Archive of Our Own

The King laughs. Somewhere at the back of his hunting party he hears a sigh, but he can’t even feel angry at this insubordination amongst all the adrenaline that overwhelms him.

They’ve been chasing the white hart for weeks now, irritating the country court with his constant demands that they rise earlier than they have business doing. More than one horse has had to be retired thanks to the King’s obsession.

No one else quite understands what drives him to act this way about the creature, his creature, as Peter thinks of it privately.

King Peter’s close friend and advisor, Count Joseph, thinks that the hart is stupid. It waits in the same place every morning, the little stream that even makes it visible from the King’s window, and never once considers the association between this patch of stream and the baying of hounds and horns that come immediately after. 


But the King, perhaps praised too much as he was growing up, believes himself a better judge of the intelligence of God’s creatures. And Peter thinks that the hart is very, very clever. It’s playing with them, luring them into the chase day after day, and dancing nimbly away just when they seem to be upon it.

Sometimes, he thinks he dreams of it - hears it laughing. It’s an odd thing, to hear the laugh of such a beast, but perhaps not a bad thing.


One of the monks Peter keeps to advice him on spiritual matters says that the hart is good luck. The fact that it visits Peter continuously means he is looked upon favourably by God, or something.

Except, this monk says he shouldn’t kill it, for that would be incredibly disrespectful to whoever blessed them with the sign of prosperity and good fortune, et cetera, et cetera, and probably throw them into terrible bad luck for generations.

But the King needs to beat it, needs to win their merciless dancing game, and have that beautiful, broken creature bow to him, and that beautiful, golden pelt for his newest robe.

Joseph tells him these thoughts are odd, but only because he's secretly rather soft besides: He dislikes violence against animals and fancies muzzling it and giving it to his daughter as a plaything. 


Peter thinks he sees its eyes sparkle as it leaps a fallen log, graceful as his own horse stumbles. After that, it’s gone, out of sight once again.

Peter is pulled to it like nothing else, attracted to its odd aura and mystery like a magnet. For all his determination, he thinks at this moment that he would miss it if he killed it.


***


There is a knock on the door of the King’s chambers. With his kingdom in a state more peaceful and prosperous than it has been in centuries means that the pressures for a politically advantageous marriage to be made aren’t felt by the young king. It also means that no one enter his chambers in the middle of the night.

He really does try not to be a spoiled brat, but can’t help huffing as he yanks the door open and before he knows it, his hand is on his hip and he has his Angry King face on. His mother would be so upset.
 "What?”


He might’ve expected an advisor with emergency news, a priest with some kind of auspicious ritual that must be performed immediately to save Pete from eternal ruination.
He doesn’t expect a stranger. A short stranger, with odd red-blonde-brown hair, odd silken white clothes and oddly pale skin.


“Who in god’s name are you?” Peter asks angrily, staring down at the stranger. The man is beautiful, and it’s odd that Peter hasn’t seen him before; he makes an effort to collect as many beautiful people at court as he can possibly carry.

“I think you already know me,” the man replies in lilting tones, and Peter does. He’s not sure how - maybe this man, boy really, knew him as a child. “May I come in?”


Peter shrugs and steps aside. If Joseph was here now, Pete would be in trouble, but he isn’t and Pete is positively enraptured with the not-so-stranger.

“What is it that you- ahem- desired of my company at this hour?” Peter tries to remain formal but he has the increasing urge to fall into the man’s arms.

His eyes sparkle, frustratingly familiar. 
“A warning, I suppose. Not that I have any business telling a man like you what to do but,” his eyes soften, “Please, my Lord, cease your hunting of the white hart. It’s not-” The man growls at himself, and swallows. Peter knows he is going to lie. “Killing hi- it will be very unlucky, and cause a lot of… plague. Of… poisonous… cats. I’m sent from above to warn you.”

Peter smiles indulgently. “Poisonous cats? Why, what a terrible fate you have so helpfuly avoided for me." He pauses, debating his next words.

"I don’t think anyone has heard this since my childhood, but I beg of you, call me Pete.” He doesn’t call the man out on his lie. God knows Pete lies enough himself, and people have their reasons. “I will consider your advice. I’d like to think that I have a little guardian angel sugh as yourself. What’s your name?”

The man swallows again. He seems genuinely uneasy now, enough that Pete feels sorry for him. “Patrick.”


Pete grimaces. “Ugh, the Irish. Never liked them, too many faeries and their ale is odd. You’ll have to be an exception, I suppose.”

Patrick grits his teeth. “I’m not Irish, I’m from above.” His voice is unaccented, but Pete thinks if he strains he can hear a little Irish tilt to it.

He accents above in such a way that he couldn’t possibly be from there and still refer to it with such reverence. It is a fact, in Pete’s opinion, that people dislike their constant surroundings.

“So you seem determined for me to know. Faerie, perhaps, with that skin and, those eyes. You’re... something, Patrick. We don’t see people like you so much at court. You should consider-”

Patrick turns to the window and squeaks in a very not-from-above way. “Oh, goodness, I should really be going. Pleasure meeting you, your m- Pete. Th-the heavens will, um, look kindly upon you.”

There are constantly guards swarming the whole palace, and so Pete wonders as the man turns tail and flees how he will escape - but if he got in he must be able to get out again.

Pete hears a clicking like hooves echo through the stone halls and then stop abruptly like he’s disappeared into thin air.

***

Pete is a good person, he's sure. The well-fed, well treated peasant masses could vouch for this. But he isn't always all too kind, nor honourable; this is probably the reason why he still orders the whole household to be roused little after sunset the next day.

Also, his is partially convinced that the bizarre meeting with Patrick was a dream.

"Have them get the horses ready," Pete tells a footman, not sure it's the poor man's office but suffering now from never paying attention to a word his father said: he still isn't too sure what a footman even does besides stand in the hallway and make sure guests know he's rich, "but leave the hounds."

He takes careful pains to explain to the assembled hunting party that the hart is not to be killed under any circumstances; he's received information that this could be very unlucky. At his right, Joe points out that Pete himself has viciously, and on a number of occasions, condemned the obsequious fools who subscribe to superstition. Pete ignores him.

"So, what are we supposed to do with it, my Lord?" a squire pipes up helpfully.

"I suppose capture it, and I shall keep it in the stables with the horses as a trophy." He thinks of Patrick's pleading face and adds with a grunt, "Try not to hurt it either."

Then someone blows the hunting horn loudly enough that Pete cringes, and they head at a gallop for the hart's favoured drinking spot. When it hears the pounding of hooves, it looks up with its ears flat. When they come close enough to see, Pete thinks the expression on its face looks hurt, like it knows about Patrick's visit and is sad that his trust has been broken.

"Hey," Pete yells, caught in the moment, "Don't run! We didn't bring the dogs, we don't want to hurt you."
A few eyebrows are raised and there's a titter; Joseph just shrugs.
"Please, don't-" the hart turns tail and runs before they can get anywhere near it, and it's gone so fast there's no point even trying to catch up to it.

***

"Don't you think," Joseph says carefully, "you're kind of overreacting? It's just a deer, my Lord. There will be more. You can always get a regular one and get a clothworker to dye its coat?"

In lieu of a reply, Pete yells a strangled sort of argh and continues pacing. "It's not the colour. I want this one! It's mine," the King growls, turning on his heel to face his friend. There's a shrugging silence, which no-one but Joe would dare face the King with, and Pete makes a noise of frustration.

"Fine. Fine! Tell the court they can have their beds for as long as they wish tomorrow - send word to the stables not to ready the hunt," Pete orders, looking beaten.

His friend looks affronted. "You know, I'm not actually a servant. I really thought my new outfit was rather splendid. I need my pipe if I'm to deal with you so early - all due respect, sire. Not that much respect is due..."

***

Peter has a plan. He actually has various ones, especially the private fantasy he entertains of invading France someday, but he has a specific one that keeps him awake and jittering into the night. So taken is his mind that he forgets to even entertain the possibility of another visit from his little faery, the sweet-faced one with angelic aspirations.

This time, he doesn't even knock, just barges in. He looks angry.
"You," he growls.

"Me," Peter agrees amicably. "What of it, little angel?"
The man - if that's what he is - goes even redder with every word Pete speaks. It shows up beautifully on his pale skin; the King would quite like to keep him.

