Kingdoms AU

[tensions]

HAND OF THE KING ( joshua, monty, alecto ) A kingdom rises. Joshua, its crown prince, with his not-so-secret lover, Monty, a sellsword turned kingsguard. And Alecto, the new arrival, a gifted bride from a recent conquest.

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[A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd]

[singinthestorm]

It's a grey and rainy morning, but the Crown Prince has taken a moment to pause and gaze out the window with a small smile on his face, having apparently caught sight of something (or someone) of interest. One of the court advisors, sitting next to him, takes a moment to glance out as well, curious about what might have distracted the Prince from the current discussion.

This part of the castle overlooks the training fields for the castle knights, and they are outside practicing even in the gloomy weather, dressed in practical leather attire but already soaked to the skin as they spar against each other with wooden weapons, churning even the hard-packed earth to mud beneath their heavy boots.

The Prince's gaze seems to be drawn to one figure in particular, loose dark hair and a sturdy build, handily taking on three opponents at once, spinning with nimble grace as he bends low to sweep one opponent off his feet, sending him sprawling into the dirt, and then jumps up again, ducking to the side to dodge an overhead blow, before tapping his final opponent on the shoulder, pulling what would be a killing blow, if they hadn't been in practice. That was definitely going to leave a spectacular bruise...

The advisor sighs and the Prince turns to him immediately, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, where were we?" and picks up the conversation again, about plans to send aid to the towns in their newly acquired territory and exempting them from taxes for a specific period of time as they rebuilt. They are interrupted twice more - once by one of the younger princesses, clamoring for attention from her half-brother and eldest sibling, and again by a messenger bearing news from one of their allied kingdoms, with an additional personal note tucked into the official correspondence from his fiancee there.

Prince Joshua accepts the letter with a nod of thanks for the messenger and tucks it away carefully into the pocket of his tunic to respond to later.

The rest of the day proceeds more or less normally - listening to petitioners with his father, the King, participating in more discussions with the court advisors. Finally, later in the afternoon, he not-quite-rushes to the stables to saddle his horse and head out for a ride, eager despite the remaining mist of rain hanging over everything, because this was the time of day when, freed from the strictures of the castle, he gets to spend some time with Monty. Alone.

[tensions]

He can spot the Prince's horse immediately upon the horizon, a flash of gold and white, racing through the same path he used to take as a boy, when attempting (very dramatically so) to flee the castle grounds, frustrated by the restrictive demands of the royal court. Monty quirks a smile and immediately steers his own steed to follow, chasing the Prince down easily and cutting a path across him, blocking his way forward. Both of their horses start, rearing.

"Now, where do you think you're headed, your highness?" He says the line with a grin, an echo of the first time they met like this. "You should never be unaccompanied outside the central walls."

The mist from the rain tamps down his hair, curling the ends even more, giving him a wild, windtossed look as he tugs on the reins to force his horse into a trot beside the Prince, so close their knees practically bump together as they move. "Shall we?"

He winks, before glancing towards a familiar stone watchtower, usually abandoned except during battle. It was a small space, easily overlooked, outfitted with just the basics for a single man or two on watch. But more recently, it's served as their private meeting place, where titles and rank and expectations could be thoroughly discarded - alongside their armor and clothes - for the sake of more pleasurable, and indecent activity.

[infringe]

The day his country fell was a cold one, when the sky was like lead and the clouds were racing, where stubborn wildflowers died away and the wind became sharp and gusty, blowing showers of yellow leaves onto the gray, wrinkled surface of the rivers surrounding the capital, stained red and black with blood and ash.

And ever since that day, Prince Alecto had sworn to spend the rest of his living days, hunting down the man responsible for destroying his home, his family and friends, and cutting his throat.

