Chapter Text
Chapter one: Will
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16th of May, 1525
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Wilson Everly is my name, the sole heir to the throne of the Curlaire kingdom, being the only son born to the King and Queen. That doesn't mean I'm lonely. I have a little sister two years younger than me—Ivelyn. The two of us grew up close, having no one else our age.
Ivy is fifteen now, and our father is already arranging a marriage for her. Brando Sommar, heir of a rivaling kingdom—Corellmane—but extremely wealthy. He's the same age as I and rumoured to be extremely handsome, though he has never made a public appearance.
I, on the other hand, have been attending meetings and public events since I was eight. I still remember all the creepy stares and grins the older women would give me, realizing now that they were predatory. My only solace is that at least it was me and not Ivy.
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With a jolt of surprise, I recall that today is the day Ivelyn will be meeting Brando Sommar for the first time. Not giving my parents a choice, I get into the carriage with my sister, fully intending to protect her in case Brando turns out to be someone taking advantage of the situation.
The ride isn't long, but the two of us are unnaturally quiet. Even the chaperone knows something is wrong, because everyone knows that the Royal siblings are never quiet.
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The Sommars' palace greatly resembles our own, a grand, tall thing with guards waiting by the entrance to escort them inside.
"Princess, an honor to finally meet you. And Prince Wilson, we had no idea you were coming."
"Neither did my parents. I'm here just to observe and protect my little sister if necessary."
"Protect her from who?" A new voice joins the conversation. The voice belongs to a dirty blond guy in an airy white blouse and black trousers, sitting on a ground floor windowsill.
The guard who had been speaking to Ivy and I whips around humorously fast.
"Prince Brando, I had no idea you were there. I was under the impression that you were waiting for the princess in the chapel hall for your first meeting."
"I was, but the chapel hall bores me so. I would much rather be sat by a window." Brando climbs out of the window entirely, crossing the courtyard to meet Ivy and I face-to-face.
"Princess Ivelyn, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." Brando kisses her hand, a social pleasantry. I can tell that neither of their hearts is truly in it.
"Prince Wilson, I've heard great things." His handshake is so proper for someone never seen by the public, perfectly strong and firm. His skin is impossibly soft, the kind of hands that would feel good around one's waist or chest.
"Likewise," I say in a perfectly practiced diplomatic tone.
"Where are my manners? Come inside," He laughs—actually laughs. It's a bright, careless sound, untainted by society's expectations. Oh, how I wish I could bottle it up and get drunk on it. His eyes are like heaven, his voice is like rain. Whatever afterlife there is, Brando Sommar is my paradise.
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I don't even notice that we're in one of the many drawing rooms until Ivy pulls my onto a tabouret. "So, Brando—"
"Please, call me Bran." He interrupts me. That's never happened before. I find I don't mind it because it's him.
"So, Bran, what exactly are your intentions with my sister?"
"Will, I'm going to be fully transparent here—I have no intentions of doing anything Ivy doesn't want to do. She has confessed in our letters that her heart isn't in this marriage. Neither is mine. Both of us agree that we're only accepting this arranged marriage because there are much worse people in the world. We got lucky."
I'm taken aback at how easily he calls me Will, but again, I don't seem to mind.
"Will, there's something I haven't told you. I'm sapphic. I love girls, not boys. Bran knows this and has agreed that we don't need to even act like a couple behind closed doors." Ivy's confession isn't what surprises me—even as kids, I had my suspicions—it's the fact that Bran knew before I did.
"And I am also fully homosexual, so this is a mutual agreement between Ivy and I." Bran tells me far too casually. Does his kingdom not punish for every little thing?
I must look as confused as I feel because Ivy explains to me, "It's called a lavender marriage, Will. Two homosexuals of opposite genders marry for an assortment of reasons."
I get flashbacks to my childhood—the summer romance I had at twelve with a noble lady-to-be named Heather, the way it felt wrong in ways I couldn't explain, the feelings I'd ignored until I forgot how to feel them—and suddenly it all made sense. I am a homosexual. And the jealousy I feel when I look at Ivy and Bran is me being in love with him.
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Once Ivy and I return home, I swiftly isolate myself in my room. The realizations of the day are too overwhelming.
I'm mad at myself—mad that I'd ever convinced myself that feelings were wrong, mad I didn't realize it sooner.
I tear apart my room in anger, paintings torn and strewn all over the hardwood floor.
I exhaust myself, pleading with whatever god exists to give me a chance with Bran, begging for Ivy to find a wife. At least then all three of us would be happy.
I cry for the first time in seven years because me being able to openly love Bran is something from a fairytale. I can't remember when I changed, but I now lie on my bed in my night clothes with my crimson and white outfit of the day forgotten on the floor.
Once barren of the energy to feel strongly, I accept my fate. I am resigned to eternal unhappiness unless a miracle finds me.
I have long since stopped believing in such things. I drift into slumber as a shooting star passes my window. I wish…