"What of it? What of- ugh. Ugh. Foolish, I knew it, silly mortal kings, care about nothing but their trophies and their honour..." He breaks off into angry muttering at himself. At this moment, he seems somewhat less than angelic, like a cute, chubby little goblin of some kind.

"Oh, this is about the hart? I didn't bring the dogs - like you said. I promise not to harm it."

"That's not what I said," Patrick bursts out, "I said stop hunting it! You're not... you don't understand what I- it's, never mind, I assume your intelligence is far too lacking, considering you can't take simple instructions."

"But," Pete splutters, "why send it if I'm not to go near it? Why make me so-- it's to be mine. I can feel it, little angel, it was made for me. I'm sure heaven sent it for me to show my kingly strength and whatnot."

Patrick squeaks angrily and stomps his foot, and it clicks loudly through the hallways.

"It's a message! It's always killing with you people, you've always got to catch it and own it, mine mine mine. Maybe you should- maybe it's- I'm- the hart is here to... for you, because it has to be. It's a gentle, sweet tempered creature - mostly - and your treatment of the poor thing when it's done no wrong shows no kingly virtue that I can see. And stop calling me little. Please, I'm- heaven is putting its trust in you; don't show yourself to be as base as you seem."

Pete nods - he doesn't think he understands at all, but he wants desperately to placate the tiny, angry angel/faery/liar/man in his chambers. Anyway, it doesn't exactly contradict his plan, he thinks.
"You know, I'd be more inclined to believe you if you weren't just the funny little creature who keeps getting into my chambers and won't tell me who he is."

He's starting to enjoy getting Patrick angry. He flushes livid red and huffs with another stamp of his foot. "I told you! Anyway, it's late... early. I should go."
A flash of sunlight cuts suddenly through the window even though he could've sworn it was barely dawn just minutes ago, and when Pete looks back from the window to Patrick, he notices something. It definitely wasn't there before.

Unaware, Patrick rolls his eyes. His gaze flickers anxiously to the window. "Listen, just don't chase the damned hart, and we'll get along perfectly. I really have to return, now..."

He turns around and is already halfway down the stone hallway by the time Pete blinks. "Nice antlers," he calls. Patrick stops, and brings a hand to the pair of antlers rising a good few inches above his head, and pulls it away with an expression of horror.

Pete, having been raised as he was with storybooks and wild fairytales at every turn, with villagers constantly at his door to complain of crimes committed against them by the fae, isn't all too shocked. He knew Patrick was neither an angel nor a man, which left little other option. Besides, the spindly branches sprouting from his head suit him well. Make him look taller.

He grimaces. "Ugh, now? Listen, I wasn't supposed to tell you, but obviously I'm not an angel," he sighs. "I'm faery, but my people are still incredibly powerful, I'll warn you. The hart is their creature and they hold it in impossibly high value. They sent it here because it wants to be, but I- it's truly not far from changing its mind. I really must go, though," he adds, and goes.

***

Not wanting to throw his whole country into uproar, Pete leaves a note when he disappears. It isn't very kingly - it says 'king things - back soon' on it.

He considers taking a horse, but even that might startle the creature or go against Patrick's wishes, so when - to his delight - he sees the creature grazing even closer to the palace than usual, he slips out on foot. It almost seems to be glancing up at his window, waiting. Joe be damned, it's a remarkable beast.

He sprints with barely contained excitement, until he's close enough to see its ears prick up at his approach. At that point, he holds his hands out non-threateningly, and coos; "You're a very handsome creature, huh? A faery creature, so I'm told - I can only hope this means you understand me. I've taken some advice, and come to the conclusion that I should... leave you alone. But I'm drawn to you, you know? You must feel the same, or you'd be grazing somewhere with less persistent kings."

The creature blinks at him, dirty green eyes framed by long curly lashes. Peter can tell it is listening, and when he's sure he has its attention he sinks to his knees in the grass. He's wearing sleeping clothes, not finery, but he still cringes at the dampness and the impending green stains.

He gazes steadily at his hart for a heavy moment. To his amazement, it drops down on one knee and then the other, until its feet are curled underneath itself and it lies with its eyes fixed on Pete. He fancies he knows its thoughts, gleans from the look in its eye, annoyance - from its awkward posture, it is irritated at its own inability to mimic Pete's gesture.

Awestruck, Pete laughs softly. "I understand the intention. We both kneel." He nods his head seriously, and then- he almost squeals. The animal puffs out a reluctant breath and carefully lowers its head into Pete's upturned hand, hovering above his knee. He brings the other hand to support its weight and is silent with amazement.

"I think you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. Besides one other, perhaps. Your trust of me I am truly grateful for. And I'm sorry for our... misunderstandings earlier."

The hart just closes its pretty eyes, greener when they're in the sun, and sighs heavily against Pete's hand. Daringly, Pete brings one hand to stroke down its muzzle; it lets him, leaning into the touch.

Feeling even more confident, he leans forward and brushes his own cheek across the animal's - it presses its wet nose to his neck and huffs out contentedly against his skin. Pete's life feels decidedly unreal.

"So, I'm meant to leave you alone, but... you don't want me to, do you?" In response the hart lows softly and pushes its head closer to Pete. He's amazed to realise that he can feel its eyelids flutter against his jaw.

"I'll admit I don't quite understand why a wild thing such as yourself would chose to behave this way towards me, but I'm-" he pauses to gingerly scratch between its ear. It makes a higher pitched snickering sound and leans gratefully into the touch. "My, you're a handsome creature," Pete murmurs. It - he, for Pete supposes the hart is much too sentient to be referred to as an it - has surprisingly soft fur, and up close it's less snow white than pale honey gold.

The sun is high in the sky by the time the King and his hart stir again. He isn't sure how long they've stayed like that, until he isn't sure who is the King and who is the beast.

By now, the whole household will be up and probably swathes of noblemen and peasants alike are waiting for a royal audience. Pete sighs. This is where he could use a queen or a child, but having none he stumbles unsteadily to his feet.

The hart makes an upset noise and leaps to his own feet, a clumsy manoeuvre for such a lovely being, but it's sort of endearing. He's wide-eyed at the disruption and his ears are pricked with unsettlement; Pete turns to him and puts a steadying hand in front of his nose. He butts his face into the touch and looks expectantly at Peter, who bows his head in apology.

"I really have to be going. It was... I'll return tomorrow, all right?"
The hart doesn't reply - of course - but he has a silent language of his own, and nudges his head into Pete's shoulder. Pete laughs through a faceful of antlers and shoves him away. "Hey now, I have to!"

He whines softly, not unlike a hound who hasn't been allowed to finish off a fox he's spotted - or a hart. Pete tries not to think about that. Still smiling, he turns his back and heads back across the green. After a few paces, he feels a head butt against his back and turns around.

"Are you following me?"
The creature is standing upright and looking very innocent, but he wasn't that close before.

Experimentally, Pete takes a few steps away. He feels the jab of antlers against his back and turns immediately. The hart guiltily ducks his head, and Pete takes his fist and scrubs the curly hair on the animal's forehead, like his father would do it him when he got into mischief. His newfound friend - equestrian? bovine? Pete can't remember where deer fit in - huffs out a soft breath into Pete's shoulder, do you have to go?

But he gives up at Peter's laughing sigh, neatly folds his legs under himself, and sinks to the ground. Pete watches the origami of limbs with awe, how neatly the animal manages all his gangly legs and still looks graceful.

The hart sighs defeatedly, but Pete still walks backward until he's completely out of sight.

***

Patrick is back. Pete doesn't find it at all surprising, but more amusing that Patrick seems to be graduating levels of informality ten a night, appearing at the foot of Pete's bed without knocking.
Pete isn't asleep, but he's been resting and has to struggle to sitting when he hears a cough.

Patrick is smiling, pink-cheeked and pretty. He doesn't look as awful as he rightfully should considering that it's the middle of the night, and he's wearing the same plain white robes.

"I guess I didn't do anything wrong this time," Pete deduces. "So why are you here, if not to chastise me?"