But, presently, things were not going according to plan at all. He’s bound with his hands behind his back, a fabric gag in his mouth to keep him silent (and to halt his perpetual habit of biting his captors. Which he's done many times by now). He was kneeled on the bed, and fuming, though despite his irritation, Alecto still managed to appear vaguely lovely, easy on the eyes, his severe features granting him a certain coolness, a cruel, mannered charm which had a strange cold breath of the ancient world.

When the heavy door to the bedchamber suddenly opens, he expects to finally see the face of the country’s crowned prince, the man Alecto had dedicated himself to slaughter in vengeance - but instead, a tall, broad shouldered man ducks in first and leans against the wall by the door, arms crossed loosely. He’s devastatingly handsome, Alecto realizes immediately, with dismay, what with his dark hair, wavy and thick, and stunning eyes that were as clear as riverwater. Although they had never met before this very moment, Alecto easily surmises his identity: Montgomery Quill, the leader of the royal kingsguard, and, if rumors would have it, the young Prince Joshua’s personal bodyguard and lover.

Alecto narrows his eyes at him. He sees the hint of numerous knives and hidden daggers stashed throughout his outfit and armor and swallows, hard, willing himself to stay calm. This man was a killing machine, make no mistake.

Monty gazes back, dispassionately and with scrutiny, but says and does nothing.

Only a moment later does the Prince himself arrive (it must be him, his hair like the golden sun itself, his skin porcelain-smooth and clean in such a way that only the wealthy could afford to achieve) and Alecto immediately glares at him, his displeasure and fury unable to be contained. He jerks against his bonds with a growl, as if on instinct, his body shaking with the desire to strike, to fight. This makes Monty chuckle, amused, which only boils Alecto’s blood further. Ass, he thinks. I’ll make him regret that one day.

[singinthestorm]

He hadn't been sure what he expected, exactly, after coming home from the trip he'd had to beg his father to let him make, out to the newly acquired territories, which - in addition to the war that had brought them within the bounds of influence of the kingdom - was also in the midst of a famine and plagued by bandits and highwaymen - the entirely expected result of a conquest. Monty had barely slept at all while they were gone, on the alert for anyone who might want to attack the Crown Prince of their recent adversaries and current overlords, but most of the people Joshua had met had simply been tired and hungry, and grateful even for the small amount of supplies and aid he'd managed to convince the advisors to supply him with.

"If we're claiming the land, we have to take responsibility for all the people on it as well," he'd pointed out in that very heated council meeting, to his father's annoyance. "Otherwise, what was the point of all of this?"

So coming home to the news that they'd captured some prominent members of the resistance movement (bandits on one side of the border, revolutionaries on the other) and that one of them had been gifted to the Crown Prince wasn't exactly welcome news. Mostly he'd been hoping to sleep in his own bed, with Monty there beside him, safe within the walls of the castle, deep in their own territory. Perhaps he'd finally write his response to the Princess of the neighboring allied kingdom he'd been betrothed to since soon after her birth, a means of cementing the friendship between their respective countries. He enjoyed their letters, the regular correspondence, the puzzles they exchanged in addition to their comments about sundry happenings, but he felt no real spark of love, nothing more than the warmth of distant friendship. They could become that, at least, after they were wed...

He looks at his bed, at the beautiful man bound and kneeling on top of it, glaring daggers at Joshua, and suppresses a sigh.

"If I untie you, you're going to try and strangle me, aren't you?" He says, with an air of wry amusement. "That really doesn't look comfortable at all though."

[For often thro' the silent nights]

[singinthestorm]

As the Crown Prince, at any given moment, there are a lot of things for Joshua to think about. Even without lofty humanitarian goals in mind (something which this particular prince did, in fact, take very seriously), there were other considerations - the threat of assassination, the political jockeying of advisors, sponges, and hangers-on that seemed to develop almost immediately around any given court, the delicate balance of power between competing priorities and nation-states fighting over limited resources: land, people, trade.

