Chapter Text
Michael was done for.
Was the solitary thought bouncing through his jumbled brain. It filled his head, echoed in his ears, picked up his heart rate. Even with the comforting appearance of tiny, glimmering stars and the sounds of bugs and birds and fauna pouring in through the window frame on the stone wall, his eyelids were glued to his sockets. Regardless of what he saw, he stared directly at the pitch-black rickety beams crisscrossing his ceiling.
Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have this room.
He had inherited title of one of the paladin when the sun was highest today, even though he was the heir to the throne directly after his sister. Mike had resigned a role such as dignified as a prince. It was never something he wanted to pursue. He was a man of honor, grace, loyalty. He wanted to explore and protect, not sit upon a throne simply to look prissy.
Many onlookers of his knighting had been ashamed. Resentful, even. He knew so many would kill time and time again for the position he was in. But they had to respect his decision, come to terms with it someday. Mike didn’t want to spend another waking moment hearing about suitors or balls to arrive to.
Not another utter of a tribute to his name or pay respects to the townspeople. Bravery coursed through his veins.
But of course, the queen would never subject him to the actual misfortune of being a palace guard. She thought too highly of him, loved him too much for that. But at the same time, he wanted the full experience.
So he begged for lenience. To let him live.
And she gave him a servant room. It was a downgrade from his sizable space, his large, gold framed, curtain donned bed and everything in-between, but he couldn’t be more ecstatic. It was mostly everything he wanted.
He did feel the twist of pity at the way so many other guards like him had to sleep on their trestles, assigned to the great hall. At least Mike had comfort and privacy. Even if it came in the form of somewhere so… dingy and primal. The thought should comfort him, ease him to his own rest. Guide him to exciting and new dreams for the anticipation of tomorrow.
No way was he sleeping now that he knew what he did.
But, he could finally endure being a valiant knight. Defend his kingdom. Go on quests and be involved with the seers, the prophets and clerics—
—From a safe, respectable, uncompromising distance.
… Be handed a stiff scroll smelling of magic and feel of mystic paper made from the legendary trees of the enchanted forests out West. Seek out the head of the dragon in the heart of the mountains. Ride on an armored horse into the sunset, feel the condensation of his breath against the sleek helmet dented over time from his earlier fees. Wear his scars and burn marks like trophies. Wear his sword against his hip and a shield against his back.
Mike had high hopes.
He could hardly wait to do all of it.
And because of his lucky rank and eager yet persistent attitude, they would have to let him in on council meetings.
There, he could finally meet all of the untouchable souls he had itched to even see in person. The sorcerer, the cleric, the bard, the ranger, the speedster, and everyone else. But those five were his primary muses. They were rumored to be near his age, eighteen years. He had been counting for today, his birthday. Again, it had also been his knighting. A beautiful day, to say the least. Sun shining, songbirds singing their evening tune, a light breeze drifting the clouds across the warm sun as he felt the saber fall on each of his shoulders from his mother.
The day could have been perfect. So much potential.
If it wasn’t for the sudden appearance of the cleric he heard so much about. Adorned in heavy, magnificent aubergine robes that fell down his shoulders, small summer dandelion colored stars stitched into the cloth. A smooth leather satchel with two straps fell loosely across his hip, one adorned with small potion bottles of a kaleidoscope of colors. His coned hat nested on rich, shining brown hair that brushed over his forehead, just above kind, downturned hazel eyes and dark eyelashes that fell over his bottom eyelid. Broad cheekbones shaping his face, soft, thin, peach pink lips upturned into a smile at the cheering audience with front teeth a bit bigger than the others.
He felt his eyes widen and trail.
Soft hands tenderly holding a tall wooden staff that towered over himself, and Mike was absolutely smitten from first glance. He should have his eyes closed, head tilted to the stage. Or at the very least, not looking at anything in particular.
But here he was, shamelessly staring at the queen’s cleric with a sense of puppy love. He sensed his jaw slacken. He stood a fair distance from Mike and his mother, eyes migrating from the rows and racks of peasants on the stands all the way down to Mike. And their eyes met.
