Chapter Text
Scar couldn't see.
It was not by the work of a nasty blindness potion, or a grave injury. No, it was by the hand of his lord, his King, Cub.
He had been refusing to let him see since they'd left the battlefield. It had been a brutal fight. Many of his friends, allies, had turned to clouds of dust, their dented helmets and blood stained leather boots being their only remains. He had watched men he'd consider close enough to be his own family take arrows to the heart, and he'd cradled them as they'd fallen to their knees, spurting blood and apologies from their dehydrated, cracked lips.
His King had not let him see anymore of it.
Not until now, when his calloused fingertips were more occupied with brushing his hair back from his clammy forehead than they were obscuring his view. The first face Scar recognised was, of course, his King's, but they were not the only ones travelling down this crooked, cold corridor. The king swivelled back in such a way his fingers brushed against the damp cobblestone, its ridges and bumps a subtle comfort that this was reality and not another one of his daydreams. The rose-tinted scenarios his weary mind provided when he was aching and tired, standing idle at his station as his mind travelled to sweeter places, lives where his King rushed to his aid and loved him the way he yearned for.
This wasn't quite like those dreams. The king barked orders at his adversaries and the doctors who'd followed in tow, specks of spit flung in the gap between their faces as they argued where it'd be best to hold Scar while he was ill. Apparently, the king thought it best to keep Scar in his private chambers, as it would ensure his safety. The king claimed that, in the event that someone should seek Scar out, it would be the least obvious place to look.
Grian, his general advisor, had an array of complaints. Scar couldn't tell if they were valid or not. His ear was squished against his king's chest, his stuttering heartbeat louder than any of the shouts exchanged between two sharp mouths. Grian had always been cunning and sly, so it was a change to see him so taken aback, his jaw slack as he stumbled backwards against the wall. The king had pushed him. The king never pushed anyone.
"This is outrageous. Don't you know what people will think?" Scar winced. Grian's tone of voice was sharp. It cut through the silence that settled after the king's outburst, dragging all attention back to the only winged man in the room. "You can't risk your reputation for some knight. We have plenty of perfectly equipped to deal with his injuries, it's an insult to their practice to—"
"I did not ask for second opinions on this." Scar looked up. His King's face was frozen in anger. He was more similar to a statue than he was a living, breathing person in that moment, his fingers tensing. His ring finger dug into the deep wound on his side, and Scar was reminded of his injuries. They hadn't bothered him until now- in all honesty he'd forgotten- but when his muffled cry met the king's shoulder, the entire hallway fell silent.
"I'm taking him."
"You mustn't."
"Which one of us is a king, Grian? Is it you, or me?"
Grian did not answer. His eyes met Scar's, who made his best effort to smile. It hurt. He wasn't sure why- he must have more injuries than he first thought. The king waited a few moments more before he readjusted his grip, his fingers firm against the underside of Scar's knee. He didn't know how to feel about being cradled by his king as if he were delicate. As if he were more important than just 'some knight.' Scar pursed his lips, turning his head slowly until his own hair tickled his cheek. He watched over his king's shoulder as their entourage got smaller, and smaller, their expressions of shock blurring into vague shapes.
Eventually, Scar couldn't decipher who was who. He grunted, tilting his head back until the sheer light of chandeliers overhead made his eyes sting. Cub caught him by the back of the neck and held the weight of his head in his hand. He cradled him as if he were a restless infant, his mutters making no sense to Scar's ears. It sounded just as the dripping from the rafters did, or the soft pittering of rain against the stained windows. Or the rush of wind that snuck under each doorframe they passed. Background noise. A dull, indecipherable fuzz.
"Why are you doing this?" Scar asked, after several beats of silent. His King seemed shocked he was able to speak coherently, glanced down at him like he had five heads, then shook his own, singular head in disapproval. He didn't answer, so he nudged him, butting his head against the plush cloak he wore. It must not have hit the king's own body through all those layers, because he completely ignored him.
"My lord?" Scar prompted again as his weight was leaned to one side, his entire body cupped in one of the king's large arms as he reached for a doorknob. His hand slipped off it at first, too slick with sweat to stick, and the king let out an irritated huff. He wiped his hand off his robes, propelling the door open with the weight of his entire right side as he knocked his shoulder against it. It screeched on its hinges and hit the wall beside it with a heavy thud, but the king did not react. His face stayed as still as a statue, and despite Scar's hum of concern, he was yet to regard him at all.
He was set down on a folded, patterned blanket at the foot of the bed, with all the care one would afford when handling broken glass. The mattress sunk underneath him, a level of luxury afforded only to the richest of royals. Scar was the self assured type, with bucketfuls of confidence to spare, but he had to admit that, in this place, he felt awfully out of place.
"I'm so sorry."
"What?"
"I let you get hurt," the king's voice cracked miserably. Scar tilted his head at the sound. "I shouldn't have played you in charge of the front lines. It was a mistake."