Right now, whether anything of that nature is going through Prince Joshua's head, is hard to say. Right now, he is sitting next to a bed in what passed for the sickroom of the castle barracks, staring desperately at the well-beloved and uncharacteristically peaceful and pale face of Montgomery Quill. Joshua's eyes are red but dry, his fingers clasped together in a white-knuckled grip.

In fairness, Monty passed through the sickroom quite often for someone so well-known for besting his opponents in battle, but seldom was he this - still. (Joshua rejects the obvious term his mind is ready to offer up: lifeless.) But usually, he wasn't here under duress, wasn't under some suspicion of treason, wasn't recovering (he had to be recovering) from having his vital organs painstakingly sewn back inside him after they had spilled out, glistening and steaming, into the open air -

Joshua takes a deep breath, swallows back to the bile that rises at that memory.

It had been a week ago. They had been walking outside on a windy spring day - they being the three of them, Joshua, Monty, and -

His fingernails dig deep enough into his skin to draw blood.

He'd known, obviously. Maybe not the full picture, the full breadth of what this actually meant - and what people might take it upon themselves to do about it. But he'd known that Alexa wasn't who he pretended to be, had known that he must have some connection to the royal family of the kingdom so recently conquered, that he had little to no reason to trust or have any kind of goodwill towards Joshua. But he hadn't wanted to take those observations all the way to the conclusion himself - that Alexa was Alecto Crabtree, the son and heir to that toppled throne, that this was personal.

And Monty - he'd known, he'd been suspicious this entire time of Alex- of Alecto - was the one paying the price for that now. Because he'd known and yet still he'd been willing to die for the fact that Joshua wouldn't want any harm to come to someone he had started to come to view as a friend, whoever they actually were, and especially not at the hands of -

His own men. People he'd trained and fought besides, bested on the training grounds. Men he'd visited while they were recovering from injuries of their own in this very room.

Men who'd been told that their Crown Prince was in danger from an enemy right at his side and rushed to his aid, only to realize too late that they were nothing more than pawns in a game being played out high above their heads, the maneuvering of higher powers.

He'd been pulling his blows, Joshua remembers, gazing inward, and Joshua hadn't even had to say a word before Monty noticed the trajectory of the weapon meant for Alecto - an easy enough death, the removal of an inconvenient piece in the staged chaos of the moment - and made the calculation that the only way to prevent Alecto's death was to put himself between -

He bites down on his lip, hard enough for it to start bleeding again.

What made it worse, somehow, in the aftermath, was how sorry everyone was - or at least, pretended to be. They hadn't even tried to arrest Alecto. That meant something, surely, and nothing good, but Joshua was too heartsick and tired to think more deeply on that right now.

[infringe]

It had happened so fast. Joshua, one hand shading his light-dazzled eyes, was telling them a story about something funny one of his sisters had done the week before and Monty, walking beside him, gazing upon the young prince with breathless, doting patience -

Until suddenly, that bright blue gaze sharpened like a knife's edge, noticing something to their left.

And the rest was chaos, as the sharp end of a halberd came charging towards him only to gut through Montgomery Quill as the man fully moved to block Alecto from harm with such decisive certainty it took Alecto's breath away to even think about it now. From that point on, each time he replayed the sequence of events from that afternoon, all action slowed to a dreamlike glide, frame by frame in his memory; the motion of a hand, a sentence spoken, seemed to fill an eternity. Little things - a cricket on a stem, the golden flash of pin on a soldier's breast in the shape of a gyrfalcon in flight - were magnified, brought from the background in achingly clear focus.

Like the blood. Gods, the hot, disgusting stench of it and the way it pulsed out of Monty's body like a wild river pushing past a broken dam, gushing from his mouth and nose and from between his fingers where he clutched at the horrible, gaping wound in his stomach. Alecto remembers how shocked he was to see a man like Monty in this manner, how unrealistic it felt to him that a man so strong and so skilled at the art of war, suddenly struggled to stay upright before finally collapsing down to one knee and keeling forward.