Patrick shrugs. "It's not as if I have somewhere else to be. Aside from your blatant disregard of everything I say, I enjoy your company. I don't have to sleep so much, but the rest of the world does and it gets a little lonely..." He looks sad when he says the word lonely: maybe the night isn't the only time he feels his solitude.

Saddened, Pete changes the subject before it can get too heavy for his late night brain. "So the horns? Did my imagination conjure those or did you?"

"I," Patrick pinches his nose in thought, "I can... disguise myself, I suppose you'd say, being a faery creature. Less well when I'm angry or upset, or joyful I suppose, although- it doesn't- How have you been?"

"I made a new friend, as you're probably aware." For some reason, this makes Patrick's grin so wide it splits his face. Presumably he just loves having his authority respected. "Well, two," he adds, to Patrick's further delight. "What of yourself, aside from the ridding of an insolent fool?"

Patrick shrugs. "There's little I can tell you that you wouldn't know. Tell me about yourself?"

"My life is boring," Pete protests. "I already know everything about it. Come on, I want to hear the things that would interest me. What's in like where you're from? All I have are wild storybook tales; I want the truth! Is it really all that different?"

Patrick looks confused, opens his mouth to speak, and closes it again. "I- oh, you mean Faery. Much the same as here, I suppose, but more partying and an uglier king." He grins. "And fewer odd customs, like your one where two of the same gender cannot be united. Odder looking people - myself included, I suppose." He blushes and ducks his head. "Not as strict, much more terrifying."

Pete's eyes are wide; he feels genuine interest in conversation for the first time in days. "Excellent! Is there lots of magic, lots of trickery of mortals and strange beverages and dancing everywhere and people being cursed into animals here there and everywhere?" he babbles excitedly.
Patrick half flinches, not perturbed enough for real movement but looking somewhat upset.

"They are... They're kinder than their reputation, and less malicious to u- humans than you'd expect, unless they deserve it. Their ways are just different."

Pete leans forward on his bed, tell me more. He dares entertain the thought of what anyone would think, catching him alone in his bedchambers with a horned man, dressed in barely proper robes, in the middle of the night.

They talk until Patrick laughs so hard he forgets to hide his antlers, and Pete spends the rest of the night awake, trying to look as though he isn't staring at them, until dawn slips in through the windows and Patrick disappears when Pete's back is turned.

***

He visits the hart again.
"Am I useful?" he sighs, curled up tin the animal's side with white fuzzy legs either side of him, head rested on his flank. He whinnies in mild alarm.
"I'm aware I'm the king but really, my duties are rather overblown and not all that important, and whatever I do, I could always hand off to anyone else and have it done just as well."

His unnamed friend - Pete has no way of finding out his name, because Patrick refuses to tell, and he feels it would be wrong to rename the creature himself - nuzzles Pete's neck and snickers. "You don't think so?" Pete sighs. "Try and convince me. Like now, when I'm neglecting all my duties to lie in the grass with a white hart that I purpose can understand me."

The stag licks Pete's neck in return, and it's quite disgusting but also incredibly sweet, and he does it with a more tender, gentle expression than Pete's seen before on a human. Pete laughs and pushes him away - he just rests his head on Pete's shoulder instead and blows out loudly into Pete's hair.

"Won't you come back with me? I could keep you in the stables and come down to see you at night when I can't sleep. No, no, in fact, I'm the king: you could sleep with me in my bedchambers, we could get some straw for the floor, you could be my companion," Pete begs. The hart just whines, ears folding back in disagreement.

"I suppose not," Pete allows, and lays back, sighing loudly. He falls asleep to heavy breathing in his ear and a golden coat under his cheek.

Later, he wakes up to the hart's desperate attempts to rouse him, nudging him with head and antler and bucking his side up to try and dislodge him. He blinks sadly at Pete when he gets up to leave, but dips his head in acknowledgement, like he knows Pete must go.

***

Pete doesn't call the hunt again for their entire stay at the summer court; he spends his time instead sprawled in a meadow with his nonverbal companion. He falls into a rhythm of near half his day with the hart, near half his night with Patrick; terribly boring appearances at banquets and such in between.

And nightmares. He wakes up sweating often; his physician prescribes a sleeping draught but  it just makes his thoughts blurry and he still awakes multiple times a week in sweat and fear, wishing for a bed companion so he wouldn't be so trapped inside his head.

Lately he's taken to wishing for Patrick, or even the white hart, the fingers in his hair and lips against his ear that he'd always wanted to comfort him suddenly having a face.

It's what leads him to plead, "Stay?" when Patrick makes to leave on his next visit, saying he should let Pete rest.

"W-what?" He's gone a mess of dark pink and stark white, no part of his face left its normal colour.

"Oh, don't tell me you're shocked! I thought where you're from wasn't very strict about these things? I have trouble sleeping, you see, and a body beside me would be helpful."

"W-well I- it is, but- I just. You want me to lie in your bed with you? I... curse it, okay, I shall," Patrick stutters, and slips awkwardly under the comforter still in his robes. Peter expects more of a fight. He startles as a leg kicks his, and wonders at how close they are in just a few weeks. Completely
improper, and Pete's favourite thing that's ever happened.

Pete hears the clacking of hooves or metal-soled shoes through his dreams and awakes to a Patrickless bed, as he expected.

***

It takes Pete's favourite and most inquisitive Count almost a month to ask where the King is always slipping off to, why the hounds sit forgotten in their kennels. Peter thinks about lying, but he's too gleeful. "Because, Count, I got him! The hart, he is mine. Not in the way I thought but-"

Joseph looks puzzled. "So it's he and not it now, then, is it?"

Pete waves him off. "He's a faery creature, Joe, and they sent him to me, I think. He's tame as can be, and lovely, and he understands me!"

Squinting, Joe pats Pete on the shoulder, a gesture that no one else would ever get away with. "Of course." He's silent the remainder of the day, slipping the king thoughtful looks and frowning.

The next time Pete visits his creature, he remains standing and puts a hand on the deer's curly-haired forehead. "So, could I bring an acquaintance to meet you?" Pete suggests casually.

His ears prick up in alarm and he makes an unsettled sound. Pete tickles under his ear the way he adores. "I wasn't- I'm not being... One of my advisors - a close friend, and trustworthy - enquired as to where I disappear each morning, and I couldn't lie. Only, he didn't believe that I was slipping onto the green to talk to a white hart who understands my words and is so docile and sweet I can sleep curled up against him better than I ever do in the night without fear of being trampled. And I don't like when my friends think I'm disturbed."

Now the animal is torn, cocking his head at Pete. "Please? I look like a fool. He's truly a good specimen, he won't hurt you. It's only once."

Resisting the urge to yell in triumph, Pete sinks to the earth beside the surrendered creature.

***

"Here!" the king says triumphantly, when they reach the hart's favoured stretch of stream.

He's more nervous than usual, lurching forward haltingly where he usually breaks into a run until he's close enough to hesitantly press his head into Pete's palm. He dips his head in acknowledgement to Joe.

"See," Pete crows at Joe's awestruck expression.

His animal friend looks long-suffering and settles on the ground at Pete's feet, blinking curiously up at the two men. Joe is gaping: he drops slowly to his knees with a hand outstretched and gasps when he's allowed to pet the creature's head with no resistance. The King sinks into his hart's side and leans against it. "Here boy," he soothes, scratching his ear when he pulls his head from Joe's hands and rests it on Pete's lap.

"This is truly an amazing creature," Joe pronounces solemnly from where he sits, not wanting to get in between whatever closeness there is between this beast and his man.

***

That night, Patrick looks grumpy, but not angry.

"He doesn't like it when you call him 'here boy' or when you use him like a trophy to show your friends."

"Maybe," Pete bites back, "I'd call him something better if you'd tell me his name." It's useless - Patrick just folds his arms and looks slighted.

"Anyway, I wasn't showing him off like a trophy, I was introducing two of my closest friends to each other."

Patrick frowns suspiciously.
They bicker for a while longer about who knows best how the hart is feeling and whether Pete was right to bring Joe. Then Patrick slips under the duvet again and, like he has done every night since they started doing this, sleeps a little closer to Pete than before.

Pete wakes a few times in the night from sharp stabs in his back and sleepily slaps his hand out in protection. "Sorry," Patrick giggles, and hums softly. After a while, the stabbing - and the antlers that cause it - disappears. At some point in the night, the rest of Patrick follows suit.