"It's my job to lead, m'lord," he whispered in return, audible confusion in the lilt of his words, "I don't understand what you mean."
"I could've lost you." The king's eyes met his own, and for a moment they were not king and knight. They were Cub, and Scar, connected by little more than a spark and a hand upon a thigh. The moment ended before it could begin, and the king looked away. Scar swallowed, and turned his head as shaking hands reached for the clasps on his armour.
"I still don't understand." Scar didn't. It didn't make sense. He was only a knight, a loyal soldier– sure, he had enough charisma to be the king's jester, he'd certainly found more than one of his jokes amusing– but that was all. He stayed by the king's side and kept him safe. That was his duty. And if he'd grown fond of him in ways the men around him did not understand, that was for him to know, and for nobody to figure out.
The king gritted his teeth as he pulled Scar's chestplate from him, his silk gloves spoiled by the blood that blossomed upon his waist. He was ready to apologise for it, but he was shushed before he opened his mouth. The king knew him too well. His weaknesses, his vulnerabilities were all for his lord to know, and he had no issue with that. If his secrets were safe with anyone, they were safe with his King.
He hissed as his shirt was lifted above his head, his numb arms buzzing from fingertip to shoulder as Cub held them up. "You're cut." The king mumbled, tracing his fingertips along the outlines of his wound. It was a deep, sword-inflicted gash, but it hadn't reached bone. Scar had been lucky, and he knew that. He'd taken a large risk when he dived in front of his King. It was him, or Cub– the right choice was obvious.
"I'm aware." He quipped, his humour flat. He hadn't the energy to joke, and something about the king's expression told him he shouldn't. It was the most serious scowl he'd ever seen on his face, solemn and worried in a way he'd never been about war plans, or stressful meetings, or important ballroom dances to upkeep his reputation. It was deeper than royal duties. It seemed that, for whatever reason, his King cared more than his frown let on.
"You could've died."
"I'm aware of that too."
"I'll heal you," his King said, tearing his vest right from his torso, "You'll die."
"You don't have to- wait. What?" Scar felt more awake than he had all day. Not even the thrill of battle had him this sober- his eyes as wide as saucers as he gripped onto the king's wrist. He was shaken off, but he gripped him again, this time by his face. Cub jolted, but he didn't pull away. Neither of them had noticed when they'd gotten so close, but neither made an effort to change it.
"You can heal?" Scar whispered, his voice soft, genuine. Barely a hum. His King heard him, but he didn't respond. He squeezed his cheek between index and thumb, pulled, and revelled in the deflating sound that passed through Cub's lips. He was stubborn, but he wouldn't stay that way. He always opened up after a bit of prodding, an art Scar had perfected, so all it took was one firm flick to the nose for him to begrudgingly nod his head.
"Yes," he grumbled, removing Scar's hand from his face as he leant away to pick at a basket of medical supplies. He took a roll of bandages and set them by Scar's hip, and he picked them up, idly toying with the loose end as Cub further inspected his wound. "You're not to tell anyone."
"I would never. But…" Scar trailed off. Watched his king raise his head, eyes full of worry. Of a fear that he'd be betrayed. Healing was not a natural ability. It was not deemed natural by the people. It was a reason to hunt one down, to put one's head on a stick– to set them alight in the centre of a festival. It was seen as a hellish ability, cursed. And Scar could not ask his King to risk his own life to help him.
"Do not," he started, his voice shaky. There was a tremor in his hands as he gripped the king's wrist. There was resistance, Cub still pushed forward, his fingers outspread over his wound, but Scar would not let him touch it. Even when he could feel a comforting warmth emanating from his skin, he refused. He was only a knight. "Don't do this. They'll have your head for it."
"I don't care." The king's forehead was damp with sweat. His eyes were piercing and inky black without any sun to light them, but Scar didn't let that scare him. He held his arm tight, lifting it up by the king's own head. "I don't care."
"You should! You're a king. The people need you!"
"And I need you! Is that really that difficult to comprehend?"
Scar heard the king's breath hitch in his throat, and for a moment, there was no struggle. He didn't understand what he meant. Not until Cub's hand had slithered from his grip, his fingers intertwined with his own, holding so fondly it was as if Scar was his long lost partner and not just his knight. Something clicked.
"And I thought your being a witch was the most illegal thing about you."
"Scar, do not joke like that."
"Is it not humorous to you, my lord?"
"Not in the slightest."
Cub was laughing. So was he. Their laughter mingled together, completing each other's as if they were two halves of an extremely simple puzzle. He couldn't help but laugh more as Cub put a hand over his mouth to muffle himself. He may have been a king, but that did not save him from being a fool. Scar let his head rest on his shoulder as those warm fingertips finally settled over his gash, magic crackling like a fire as he was healed. It didn't take effect immediately, but Cub's whispered comfort alone was enough to ease his pain.