Alecto thinks he won't be getting rid of that terrible, humbling image any time soon. Nor will he soon forget the way all color had left Joshua's face as he held onto the man he loved, the man who was using the last of his strength to touch the side of his prince's face with such unparalleled tenderness -

All this horror. Just because Alecto had lied to them. For so very, very long.

Presently, Alecto is waffling outside the sick ward. He's been told things are looking grim. And for a while, Alecto wonders if he should speak to Joshua at all, if he even had the right to do so now. It tore him up inside - had this been a month or so ago, Alecto might have felt proud, triumphant even to see his enemy so broken. But the truth is, lately, he's grown...fond of Prince Joshua and his land, its peoples and culture. He...likes him. Quite a lot. Despite still officially being his prisoner (and technically, slave, though Alecto knows Joshua would absolutely balk at that).

The sound of him opening the door is painfully disruptive, even to his own ears. "...Joshua," he says, quietly and without the need for excessive titles now that all was revealed. "...I'm -" His sentence dies stillborn in his throat.

[The terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue]

[tensions]

The first thing Monty asks for after he wakes up after a full two months of being unconscious was: his prince. And the second thing was: a jug of wine and a plate of bread and cheese.

He felt horrendously weak and frail, but nonetheless, he was able to sit up within a few minutes and groan about how dry and acrid his mouth felt. The wound in his stomach had left a terrible scar in a jagged, explosive shape, like a collapsed star. He brings two fingers to it, hissing at how tender it still felt. It may be a while yet until he could fight at even close to his real potential. Which worries him - how could he be of any use to Prince Joshua in such a state? Better I had died, he thinks, an errant thought.

Attendants flutter about him and word gets out immediately that the leader of the kingsguard had finally arisen, though he was looking a bit worse for wear. And by the time the Crowned Prince finally shows up at his door, Monty is in the middle of shaving his outrageous beard back into his preferred, short scruff, a bowl of water in his lap and an open razor against his jaw. He's wearing a simple, cream undertunic, the lacing undone carelessly at the top to show the hollow of his throat and most of his chest where color had finally returned to his skin in a healthy glow.

[singinthestorm]

When word reaches him that Monty had finally awoken, had asked after him, he was walking in the garden with Alecto.

Unsurprisingly, they spent a lot of time together these days, as they had done even before Monty had stepped in the way of a halberd meant for Alecto, in silent obedience and utter understanding of his prince's temperament. They'd reached even more of an understanding of sorts over Monty's unconscious body, in the sick room, and if new rumors and whispers of the prince finally 'making proper use' of the prisoner of war he'd been gifted (whose identity, despite the melodrama of a few months ago, was still kept secret) had sprung up, he hadn't let that impact his actual behavior.

Mostly it involved a lot of reading, and arguing, and walking together, trailed by the four guardsmen that were assigned to keep him safe (there had only been two initially, but when Joshua had thoroughly bested one of them in combat during his afternoon sparring practice, the thought was that perhaps the Crown Prince's guard needed to be increased) and perhaps a few lingering glances and touches in the privacy of the suite of rooms all three of them had used to share.

He's gone like a shot the moment he hears the news, back to the room where Monty had lain for two months, heedless of any propriety at this point. He slows down as he enters the barracks sick room again, back to his usual composed attempts at regal bearing, but his face is all uncomplicated happiness as he peers in to the room, not even bothering to knock to notify of his arrival (he had next to no notion that such things might apply to him, at least when it came to Monty). Even at this time of day, there were still others milling about, pretending to be focused on their tasks and otherwise just watching with anticipation, like they would a play or some other kind of drama.

"I heard that the lord commander of the kingsguard was looking for the Crowned Prince," Joshua remarks with full formality, eyes drinking in the sight of Monty - awake and moving and looking much more like his old self, albeit without his armor and other layers.