***

Pete sleeps in late enough that someone comes in to rouse him. "Whnng?" he whines. As the world comes into focus, he sees not a serving boy but Joe.

"Pete, my Lord, it's your- someone- your hart, he's injured. Badly."

"What?" he leaps out of bed and grabs the nearest piece of fine looking fabric and throws it around himself like a cloak. "What happened? Where is he?"

Joe puts a calming hand on Pete's arm and forces him to properly dress himself, then tells him to head for the stables.

God bless Joe; he'd already sent a team of squires to carry the wounded animal back to the stables and sent for the man who treats their injured horses - He's crouched over Pete's hart and frowning. Pete swallows: there's an arrow sticking out of the stag's shoulder and he's making high pitched noises of distress and squirming.

Pete rushes to his side and collapses beside him with a hand on his flank. He stills immediately at Pete's touch, regarding him with trusting green eyes.

"Hey, boy, it's okay, shhhh. You're going to be okay. You need to keep still so my man can get that arrow out." Pete's chest feels tight when his creature cranes his head to look at the king. Pete can see the pain in his eyes. His hand tenses on his creature's side and he grits his teeth. "Will he be okay? What happened, what-"

The man, who's been sitting silently until now aside from soothing murmurs to his wounded patient, looks up. "I don't know, my Lord."
The sharp intake of breath isn't missed, and Pete's hart strains to look at him again, bucking and then wincing at the pain this causes. With an absent hand on his leg, Pete soothes him and turns back to the most important man in Pete's life, currently.

"I have- I've been told that he's, um, a faery creature..." Pete says nervously, not especially wishing to be branded the mad king.

The healer just looks amused. "I know."

And then, oddly enough, he exchanges a knowing glance with the injured creature.
"You- you do?"

"Mm," the man hums, "So do most. He's very important to them. Really taken a shine to you, too, visiting all hours of the day and night. When he can talk to you again, Pat-"

The animal on the floor makes an indignant noise and the other man wrinkles his nose and places an apologetic hand on his neck. Pete feels he is missing something, especially when the healer turns to the animal on the floor and starts reprimanding it. "Oh, he doesn't know? I didn't realise, I thought- you should tell him," he says sternly to the hart and the creature cowers and looks guilty. Pete is decidedly lost.

In the silence, he can hear his companion's laboured breathing and swallows down bile. "So he'll be able to heal?"

"I don't know for sure. I should hope so, otherwise you and I are both meat for the seelie king. I'm Andrew Hurley, by the way, sire."

Peter doesn't want to be meat for the seelie king. He isn't sure he'd feel the same way if the hart died on his watch. If the creature perished, he'd offer himself up for punishment on a platter.

"You should return to court; I'm sure they've apprehended the culprit, for one," Hurley gently suggests. The hart whines and struggles again.
"I know, P- boy, but he really must. You know that," Hurley murmurs to him. Ignoring his words, the deer struggles again and looks pleadingly at Pete. "Hey," Hurley chides, "none of that. He'll return soon, but we can't keep the people without their King for so long. He'll return before- he'll return soon."

Trying not be embarrassed under the gaze of Hurley, who Pete is almost certain to also be faery by this point (Pete should ask if he knows Patrick) he presses a gentle kiss to the top of his beast's ear. Speaking of Patrick, Peter could do with nothing better than to see him at this moment, but he's established by this time that Patrick probably has sone engagement that keeps him from ever being in attendance during daylight hours.

"I'm going to have to remove the shaft, my Lord. I'll attempt to wait for your return, I think it greatly... comforts him, your presence, and it would be beneficial to have you here, but after the wound has stopped bleeding as much as it will, I'll need to do it as soon as I can."

Pete nods solemnly, barely able to make his fingers unclench from the now-familiar golden hide.

"I'll have word sent if anything occurs," Hurley promises.
Again, Pete nods, and ducks away before he can't bring himself to leave.

***

Joe is waiting for him when he enters the throne room where he holds court. Once again, Pete thinks God bless Count Trohman, because he's been receiving a steady stream of guests in Pete's place, arranging all manner of affairs and generally saving Pete's hide. He rises from his seat, the throne built to seat the queen, at the King's entrance, and bows.

Aware of the public eye, Peter resists the desire to embrace his friend and takes a seat on his own chair. He sits in the position that always gives him more confidence than he has, arms spread across the chair. With an unkingly grin, he beckons Joe back into the queen's seat.

Because his arrival was halfway through some merchants having some kind of boring debate about some tax Peter isn't even aware of the existence of, he has to sit back and not seem too irritated while Joe handles them calmly. When they finally leave he tells the guards not to allow anyone else to enter for a moment.

"I don't know," he says helplessly at Joe's look. "He might be fine? The man you found is a little... peculiar. Don't- he's excellent! But I never got too many solid responses from him."

The count's face is distant. "Hurley is a good man. Very odd," he agrees, "But amazing with all kind of creatures, truly."

"Enough of him," Pete starts, "I'll make sure he has more riches than I do if he saves my companion, but-"

Joe's look is amused. Pete has the distant feeling of deja-vu back to the odd exchanges in the stables, and feels once again like he's out of he loop. Especially when Joe's mouth quirks up and he replies, "I don't think he would be so interested in your gold, Peter."

"What- no, no matter. You know what I want to discuss. Who did this?" He feels his face go red with anger and can't bring himself to care. It's still better than the paralysing fear it distracts him from.

"Ah, yes," Joe takes a deep breath, and murmurs something to the guard standing beside them. He snaps up straight and nods before walking away with more decorum than Pete has ever dreamed of.

Surely enough, less than a minute later a handcuffed man is thrust at the King's feet. His clothes are scruffy and he looks mournful, and Peter might almost feel bad for him, aside from the fact that he might have murdered Pete's white hart.
"You did this?" he growls, feeling at this moment very glad to be a king.

The man squeaks and nods, and the same guard who brought him snaps up straight again and salutes. "He's a farmer from the local village, my Lord, and says he was hunting for game just outside your grounds with his son and shot the animal accidentally - heard the movement and shot on instinct apparently. He reported himself when he realised he'd injured such a sacred animal and helped to carry it back to the palace. He stands guilty of trespassing, treason and heresy. Oh, and they do say that he who kills the sacred white hart is cursed to suffer unrequited love," the guard adds as an afterthought.

Peter wails. This is terrible. All he wanted was a plain dealing villain who deliberately set out to destroy such a noble, delicate creature purely to commit treason against his king. This poor, trembling peasant is a terrible object for his anger.
"You couldn't be awful?" Pete whines. He's well known to be a little eccentric but since his kingdom is in excellent health, no-one questions his manner.

"What are you waiting for, man? Let him go!" He addresses the guard, before he turns to the quivering heap on the floor. "I want to be furious, but I really can't convict you of anything for an accident. You did nothing wrong, I suppose. Although, know I won't be in the best spirits with you if my creature dies." Freed from the cuffs, the man bows frantically and spews praise for The King before halting off.

Turning to Joe, Pete screams with his mouth closed. "I need to get back," he pants, "I need to be with him."

It sounds bizarre, considering that he is discussing a wild forest animal and not a close family member, but Joe has met the creature, and he knows, and he just nods and ducks away. Pete sees his mouth open to beg Pete to stay and take a few more cases so the people don't start any rumours flying. "I'll do triple for the rest of my life," he begs and practically flies off.

***

Hurley is knelt over the creature, mumbling what are presumably incantations and stroking along his side in a soothing motion. He leaps neatly to his feet when Pete appears, and Pete flaps him off. "Sit, man, don't stop for my sake. He's more important."

Hurley blinks. "Are you sure he doesn't know?" he murmurs to the creature, like he doesn't think the King can hear him. He lows in reply and Hurley raises his eyebrows. "Well then, he really does care about you."

The creature looks proud, staring back into the faery's eyes, and then he looks at Pete, who imagines he'd be smiling smugly if he had a human face. Pete laughs and pets his neck gingerly.
"No sense in waiting now, I'm going to remove it," Hurley announces.

Pete's cervine friend lows in alarm; Hurley is quick to brush his side with firm but reassuring strokes and murmur encouragement. "You're weak, don't waste energy on fighting me that you need to spend healing. Besides, you can't heal unless I get the damned thing out."

