamed in through the high stained glass windows, bouncing golden, purple, blue and green flecks over the polished floors and throne. Slowly, in twos and threes, the villagers began to enter the throne room, the line of supplicants curving to the side to make room for Dream’s approach.
George kept his eyes straight ahead, observing each person who entered his field of vision. Most wore the plain dark sackcloth of his youth, unornamented and practical for life in the farm of field. A few villagers carried baskets of fruits and vegetables, an offering for the king’s table. A few concerning quacks came from a covered bag carried by a portly gentleman, and George stifled a laugh.
The people filed further in, and those in his view changed. He recognized a boy and a girl from his hometown, come with a sack full of carrots and a distressing amount of papers with the royal seal. He was tall and tanned with outdoor work, and she up to his shoulder, honey-colored hair spilling down the back of her dress, moving like a curtain as she took a step closer to cling to him. Their mouths were turned down at the corners, and they lost themselves in anxious whispers. When George had left four years ago to train as a knight, they’d been the two shyly shooting glances across the schoolroom. Now, it appeared they were a honest couple, maybe even married, judging by the way their hands clasped between them. He watched as they interacted, her asking questions and him answering them low, his brow furrowing at the inquiries as if they troubled him. After a moment of silence, she picked up her skirts and did a little jig on tiptoe, laughing, as if she knew she’d upset him and just wanted to see him smile. Perfectly dependent on each other.
George swallowed. Joining the king’s guard had guaranteed he wouldn’t have that type of steady, devoted relationship for several years, most likely a decade. He wouldn’t ask anyone—man or woman—to sleep alone while he slept in barracks, to spend days and nights in solitude as he trained.
And he likely couldn’t ask a man at all.
He pulled his eyes away from his former classmates, heart deflating somewhat. Scanning the throne room, he noticed another knight, Sapnap, signaling that the king was on his way. He gave Sapnap a short nod, just as his eyes caught on two burly men, standing on the left side of the double doors. Their dark clothes weren’t unusual, but each wore short cloaks, the kind perfect for concealing knives or even small bows. Hoods were pulled up, casting shadows on the weathered faces. A shot of suspicion ran through him, cold as ice, but before he could approach them and ask their business, the trumpets signaled Dream’s arrival.
George’s heart began to pound double-time as he watched the king stride down the hall into the throne room. Dream’s ermine cloak flowed behind him, and underneath it he wore armor in the kingdom’s colors, gold accented in green. His strength and poise were evident in the swift way he walked, and he was smiling, too, extending his hands to welcome the supplicants as he approached the throne.
Gods, he was beautiful.
Darkness sliced George’s vision, cutting in front of the king. One of the cloaked men gave a shout, and pulled a dagger from the sheath at his hip. His compatriots covered him as he raised it over Dream, and George heard, rather than felt, the strangled cry that erupted from his own throat.
“No!”
The panic that bloomed over Dream’s face was the last thing George saw as he threw himself, lithe and wiry, in front of the king. The man’s dagger was still high enough that it startled his aim off the initial target, and the knife fell more slowly, slicing George across the face.
George jumped to his feet, letting the blood rush down his cheek and into his mouth. As his hands reached for the sword on his back, the second cloaked man stepped forward, and quick as a lighting strike, socked George one-two-one in the face. George reeled backward from the blow, vessels bursting and gushing more blood from the knife split.
The other five guards converged in a pincher movement, drawing swords, on the two men, trapping them. The guards that had escorted the king in drew around him just as quickly, moving him with haste toward the exit. Dream’s face, still panicked, trained on George as he was dragged out. Bright eyes locked on his own, and the spark that had blazed inside George for months caught fire, and burned.
Someone shouted for more soldiers, and the reinforcements poured in, surrounding the villagers and herding them outside.
George’s vision started to swim, the throne room going hazy as he dropped to his knees. Sapnap yelled for additional men, and then stepped behind George, hauling him up under his arms.
“You’re fine, solider. Just bloody.”
It was the last thing George heard before the world went black.
~
He awoke to a pounding headache, exacerbated by the setting sun framed in the tiny, paper-covered window. He was back in the barracks, Sapnap standing next to him, pulling clothes out of the chest they shared. There was a pinching tightness from his left cheek to his chin, and as his fingers ran over it, he identified it as stitches.
A scar, most likely. A big one.
“Hey,” Sapnap greeted, shaking out a coat. “How’s your head?”
“Heavy,” George sat up on his elbows. “They sewed me up?”
Sapnap nodded. “While you were out.”