[Dangerous, full of answers]

[singinthestorm]

The Crowned Prince was looking much better these days, or so the gossip in court was saying. The cooks were pleased at his increased appetite, the King and the rest of the council for his contributions to discussions (when they weren't vaguely incensed at the content of said contributions). Most of the servants were glad to see him smiling as he went about his business in the castle. But no one seemed more excited than his two younger sisters, about having their reliable playmate back, and their raised voices could be heard around the castle most afternoons, cajoling the prince into taking them out to ride, or to read them a story - an exciting one, this time, Josh, not one of your boring history books - or to mediate a dispute between them.

At the moment, however, Prince Joshua was doing nothing more exciting than browsing the shelves of the castle library, in an out-of-the-way section surrounded by the older volumes, dusty and unaired, swirling motes visibly dancing in the sunbeams streaming through the gaps in the thick curtains after he tugged them open to let in the light, spilling out onto faded carpet and a sturdy reading table. This was a corner of the space that very few people bothered to venture to, and was usually good for privacy, if nothing else.

On this particular occasion, however, the Prince wasn't alone. Alexa - that is, Alecto Crabtree - who had been captured as a prisoner from among the patriot-traitor-revolutionary element (depending on your point of view) within the recently annexed portion of the kingdom a few months ago and been brought to the castle as a form of tribute, and also happened to be the literal heir to that territory's throne - had steered their conversation towards an obscure philosophical concept, and Joshua Archer - determined to find the end of the thread of his thought - was trying to find the book he swore he remembered being right here, actually, which would - prove him right, or Alecto wrong, or something else. It wasn't really clear what he was trying to accomplish.

This wasn't the first time they'd gathered in this part of the library. Apart from being secluded and seldom trafficked, this was a convenient space for conversations, with sound not carrying far, and contained some of the oldest of the castle's book collection.

It also, it seemed, had a repelling effect on a certain rambunctious portion of the population, such as the two princesses, who seemed determined to make their eldest sibling pay back, with interest, two months of moping neglect.

"Maybe I can fake my death," he observes to Alecto, as he brushes dust off the top of a book and examines the title thoughtfully before putting it back on the shelf. "They'd have to stop bothering me then, right? I'm genuinely asking you to share your perspective as a younger sibling."

[infringe]

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Alecto huffs, sitting on top of a small table, watching Joshua rummage through the shelves. "And I wouldn't know. I was the only boy of my family, and far younger than all of my sisters. I barely spent any time with them as a child, really, except Philippa." He pauses, remembering her fondly with a smile. "We were certainly close for a long time. And I hope she still thinks of me fondly, wherever she is."

Alecto looks out the tall, thin window where daylight was streaming in, long beams of hammered gold. "And when I came of age, the rest of my siblings had already been married off or sent away to manage their fiefdoms and other such responsibilities." He waves his hand vaguely, leaning his chin in his palm as he stared at Joshua. "I certainly didn't have the spare time you seem to have in such ample supply here."

[On either side the river lie]

[singinthestorm]

Over the next few months, affairs surrounding the Crowned Prince Joshua Archer settle into something like a new equilibrium.

While Montgomery Quill was awake and already hard at work on his recovery, no one seemed inclined to risk the safety of the Prince without his devoted protector at his side, particularly with news of activity and rebellion in the distant reaches of the kingdom and newly acquired territories.

Notably, the areas that the Prince had visited previously and made overtures to still seemed the most stable of all the lands, but elsewhere, small pockets of resistance and discontent seemed to crop up faster than the armies quartered close by could put them down. Confined only to the area immediately around the castle until further notice, the Prince was taking a far more active role in the council meetings, getting more outspoken and eloquent by the week, aggressively demanding investigation into the Crown-appointed administrators of those new territories, advocating for more overtures of goodwill, and finding and empowering local experts to supplement the external appointees, regardless of their previous affiliation.