"He knows what he's talking about," Peter agrees, although he's far from an expert, but the stag calms and lays back, eyes scrunched up in a remarkably human response to approaching pain.

"So," Hurley hands Pete a fresh rag, "I'm going to remove this, and then as soon as I do, I need you to press this against the wound as hard as you can. This is the most important part."

Pete bites his lip. "Okay, I'm ready."
The healer nods and places his hand on the arrow, testing. When he finds a good position, he grabs it tightly and pulls. It comes out with little resistance.

When Pete was a boy, his country was at war. He remembers his cousin returning home and Peter being made to sit in the sickroom and watch as he had an arrow pulled from his thigh. There had been three men tugging with all their might and it had still taken a few seconds to remove. Blinking, he shuffles away from Hurley in awe.

The owner of the shoulder that the arrows comes out of screams, and Pete scrunches his eyes shut and tries not to cry with a hand fisted in his fur. "It's okay," Pete whimpers, though he isn't sure who to. He can feel breathing shallow against his arm as he presses the cloth against the wound with all his might.

He stays, leaning against it, until he grows weak and Hurley has to offer to take over. Pressing with one hand, he instructs Peter on a poultice to mix with ingredients from the woollen pouch lying on the floor beside him. Pete mashes and stirs, talking quietly to his hart as he does and ignoring the intrigued look on Hurley's face.

He's about to pour the completed mixture into the wound when the creature makes a few unsettled grunts and shifts away.
"Hey, it won't hurt. It's good for you, I swear," Hurley promises, but the hart just squirms again and glances meaningfully at Pete and then at the stall door, ajar to let the last fading rays of day in. He sighs pointedly.

"You want him to go?" 
His flat gaze is like a reproachful of course. Peter wishes he could interpret his silent actions so well.
Hurley sighs and turns to Pete.

"He's... probably going to be all right. We shall have to wait for the morn to see truly, I think. But, godwilling... He says it isn't anything against you, but he wants to rest alone now, and he wants you to rest. You won't while you're worrying in here. I'll send for you immediately in the morning."

"Immediately."

"Immediately," Hurley promises.

"Don't die on me, boy," Pete says, attempting to joke. His voice cracks.

***

Pete can't sleep, and every time he wakes up to no Patrick he becomes further unsettled. Is Patrick angry? What if his life force is inexplicably tied to the hart he protects and he too lies dying somewhere?

Pete, who can't take it anymore, surges out of bed in search of the next best thing.
A few patrols stop him on the way but none keep him when they see their king illuminated by their torches, and Pete slips unstopped into the stall where he should see a white hart.

Seeing none, he immediately panics and runs through scenarios where the seelie king has reclaimed him and cursed Pete's kin for generations. Then he sees a small body curled up in the straw.
"Hey," he says. Louder, "Hey! What are you doing in here, get-"
He stops.

It's Patrick. The figure sits up groggily and, horns and all, it's unmistakably Patrick. Coming to and seeing Pete he squeaks and hides in the straw, but Pete puts on his King voice and commands him to speak. It's obvious, now Pete thinks about it. Painfully obvious. Patrick. The White hart. The same.

"Are you cursed, or something?" Pete asks, when Patrick doesn't seem to know what to say. "I didn't know fae could get cursed."

"I'm not faery," Patrick says reluctantly.

"You're not?" Pete blinks.

"No. I never said I was. A faery creature, I said."

Puzzled, Pete shrugs. "One and the same, are they not?"
Patrick looks small under his antlers, curled up and pale on the floor. There's a huge, loose bandage around his shoulder like it would've fit him when he was- Pete swallows. Amongst all this, he forgot to be relieved that his friend seems to be recovering and isn't going to die.

"I- not exactly, see- Most technically, I'm a human." He bites his lip.

Every time Patrick opens his mouth, Pete gets a little more confused. Noticing his befuddled expression, Patrick groans and heaves himself into sitting position.

"Hey, no, you'll hurt yourself again, Patrick, don't-" Pete goes to him instinctively and sits next to him when he seems to do fine.

"So you see, when I was a young boy, perhaps three years of age, my parents both caught illness and died. Living alone in what was basically the wilderness, I didn't really know what else to do. So I went wandering off alone into the forest and happened to encounter no other than the seelie king. Now, he says he was enchanted with me, and he wanted to keep me. Myself having no objection, he had me."

"So you're like a changeling? The other way around," Pete guesses, still frowning.

"Well, I suppose so. Anyhow, the fae aren't known for giving something for nothing, so I was," Patrick swallows and gestures helplessly at himself.

"They did this to you? Why?"

"I'm not so fond of your phrasing. They didn't 'do this to me', Pete. I agreed, and I've never regretted it once. It's what I- who I am now. Do not be angry," he sighs, so perfect and fragile Pete wants to reach out but is afraid of hurting him.
"They gave me a home, I'd be dead without it, and I provide my service in return."

"Your service?" Pete is afraid to ask. Patrick ducks his head.

"I entertain the hunt."

"They hunt you?" Pete yelps. How could Patrick say the fae are kind? How could he- Pete is horrified. He has the urge to run away with Patrick and never let him return to that place ever again.

"Pete, Pete, listen. Not to kill! It's entertainment, training, is all, it's harmless. I've done better there in all my years than I did in a few months in your land," he points out, eyeing the blood seeping through his white robes. "The fae are mostly active at night, besides. While the sun shines, I'm their favoured creature, leader of the hunt and renowned even among fae for speed and strength, revered by the entire seelie court. After I've done my duty, I'm Patrick, the King's beloved ward, a prince of fae, never wanting for anything. They adore me, they would never hurt me."

"So..." Pete tries to slow his breathing and let this discovery settle in. "Why now? What lead you to be in my kingdom?"

Patrick shrugs and then winces at the pain it causes. "I turned eighteen. I'm not a boy anymore; they have no claim over me," he says simply, looking up at Pete without moving his head.

"But surely... You would wish to remain there, your home where you are upheld and adored? Why did you-"

Patrick smiles. It's wrong on his sick, drawn face, but lovely nonetheless. He meets Pete's eyes and his gaze has the same glitter Pete fell in love with on a majestic beast as it leapt a fallen log, so long ago now.  "I wanted to see the world! The one I came from. I've never been all that far from home, and I always thought I would experience it for a year or so and then return. I'll always be welcome," he sounds sadder than he should, like he doesn't want to return anymore.

"And now?"

"Well, I..." Patrick says helplessly, "I don't know."

Pete inches forward to brush one finger all the way up the stem of an antler. He hears Patrick swallow. "I'm too sick to leave anytime soon," Patrick mumbles, backs out of the moment, and Pete snatches his hand back.

"Here, are you cold?" Pete asks eventually. Patrick nods and Pete goes to curl up around him like he's protecting him from some unknown enemy. Instead, he gets shoved away. Patrick is blushing starkly.

"No, I don't want you to- It's nearly dawn, and I. I don't want-" he bats his hands around himself frantically. 

Pete is already in position with his hands gingerly around Patrick's waist. Hopefully, Patrick has enough faery magic to make someone forget seeing them if they get caught. Good old fashioned bribery is an option either way. "I'll close my eyes," he promises.

"I could crush you," Patrick counters, "I weigh as much as five men."

"Don't sit on top of me, then. C'mon, you need to rest.

***

Pete blinks awake to Hurley's amused face, and a mouthful of white fur. "You told him then?" He's saying to the hart-- Patrick. Pete's arm is numb. "Otherwise you're in big trouble right about now." Pete watches as Patrick's leg darts out at an impossible angle to kick the man in the shins.

They must not know he's awake, because Hurley says, "I know, but, he's very, hm, taken with you. All that energy coming off him it's- Well, you're not one to talk! No you're not... Yes you do! Admit it, or I'll tell the King he raised a liar," he taunts, waving a finger at the creature.

From his place, clutching as far around Patrick's expansive diaphragm as his arms will go, Pete feels Patrick sigh out a defeated breath. Probably, that equates to admitting whatever Hurley is teasing him about through whatever magical method of communication the two seem to have, because Hurley sounds pleased. "Thank you."