George blinked, then swung his legs out of the bunk, crossing over to the shaving mirror that hung on a tack. His right eye was purple and puffy, sensitive to the touch. Yes, there was the cut, running from his cheekbone, over bruised lips, down to his chin, neat black stitches drawing the skin back together.
“It’ll look badass when it heals.” Sapnap came up behind him, thrusting a pile of clothes into his arms. “For now, the king wants to see you.”
“The king?” George’s voice was an uncomfortable squeak as his fingers closed over the fabric.
“You saved his life.”
~
Twenty minutes later, George was dressed in bloodless clothing and standing outside the doors that led into Dream’s chambers. His hands were clammy and his breathing shallow. He knocked, and focused on the doors, the paneling and inlay. How well he knew them, too, he’d spent hours at attention outside. He’d memorized the layout, as required by any legitimate soldier. The common area was first, with long tables and a fireplace, where the king could debate with officers or host friends. Next was his personal office, littered with papers and wax seals. Dream only ever emerged from there with ink-stained hands, a noticeable black splotch on his middle finger. He must hold the pen oddly, to create that dark stain.
Beyond the office were private chambers, a sitting room and, George swallowed, a bedroom.
Before he could think for an instant longer, the king himself opened one of the high dark oak doors.
“George?”
“You know my name,” George breathed. “Your majesty.”
Dream laughed, trailing off into a hint of his wheeze. “Yes, George. Follow me.”
He led them through the common room, beyond the office, and into the smaller sitting rooms, before settling into a large chair.
Cloakless, his shoulders didn’t look so broad, but his height was more apparent. He’d changed since the attack, now wearing a black version of the knight’s own uniform. Of course, his boots were tipped in gold, not silver, and he wore the smallest of circlet crowns on his head, regal even as he was relaxing.
The king spoke without warning. “Do you know how difficult this was for me, George?” he asked, softly.
George was flummoxed. “Assassination attempts, majesty, are…trying for any ruler?”
“No. It was difficult for me to clear out these room after I was just attacked. I only got them to agree to it when I argued that you had just saved my life. Done it once, you can do it again.” His crooked, sarcastic grin was perfect. George was melting from the inside out, limbs going shaky.
“But you’re in trouble, George.” Dream continued, rising and starting to pace.
“Trouble?” He echoed.
“Yes, big trouble.” Dream turned those blazing eyes on George, the last thing he’d seen before he’d passed out.
“I know your secret, solider. Don’t think I haven’t felt your glances, the way your eyes lingered a little too long every time you moved from my left hand to my right. You’ve been ogling me from the day you were assigned, checking me out when you have to trail behind. Your eyes are the first on my face when I call everyone to attention, and the last to leave it. More often than not, they trail off on my lips, linger on my hands. Frankly, I brought you in here to do something about it. ”
George felt his stomach sink, his head swimming. “Do something about it? Yes, sir. Court-martial, dismissal, I deserve— ”
“You idiot.” Dream whirled on him, stepping so intimidatingly close George’s breath caught. “I cleared everybody out so I could do something about it.”
He closed the space between them, kissing George with such bruising force he gasped, whimpering as his bruised lip protested. George pulled back, and Dream’s face dropped.
“Heavenly gods. I’m so sorry. I got carried away and I forgot…I forgot that you’re hurt.”
His voice sounded as if it was underwater, miles away. George closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He smelled pine, and warmth, and right.
“Do it again.”
“What?”
“Do it again, your majesty.” George’s voice was low, teasing. “Gently. I’ve watched you for months, I know you can be gentle.”
Dream’s eyes widened, and he drew closer again.
“My mother,” he breathed, lips centimeters from George’s, “when I was hurt, she would kiss it better. Do you want— ”
“Yes, Dream.”
The defiant use of the king’s name resulted in soft lips, featherlight, kissing the top of George’s cut, his cheekbone. He inhaled, closing his eyes, as Dream’s lips moved down to his lips, ghosting over his mouth before touching on his chin. His gasp encouraged the king, and Dream moved his mouth further down, past jawline to George’s throat, a spot left undamaged by the attack. Openmouthed kisses coasted up and down his throat, collarbone, shoulders, as Dream softly sucked into George’s skin. When he broke off for breath, George touched Dream’s chin with the tips of his fingers, drawing their mouths back together. George kissed him reverently, with devotion, dedication. Dream’s kisses were as clever as anything, pressing silent longing into George’s mouth, forced by the bruising to be slow, to savor.
“Stay here,” Dream breathed, punctuating the words with kisses on George’s forehead, temples. “Stay here, tonight, in my arms.”
“My life is yours, majesty.”