"You shouldn't be doing this," he sighed, "You shouldn't." and he sighed again, with less commitment. His tired eyes then flitted over to look at his King. Taking in his face, his focus. How his stubble scratched him each time his head moved, and how locks of greyed hair were near enough to poke him in the eye. It didn't bother him. It would, if it were any other man on this planet, but he'd put up with anything for his King.
Scar exhaled. "It's not worth it, my lord. What if we're caught? What will become of you?"
"There's nothing worth more to me in this life than you. Whatever they have to say, I'll ignore it. Nothing will bother me as long as I know you'll be with me."
"I had no idea-" He paused to laugh, "I had no idea I was that good at my job."
"I have never wanted to slap someone so badly as I do right now. You're lucky you're already injured." Cub's huff afterward was the only clue Scar got that he was joking.
His tone was difficult to pick up on, sometimes, but he'd grown to understand his cues the longer he spent time in his company. What Cub didn't express through his words, he expressed through gestures. The slight tilt of his head whenever he was asking a question. The way the left corner of his mouth quirked up whenever he tried not to laugh. The crease that appeared between his eyebrows whenever he was focused. Little things. Little things that, when woven together, made Cub.
"It's done," Cub mumbled, lifting his palm off of Scar's ribs. A slight glow rested there afterwards, crackling much softer now that the king's hand no longer compacted the magic there. Scar didn't understand magic in its entirety, but he had an inkling of how it worked. He'd read of it quite a lot as a child, before each book on the topic was removed from the libraries. It was strange to think that he'd been alive when magic was outlawed, especially when it felt like it'd been the case forever.
Before he got too distracted, he laughed, dragging Cub's attention to his face rather than his injury as he snorted into the side of his hand. "Our fate has been sealed," he giggled between words, "It's me and you forever now."
"Why must you be so dramatic?" The king sighed, dragging his hand down his face as he took the roll of bandages from Scar's fidgeting hands. He let him, but not without brushing his fingers across the backs of his hands. To his surprise, Cub visibly blushed before he turned away. Coughed. Turned back.
"Lift your arms up." he said, unrolling the bandage and snapping a section off with his teeth. Scar did as he was told, but not without an air of smugness, taking their closeness as an opportunity to lay his head into the crook of his King's neck. Again, he heard his breath hitch. He was beginning to think it was his doing- that sound.
Cub silently wrapped his torso, making sure each individual line was neat, and more importantly, tight, before he continued onto the next. He did it with the same precision he did everything– his King was nothing if not a perfectionist. Scar admired him for it. He never left a task half-done. It was why their army was one of the most powerful and feared in the nation. How were they to know they'd bring in an army from another nation just to face them? Frankly, Scar considered it cheating.
"There." Cub said, awkwardly patting his side. "Keep that on for a couple weeks and your wound should be protected."
"My lord?" Scar hummed. Cub was tilting his head again. Like he did when he wanted to ask a— He didn't receive an answer. No, what he received was quite different. A kiss. Not to the lips, but to his forehead. And suddenly he was in his King's arms, cradled and held so tight he couldn't move. That was fine. He didn't want to.
"Never scare me like that again." He heard a hoarse whisper in his ear, so quiet that if the walls had ears they wouldn't have heard it. Cub repeated himself. "Please never scare me like that again."
"I won't."
"Swear it."
"I swear it."
"Now promise."
Scar was a brave man. He always had been. His courage was what placed him as the head of the royal army to begin with, but when faced with a promise of that much importance his confidence drained from him. Slowly, he nodded, and raised a shaky hand to cup his king's face. He rubbed his thumb along his stubble, felt him in a way he'd never been allowed to, and tipped his head forward until their foreheads were together.
"I promise."
"You promise." Cub whispered. He didn't seem to believe it yet, so Scar said it again.
"I promise." He pressed a kiss to the crease between his king's eyebrows.
"I promise." He kissed the left side of his mouth, where his lips curled up.
"I promise." He let their lips brush together. Not a kiss, not firm enough to count. It was permission for Cub to make it one, if he wanted.
The king, gentle as ever, accepted his promises by pressing their lips together. Properly, his hands beside each of Scar's cheeks.
It felt unsure. Scar was unsure, too. Not of his promises, but of his actions. He had never kissed a man before. He had never given into his desires, his desire to hold the king, kiss him, keep him near. Yet here he was– with the king moving first. It still felt like a dream. The stinging pain in his side was a blessing now. Proof. Proof that he was loved, and could love without consequence.
Cub held him there for hours more. They said nothing, and did not move. They didn't need to. Scar held his King as he drifted into an uneasy slumber in the early hours of the evening, and was awake to greet him when he rose in the middle of the night. He did not speak as he was removed of his remaining armour and ushered under the covers. No words were necessary as they reunited upon the pillows.
There would be talk of the king and his knight in the morning, of the knight's weakness and his King's irrational behaviour, but in that moment, they were at peace— in that moment, the world was nothing but the two of them. No knights, no kings, no castle. Just Scar, and Cub.