Although he can only hear half the conversation, Pete decides it isn't his place to eavesdrop anymore, and coughs loudly. His performance of only just waking up is stage-worthy.

"You're awake."

"How is he?" Pete asks immediately. He stands up and walks to Patrick's other side, so he can see his face, and sits back down inside the curve of his back legs.

"Excellent," Hurley grins. "He'll make a fine recovery." He hands Pete another greenish poultice as he peels back the bindings around Patrick's shoulder to check on the wound.

Each time Pete thinks of the hart as Patrick, he feels giddy but confused and has to swallow.

"Okay, do you want to apply this? It's going to sting, and he'll take it better from you," Hurley offers, handing Pete the stuff before he can argue. Peter feels grateful to Hurley for not mentioning what Pete's learned since they last met, but Patrick keeps catching his eye and then looking frantically away. Pete's amazed he didn't recognise him earlier as Patrick.

Grimacing at the angry looking wound, Pete gingerly dabs at it with poultice coated fingers. "I know," Hurley is saying. "Yeah, shh. It's good for you."

"How do you understand what he- Patrick is saying?" Pete blurts. It earns him amused look.

"There's little I can teach you where that's concerned. I've simply known him since he was a boy, I know him well. He's talking, you see, you just have to listen. I can give you precious little other advice in that way."

Pete likes to think he is quite apt at interpreting the body language of the animal he now knows to be Patrick. However, the incredibly specific communication Hurley can hear is definitely more than just body language, there is definitely something magical involved, so Pete tries, listening.

It works. He doesn't hear specific words, but he looks at Patrick and knows what he means. It's vague and he's convinced he's nowhere near at Hurley's level, but he says, "I'm not! ...It's not that peculiar. Fine, but I understand why you did it. Regardless, I really don't mind. At all." Hurley looks proud, and smug besides.

"See," he crows to Patrick. Peter doesn't need to be tapped into the faery mind reading to know that Patrick is annoyed.

***

"What were you talking about? This morning, before you realised I was awake?"
Patrick goes pale. Hurley is long gone, to tend to other mysterious magical creatures presumably, and Patrick has been badly smuggled as soon as it went dark, into Pete's bedroom. Most likely they were seen by multiple footmen, but it isn't as if they haven't seen worse.

He'd protested, but Pete had already decided that he needs somewhere to rest until he fully recovers, and what better place than a king's bedroom? He's still too weak to walk properly, especially when he walks on four legs and the pain is too much to bear. Pete's quite certain his bed is the only one in the land wide enough and strong enough to accommodate a fully-grown stag.

They lay tangled up in Pete's bed: he'd dug out his old storybooks and reads them to Patrick while Patrick laughs and tells him which ones are total lies and which are true. Sometimes, Patrick just goes red and refuses to answer. He's too sick to do anything about the horns jutting from his head, but doesn't seem to mind Pete's idle hands exploring the branches and points.

"What were you talking about?" Pete repeats when Patrick doesn't reply.

He goes white and tenses, stutters out that, "I wasn't talking about anything." 

"Fine," Peter rolls his eyes, "what was Hurley talking to you about?"

Patrick sits up straighter. "Do you think it's wrong?" he blurts instead.

"What?"

He reminds Pete of the hart like that, bright eyed and suddenly alert. "What I said earlier. About... they way it is with my people. Love, marriage. They way that it doesn't matter if you're a man or a woman or... something else."

Pete truly hasn't given it that much thought. "I suppose I don't know. I'm not known as the most religious of kings... I think my priest would be taken sick immediately if he heard that I was regularly consorting with a horned, shape-shifting beast who possibly has the power to bewitch innocent kings and then ask their opinion on sodomy."

"I never said sodomy," Patrick argues.

"Fine, I suppose I- times are modern. I know of people who are like that, behind closed doors but... It's not for the public. I suppose I never considered it myself, being someone so public," Pete allows, "I suppose I'm not against it."

He allows his finger to resume tracing Patrick's shorter left antler. Patrick goes still.

"That's good," he says carefully, "Because you... Hurley is very good at perceiving emotion, you see, and. I have it on his authority that you... are in love. With a man."

Pete is genuinely puzzled. He doesn't think he's in love with anyone at all, hasn't been for a long time. "I wasn't aware of it," he admits. "I'm fond of a fair few men but I wouldn't say I've been in love with anyone for quite a while."

Patrick looks weary. "And none of these men feel... more special to you, in particular? Like maybe you'd want to spend your whole life with them."

Pete blinks. Maybe...
"I know from experience it- it creeps up on you," Patrick says anxiously. He doesn't meet Pete's eye and Pete wonders what kind of person doesn't realise they've been in love, probably for months. He looks up. "Well- yes- kind of. But it-"

Something changes suddenly in Patrick. At first, Pete thinks it's something he said, until he sees the light peeking through the curtains. Patrick pushes Pete away, his moments frantic and erratic and his eyes bigger. "Hey, calm down," Pete coaxes, "Woah, hey."

Patrick shakes his head and kicks out. He's acting like a wild animal, because, Pete supposes, he is - or he will be soon. "Get off the bed," he says urgently, "There isn't room and I'll- I'll hurt you."
Pete tries scratching behind the newly present ears in front of Patrick's antlers and gets shoved forcefully away.

"It hurts," he whines, "It always hurts. It doesn't usually hurt so badly, because I'm injured. I'm trapped here all day now, I should've left. Please- don't-- please." He grunts, clutching his wounded shoulder and Pete obediently moves away and turns around.

He hears Patrick's voice saying faintly, "Think about it." But he doesn't actually need to, because seeing Patrick terrified like that seemed to put things easily into place.

***

Patrick's ears are pinned back to his head.
"No, it's all right. I'm not upset," Pete sits down carefully on the space left on the bed. Patrick looks like he wants to apologise. When he shifts slightly, Pete automatically flinches. Patrick looks horrified about this and shuffles as far away as he can, eyes mournful and concerned.
He doesn't want Pete to be afraid of him.

"No, I'm not afraid of you, I promise. I just didn't know if you were still-" he makes a vague motion, not wanting to say out of control or behaving like he was insane. Patrick lays his head down - not in Pete's lap, although he could easily reach - and sighs. His ears flick unhappily.

"It's okay, you can explain properly later. I think I may have some things to explain too."

Patrick bleats quietly.

"I'm sorry I'm not very good at understanding you. I'm trying," Pete sighs.
Patrick tries to struggle to his feet but of course he can't walk; he screams in pain when he tries to put weight on the injured limb.

"Hey, you're hurting yourself! Sit down, don't move, shh, I can see it's hurting." Pete pauses, squinting at Patrick, and makes a triumphant sound. "You're hungry? It's okay, I'll get food, don't get up."

***

Halfway to the kitchen, Pete realises he isn't sure what Patrick would eat, but he isn't about to go back and ask so he waits until he catches a stray maid and tells her to go and bring him as many green things as she can fit into a basket.

She gives Pete an odd look; he is famously vocal about his belief that vegetables are for poor people, but goes. When she returns with a basket about half the size of herself with all sorts of flora poking out of the top, Pete has to go to great pains to convince her not to carry it up for him.

He offers it to Patrick, who sniffs interestedly and noses at an apple. He tries to take a bite, but it rolls away, and when he follows it it just moves again. An agitated whine escapes him and Pete has to laugh. "Here, I'll get it," he grins, and retrieves the escapee apple. He holds it tightly in his palm so Patrick can bite it without pushing it away.

Obviously trying not to make Pete uncomfortable, Patrick opens his mouth and takes a tiny, careful bite. After tentatively licking at the juice spilling from it, he quickly pulls his head away to chew, then comes back for more. Before long, he's lost his battle of etiquette to hunger and finishes the remaining half of the apple in one enormous bite that narrowly misses Pete's fingers.

Oddly, a flash of I could get used to this crosses Pete's mind. He ignores it and yanks out a radish from the pile. It earns nothing but a disgusted sound from the hart, who is munching happily at the generic leaves at the bottom of the basket.

***

As the last embers of light fade, Patrick tucks his head into his side and curls up in a tight ball. All his muscles are held taut like he's stressed or in pain, but he doesn't tell Pete to look away. He isn't sure if he should and Patrick just got distracted, but he's a selfish and inquisitive person and if he can get to look and then play the idea that he didn't know, then he will.