As quickly as they locked gazes, Michael averted his. He felt his cheeks heat up, eyes desperately searching and counting each small bedazzling jewel on his mother’s slippers. It was like he never looked at the cleric. Minus his racing pulse and his face probably the color of a strawberry. He felt the lingering feeling of someone looking him. Not a creeped out, predatory way, but adjacent to keenly being… observed.
He didn’t feel the prickle of his neck hair raising, his breathing nervously becoming shallower, his head spin or the feeling of bile piling at the back of his throat.
Instead, Mike felt his face redden impossibly more. A flutter in his belly like someone had released the inhabitants of his family’s aviary in his gut. The feeling of having to do something with his hands. The sudden weakness of his knees as he kneeled on one. He felt himself sway.
The exact tell-tale feeling of something he didn’t want to name.
The feeling his sister had described to him while talking about Jonathan, another name in the castle he couldn’t place if his life depended on it.
He had sworn he would never fall in love. He could never find any of the ladies that walked in with too big of dresses attractive enough to agree to marry. He begged not to be promised to a distant princess, that he swear he would find the one for him. He found them pretty, sure, but never anything more. It was something Mike never wanted him or his family to think too much about, in fear they will find something out.
So he concluded his parent’s hopes for his love as something that would never happen. He could shrug it off. Maybe he wasn’t one for fondness or intimacy. A knight’s sentence never demanded love.
But as he lay awake on his inflexible mattress, he thought about the cleric. The cleric with the features a fawn. The cleric with glowing skin, complimented by his gown and the glimmer of the sunlight. The cleric with magic in his hands, who assigned mystical hunts for knights like him. And the best, only way to describe that was love.
It was a feeling that didn’t come easy to him.
He pushed the thoughts away ever moment throughout the day, putting it in the back of his head and trying not to daydream throughout his entire birthday meal. He could feel Nancy’s eyes bore into him as he stayed too quiet. He couldn’t help his actions.
But he could also never love a man. Especially one he didn’t even know the name of.
Mike had heard tales from history of the Kingdom of Hawkins, back when his grandparents ruled. There had been a few cases where some men had been reported for looking at other men strangely, or seen two sneaking around together. Of course, such a thing was punishable by death, exile, or mutilation.
Since his mother and father started ruling, they were a bit more clement about such a thing. It usually ended up with a few nights in the dungeon, or exile. The queen was not a fan of extreme precautions.
Mike didn’t know why it was a crime.
He didn’t know why he thought about it for so long.
As the night rolled on too slowly to tolerate, he tossed and turned until his eyelids felt to heavy to burden.
Michael was many things. Reserved, focused, and cold shouldered to his peers. He didn’t make conversation or be acquaintances with the others in his training program. Anyone he talked to didn’t quite click with him as much as he yearned for. Mike wanted friends, but it seemed like the prestige in his veins of being an heir seemed to alienate himself. People seemed too wary of him. Was it their fear of being judged by such a highly looked upon sire?
It could have been. But as time went on, his distaste for the others continued to grow and grow until he had been outcasted. He honed in on training and nothing more. Mike made it seem like he didn’t have time for companionship other than the two spaniels in the main castle room. When he wasn’t training or wandering through the vast forests and shores, he liked to spend his days with his dogs.
Which was what he was doing the excellent day prior to his knighting.
He donned casual attire, a loose, cream linen shirt that reached down to his shoulders and some airy bark-colored britches. He leaned against a tree in the gardens, a book in hand. He was reading a foreign tale, but he was skimming the words with his eyes, not digesting what it read. He had a canine in his lap, his unoccupied gently stroking her soft rusty fur. Trinket had to be his favorite dog. Unlike himself, when he took her through the knight’s wing, she was cooed and worried over. Babied and spoiled.
As if she wasn’t his own dog.
He held the book close to his face, still lazily drawing his eyes over each curled letter, his thumb in the middle of the pages.