It's something of an anticlimax; Patrick is white and enormous and curled up on the bed, and then he is much pinker and much smaller and slowly unraveling. He looks dazed, like he's been asleep, and yawns. After a few seconds of blinking, he says, "I wanted to explain-" and Pete blurts, "Why aren't I ever allowed to look? It looks fine!"

Patrick answers first. "I- I don't know what it looks like. I've no way of actually seeing it, and I thought it might look disturbing and I didn't want to... alarm you."

Pete grins. "Rest assured, I am profoundly un-alarmed."

Patrick sighs and wiggles his legs. His attempt to lie back is met with a loud thud and a yelp as his antlers crash into the bed frame. He puts a hand to his as feels their intercepting presence. "Aw, still?" he complains, "I just want to be able to lie down without..." The way he wrinkles up his nose and grunts with irritation makes Pete laugh.

"You can lay acrossways and put your head in my lap," he suggests, ignoring the kind of trouble they'd get into if anyone saw that. Patrick's eyes flicker to Pete's lap and he looks unsettled. "I'll- um. I'll just sit, thank you. Some serious discussion is in order and I don't want to... injure you if I get too mobile," he smiles tightly.

"Of course," Pete ducks his head and tries not to worry about why Patrick's acting so strangely.

"About this morning, I wanted to explain," Patrick begins hesitantly. His eyes are glued to the floor. "My actions were somewhat. Unruly? I didn't mean to scare you, it's- it's hard... When all your bones are literally rearranging themselves, especially around a wound. it's usually fine but when I'm uncomfortable, I go a little wild. Instincts setting in and I don't start to work around them for a few seconds. I'm truly sorry."

Playfully, Pete flicks his antler. "It's not a problem. I wasn't aware it caused you so much pain. Can't you..." he pauses delicately, "You said you're not theirs anymore. Can't you get it taken off? Go back to norm- to how you were before?"

Patrick hangs his head. "No. It's a part of me, Pete. Even if it could be undone, which I'm assured it can't, I wouldn't want it to. It's me. Without it I'd feel like only half of myself. I'm sorry."

"I don't object to it, I only meant- for yourself, if it made you uncomfortable. Please, forget I said it."

They sit in silence.

"What you said," Pete says suddenly, "Before all that. Well, I thought about it."

Patrick looks up sharply. "You did? What-"

Pete stops Patrick's mouth with a kiss. He doesn't stay long enough to give Patrick a chance to do anything but tense up in surprise before he pulls away.

Pete puts a hand to his mouth. It was only a peck, like he gave his mother as a boy, but still... "Gracious, I'm so sorry- you must think I'm terribly forward!"
Patrick just cocks his head to the side. His lips are pressed together in a tight line but he doesn't look angry.

"I mean, even besides all the-" Pete flaps vaguely, "I barely know you - we aren't betrothed, I haven't even courted you! Not that I could..."
Pete feels panic set in. It makes him angry when Patrick just laughs.

"I never took you for a prude." He giggles, but his voice softens, "I may not be faery, but my background is. My people they... they live a long time. Committing yourself permanently to someone is much more serious when it's eternity. In the meantime, it isn't rare to be more... free with your affections."

"You don't think I'm horrendously uncouth?"

"No. In fact," he says proudly, "I don't even know what uncouth means. I would like to experience it again, though." He leans forward and kisses Pete, and Pete's brain says I'm the King, I can't be doing these types of things, but Pete mouth pants, "Patrick."

***

"So," Pete tries, "We're in love?" He doesn't look at Patrick's swollen lips, even when Patrick grins.

"Apparently."
Pete wants desperately to sit there forever with Patrick, but he can't. He puts his head in his hands.

"We can't be. I'm the king. I should've been courting some nice, noble lady well before now and be preparing for my wedding. Even if they didn't notice that their queen was a man, I think they'd notice that he transformed into a wild beast every sunrise."

Pete steals and look at Patrick, who looks torn between a scowl and a sob. "We could be killed for this!" he cries, "I'm the king, and I could perhaps get away with bedding another man but I don't want to just bed you. Besides, with all this talk of witchcraft I don't think they would let it go that you have antlers and transform into an animal. They'd say you were my familiar and burn us both, I imagine."

Pete is sobbing. Patrick is stony-faced, which makes it worse. "I'm not saying it's my choice! Patrick, I love you. But I'm a king, and I don't think the rest of my country would see it the same as we do."

Patrick is silent for a long time, until he says quietly, "I may not be very magical myself," he ignores Pete's pointed glance at his antlers, "But I have some powerful connections. Isn't it customary before a betrothal to meet with the family and discuss a dowry?"

***

Wincing with pain the entire way, Patrick leads Pete out to the stream where they first met, then even further into the forest. Pete tries to support him but he refuses help, just as he refuses to explain anything. Once they are apparently at the right place, he leans against a tree and groans in relief at the lack of movement to jar his shoulder.

At that moment, a man with very dark blue skin appears. Patrick lurches forward and dashes into his arms without so much as a pained yelp. "Papa!" he calls delightedly, and buries his face in the tall man's chest. This, Pete realises, and trembles a little, is the Seelie King.

The man - faery - looks down at where Patrick, whose head only goes up to his ribs, is clinging to him. His expression as he pats Patrick's antlers is much how Pete's father - raised coldly but determined to show his own son more affection, yet unwillingly still uncomfortable with familial intensity - would look at him, a mixture of bemused and endeared.

Pete drops to his knees.

"My boy," the faery addresses Patrick, "My little hart." Pete thinks of Patrick-the-hart as anything but little, but this man is so supernaturally tall that Patrick at full size would mostly likely only go up to his chin.

"Your presence has been sorely missed." Pete hadn't realised that he's been dealing with someone who addresses the Seelie King as Papa and has the power to make such a stern looking, powerful creature give a small smile as Patrick pulls away and straightens up, suddenly uncomfortable.

His eyes bore into Pete. "He was very young when he came to us. I was never able to stop him calling me that. Some of the more traditional of us have always frowned upon him, but he is... very dear to me." Patrick looks almost smug at his adoptive father's remark.

He looks worriedly at Patrick's bandaged shoulder. "Yes, Sir Andrew told me of this. You're already so full of our magic I daren't add much more, but this should make the pain easier to bear." His long fingers linger over it. Pete was raised to think of the fae as distant and cold, so the paternal warmth in the faery's eyes as he gazes at Patrick is surprising.

All three seem to realise at the same time that Pete is still on the ground. "Rise, King Peter, rise," the faery commands, not impatiently, though. Pete stands and unsurely makes his way to stand next to Patrick. Pete isn't sure how the other king knows his name, but from looking at him, he knows a lot more, too.

"Papa, we're here to ask for a boon," Patrick says softly. Pete knows countless tales centred entirely around the fact that the fae never give something for nothing, but all he hears is, "Anything for my little aleanbh."

Patrick murmurs a few quiet sentences and the King says thoughtfully, "So you wish for a magic that would blind the people to the perceived sin of your union?"

Still terrified, Pete adds, "and so that they would not be so alarmed to see his... other shape." He's half expecting to be struck down on the spot, but the king just smiles graciously.

"Of course. Your people are not fond of strangeness, are they? I will gladly do this that my astór and his rúnesearc might be happy." Pete doesn't understand half the words he says, but he understands that he and Patrick are now betrothed and not about to be charged with heresy.

Epilogue

The entire household gets used to sometimes having a worryingly large wild animal wandering through the house. Through the strange bewitching to not really care, most of them also don't love the odd intrusion into their boring safety. At least they never comment on the fact that their king usually shows up to luncheon with an enormous hart, who is also his husband, and spends the whole meal whispering in the hart's ear.

Pete wakes up to loud snoring in his ear most mornings, and can't believe he gets to poke Patrick awake and scramble avoid a possibly fatal hoof to the head and then kiss his muzzle sweetly. For all that he barely sleeps, Patrick is a heavy sleeper, and it takes multiple attempts to rouse him most days. He has no real reason to be up, but he's an excellent morale booster - for both the people and Pete. Pete teasingly calls him queen, or sometimes princess, for that is what he mostly acts as, and because it annoys him no end.

Pete watches Patrick take the shallow stairs with impossible care, lowing in alarm when he missteps. It takes him about ten minutes, usually, and Pete thinks of having some kind of ramp installed. He puts a hand on Patrick's side, not that he'd be much help against all that mass of he did fall, but it's the thought that will count when Pete is squished on the floor.

It's a palace, so everything is happily wide enough for Patrick to navigate with ease. He has better luck in the kitchens than with the nobility, and the kitchen staff adore him. He goes there when he and Pete fight, to sulk. They all gather around and coo at him and pet him and offer him carrots and leafy scraps.

There was an incident a while ago when a less than intelligent kitchen boy offered him a scrap of pork and he disappeared and wouldn't go back to the kitchens for a week. Pete's banned venison being eaten at court since the whole thing started - it just feels wrong - but he can hardly stop his entire household from eating meat. Even when he isn't an enforced vegetarian by his nature, however, Patrick doesn't eat meat, and seems disturbed by it even if he's told Pete many times he doesn't mind others eating it.

***

Patrick hates to be an inconvenience to anyone but Pete (whose torture he delights in). Once, when he'd been out running in the woods and came in some other way than across the grass - leaving his hooves dirty and getting mud on all the carpets - Pete found him frantically trying to lick away the mud before a servant had to deal with it.

After Pete had finished laughing at him and summoned someone to clean it, Patrick stood and made upset sounds as she scrubbed, and wouldn't burge until she was done. "He's telling you not to do it," Pete explained, still laughing with a hand on a disgruntled Patrick's back.

When she finished, insisting that she didn't mind (with an expression like she couldn't quite believe that she was talking to the world's most polite deer, and also that she was considering finding other employment) he followed close on her heels and lowed at her with distressed glances at Pete that equated to: tell her I'm deeply sorry, tell her I didn't mean it and I won't do it again! Stop laughing! "He's apologising," Pete smirked, when she stopped for the fifteenth time and found him still at her back. 

"Patrick, don't be ridiculous!" Pete cried, after Patrick had insisted that half the monthly allowance he's granted by the treasurer to keep himself clothed and surrounded by luxury possessions was given to the serving girl for that month. "It's really okay," she petted Patrick's head shyly, blinking and startled at his offer.

Shaking off the blissful expression that took over him when he gor his ears scratched, Patrick shook his head determinedly and fixed her with his enormous eyes. She looked helplessly between him and Pete and scarpered away. 

For or the rest of the day, Patrick had been deeply upset and decided to make up the perceived hurt by following around every servant he came across and trying to help them. Mostly, it caused trouble, like when he tried to carry a tray from the kitchen in his mouth and lost his grip. When he found a doorman struggling with the bags of some arriving guest or another, he glared at the footman until he piled all the bags on Patrick's back and let him carry the remaining one in his mouth.

Delighted, he pranced away to show Pete and when he dropped off the bags in the right place, the footman was there, beaming with relief. He scraped his nails gently across Patrick's cheek and if the fae had found better use from a cat than a hart, Patrick would've been purring. Now, he insists on carting everyone's bags everywhere. 

***

On festival days people gather outside the palace to celebrate and sometimes Patrick will wander out onto a balcony to duck his head at them and pose for a while. The people love their white hart, a symbol of luck and prosperity, and Pete knows Patrick loves how they cheer for him. Even if he returns with a sigh like it's taken a lot out of him to perform his noble duty and then expects lots of petting and carrots.

He sleeps in Pete's bed, not that he sleeps much - he was made to keep up with fae, with the hunt by day and their fabled revels by night, and exists in such a way that while he takes one form, the other sleeps. Regardless, he likes to lie beside Pete, and need and want are different things; he can often force himself to sleep and finds he quite enjoys it.

When Pete's busy or still asleep in the morning, Patrick goes out for walks and runs alone, which Pete hates and is terrified for him. Patrick finds it unlikely that he'll be accidentally shot twice, but Pete spends whatever audience or meeting of counsel that is keeping him from following in a nervous haze.

They go out for walks together, too, and sometimes they take guards and walk through the palace town to cheering and applause, and Patrick lets the children scratch his muzzle and occasionally ride a few feet on his back. Pete doesn't miss how much he loves the children. He plays with the ones at court, too, always aware of alarmed by his own size and strength and so, so gentle.

They're better at understanding him instinctively, and he'll sit for hours, like when he watches the various children of the household who'd otherwise be causing havoc for their parents - servants and nobility alike.

He'll lay with his head in the lap of one, who strokes his face gently, while another three sit across his back and scratch where he tells them to, others curled into the warmth of his side listen avidly to his stories and return their own: "Yeah, Patrick, and-" "Hey, Patrick, guess what?" "Wow, you're really awesome, Patrick." "I hope I'll get something like you and Pete."

They adopt orphans. Three, although Pete wouldn't mind more. Another helpful part of the spell is that people assume the children are naturally theirs, and there are no arguments regarding inheritance. Peter says with a smile that he does it so these children are saved the bother of wandering into forests and being transformed into magical beasts as a service to the Seelie King.

Patrick says with a red face and folded arms this would be a perfectly all right fate for a child: Pete jokingly admits he's really more concerned for their future husbands and wives, who won't appreciate always being poked with antlers in the night.

The word to describe Patrick throughout this would be long-suffering. He's patient and docile, and he lets the children and their friends ride on his back. He hasn't thus far agreed to carry Pete, though, digging his heels in the earth and refusing to move until the King gets off him immediately.

Eventually, he peddles a line about being weaker than a horse and worried for his back, that Pete doesn't quite believe but he doesn't try it again just in case. Patrick just sits, sighing loudly, while countless children flick his antlers and pet his nose and pull his tail.

He's a good parent. The children are sent to bed later and rise later so they can see each incarnation of their Papa in more equal amounts, but even when he can't speak, he's much better at discipline and counselling than Pete is.

All he has to do is narrow his eyes and flick his tail (and all Pete has to do is not burst out laughing at his adorable cotton fluff tail) and they'll do whatever he asks. And when something inevitably goes wrong and someone returns from playing, sobbing, he lays on the floor and they curl up against him with his head laid over theirs and they just breathe together until it's okay. On two legs, he gives excellent advice learnest from his time with the fae, and gives equally good hugs. 

The seelie king visits his grandchildren regularly, although Pete realises that they are actually two generations of adoption away from his blood, and Pete knows how much the fae value blood connections.

Every time he sees the semi-deity playing with his children, Pete still feels a little amazed at the direction his life took. One of the girls even turns out to have long dormant faery blood, and learns a few (harmless) magical tricks from her grandpapa. Pete misses his own parents, sometimes, but he wouldn't change anything. 

Already relatively nocturnal, the court's day is shifted a little later, so that Patrick might be better involved in the precedings. He likes to sit in the throne at Pete's side and help fairly settle punishments, taxes, arguments. Even still, they're left with a lot of time alone once it's dark, and everyone else has withdrawn to their rooms. They can think of plenty of ways to fill the time. 

***

Pete kisses Patrick's muzzle and tells him he's beautiful while they sit in the field by the stream and talk for hours. Pete's magical cervine linguistic skills improve steadily until he can happily hold complex conversations where Patrick advises him on how to run his kingdom much better than he ever could. Shouting matches turn out to be very possible with a mute creature, especially one so antagonistic.

Joe comes along too, sometimes, or Hurley, who has convinced Pete to call him Andy, and follows Patrick's lead in referring to the King as Pete or sometimes moron.

It amuses Pete no end to see his curly-haired friend chatting happily to a silent partner, arguing passionately while Patrick just sighs and rests his head sagely in Pete's lap. "I'm sorry, Joe, but he's right," Pete interjects.  The conversation must sound bizarre and stilted to an outsider, for Patrick inaudibly leads most of the discussion.

"Say that again," Joe growls, and Pete wasn't paying attention like he still needs to in order to really know what Patrick is saying, but he glances down to see Patrick's nostrils flare angrily and laughs.

"Patrick, you little knave! Joe, say goodbye the remaining inch of honour you had left," he snorts. Patrick's body is tense with irritation but he turns his head to Pete for a moment and shuts his eyes slowly.

"I love you too," Pete says softly.