It was a serene day. The sun beat down, heating up his ivory skin. His family had joked that, “what if we had picked up a vampire child instead of our human one” because of his lack of sunlight. He was always drawn in each day like this. Cooped inside walls or heavy armor. The birds sang, and the air was still. He could hear the distant chatter from the village, the neighing of stable horses, and conversation from inside.
The monarchy and their powerful council.
He did burn with envy, a deep want to be in there. But he had been told it was his day off, they were speaking about ways he could prove himself worthy. Mike felt a thrill of excitement. He was longing to see it, feigning patience in the presence of anyone involved.
He had passed by the ranger and speedster on his way to the yard, who were arm in arm, and he put on a mask of boredom and disinterest. He heard them whisper, a smile heard in their tones, and Mike internally wilted.
But sitting in the garden, he repeatedly heard his name being said in ways that wasn’t meant to be hushed, as if they didn’t care whether he heard or not. But as much as he strained his ears, he couldn’t make out anything they uttered.
Just as he was going to turn a page, he heard the familiar clacking of heels on stepping stones leading to his tree. He turned his head up, blinking against the rays up ahead, at the silhouette of his mother, Queen Karen. In all her grandeur. Beams casted around her light hair and intricately patterned dress that brushed her cloth heels, fur sleeves pristine and freshly cleaned. She had to be one of the most beautiful women Michael had seen.
As much as Mike hated to admit it, he and his mother grew distant over the years. He had an older and younger sister who required more attention, as they pursued the throne. He was independent.
Sure, when he needed support and guidance with his thoughts and… strange feelings, he sought her out, but she was often to busy to deal with it.
And his father?
Was a lost cause.
Mike didn’t like to talk about him much.
As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, he caught sight of her head tilted down towards him, eyes soft and approachable. He could tell today wasn’t as busy as other days. And if she was being so lofty, maybe his quest wouldn’t be as intense as he initially thought. Mike felt his moods darken at the chance. He wanted a task to actually make him work. Prepare him for the real world. Get a trophied scar. Or maybe she was just proud about how far he came.
He liked that.
Mike shook himself from his thoughts and jumped to his boots, flipping Trinket from his lap and leaving her scrambling to get on her paws. He resisted the urge to lean down and calm her shock. He snapped his spine straight, head facing forward and hands at his sides, before he tucked one over his gut to bow.
“Rise, Michael. There is no need for that.” He heard her soft voice tell him, her tender hands on his shoulders and urging him back up.
His head snapped up towards hers. “Ah. Sorry.” He breathed. He was anxious.
“Don’t apologize!” She teased in a lulling way.
He followed his orders because he was a respectable young boy. His dark eyes fell on his mother, her keen sight searching his face with a light smile on her shining face and her hair braided behind her head and under a few jewel clips.
He relaxed his tense muscles under her cool demeanor, realizing he didn’t have anything to be so nervous about.
“Hi.” He responded, realizing how flippant he sounded before he cleared his throat. “What’s uh, what’s up?”
Stupid question.
He already knew what was up.
Her smile widened. “We are ready to talk with you.”
His eyes went wide.
“Alright.”
And he trailed after his mother like a nervous stray. Like a mutt he had seen on the streets of the town, tail between his legs, ears down, and licking at his nose nervously. He would be facing one of the most elite councils in history. They were all extremely reputable and powerful, and had alliances with the queen. The kingdom of Hawkins had been chosen to be served to. When he had been told at age twelve, he hadn’t entirely understood what that meant. But he had grown to understand.
The weather since the cleric and sorcerer moved into the palace, had been clearer, land more fertile, and there was less illness. The bard was extremely charismatic, being able to entertain crowds in and out of the town with his lute and quick wit, the speedster and ranger capable of dragging away and defeating ogres, orcs, goblins, and serpents. They were so established in the land even surrounding kingdoms had caught wind of them.
Mike, despite having never met them (yet!)
Ever since they had been here, working since they were young, Michael was ushered out of the presence of such figures. He was too “messy”, or “unkempt” to even be seen by them. Perhaps it was a thing of shame rooted in his mother, from his appearance of unfiltered dialect.
But he was finally to meet his heroes.
Finally.