What rumors there were of the captured political prisoner who had been the apparent target of the internal assassination attempt that had managed to fell even the indomitable Montgomery Quill and was even now warming the Prince's bed almost every night seemed to focus on the Prince's apparent and surprising partiality and indulgence, rather than his new outspokenness in council meetings; no one suspected anything further than that, even when Alexa could be seen with the Prince almost everywhere during the day. Whether they were taking walks around the castle grounds, observing the kingsguard hard at work in the training and practice fields, or apparently lingering for hours alone together in the library, the two of them seemed nearly inseparable, generally parting only when the Prince was closed in sessions with the King and his advisors, which was already an extraordinary level of freedom and trust for someone who had originally been brought to the castle bound and gagged.

[The bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down]

[singinthestorm]

On this particular occasion, Joshua and Alecto were at the stables. While Joshua had been forbidden from venturing very far (his keepers were never able to keep up with him, it seemed), he still rode almost every day, though staying within the grounds; until now, Alecto had merely watched him from the side, or gone off on his own elsewhere. Today, however, Joshua has a surprise for him.

[infringe]

Alecto looks stunning as he walks to the stables, in the colors of the crown: fine golds and whites, flowing silks and gossamer. The only anomaly being his shock of dark hair (a few longer pieces braided back, as was in vogue for the riverlands in the summer. It certainly garnered him some strange looks here and there) and the dark metal signet ring upon his finger bearing the shape of a leaping fish (once used to stamp wax seals and now merely a memory of a family torn asunder). It's been quite a long time now that he's spent in captivity here at the capitol, and the royal court was very eager to have him acclimate to the lifestyle here behind the castle walls, insistently chipping away at everything that could visibly declare upon him the now dead name of Crabtree and replace it with that of the reigning House of Archer (especially after that initial assassination attempt). And so, Alecto reluctantly shed his homeland blues and corals and adopted what he could of the throne.

And really, he couldn't complain. It was a small price to pay for all the privileges that rained down upon him daily (an endless supply of books, wine, food, clothes, jewelry, just to name a few things), and sometime he readily forgot that he was, in fact, a prisoner.

At the stables, he sees Joshua and he quirks a little lopsided smile, his signature (not that he did it on purpose. But ever since his sister Pippa had accidentally clipped him in the face with a stray fishing hook, Alecto's mouth could never quite even itself out again. The faint scar from that incident in his childhood was still visible, bisecting the side of his lips in a thin line). It was charming, he knows. He's been told many times. "Sorry I'm a little late," he says, not sorry at all. "You said you had something for me?"

[As often through the purple night]

[singinthestorm]

It is rare, these days, for the Prince and his faithful protector to be seen in close vicinity. Montgomery Quill is almost always on the practice field, building up his strength again with a rapidity that was baffling and almost worrying to those around him. But it is after dark now, the air chill and filled with the sounds of nighttime creatures, and on the supposed-to-be-deserted practice grounds there is still the rhythmic thwack of wooden practice weapons hitting a target, over and over, unbroken for almost two full hours.

Prince Joshua Archer stands still, watching silently from the shadows, a frown on his face.

[tensions]

Shirtless and drenched in sweat, Monty focuses his energy on completing his training routine even though it had already been hours past when he should be done. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave just yet, repeating the same sequence of motions over and over. There's something deeply meditative about it all and Monty was desperate for that taste of peace, to tamp down these complicated, caustic thoughts he had been having lately.

In the dark, moonlight streaming down from above, the pale, jagged scar spanning the entire left side of his abs is clearly visible. Still healing but rough and shiny within new skin. Looking at him now, it’d be almost impossible to tell he had almost died, suffering a near to fatal blow just half a year ago. He moves with clear intent, no hesitance. Fierce and nimble, almost graceful in his motions. If anything, there’s just the slightest bit of wince or pause when he moves a certain way, turns too fast, or ducks down to low.

Regardless, in a few days, he’ll ride out again.

And that’s how Monty had liked to keep his schedule as of late. He spends a lot of time away from the castle grounds in fact, far from the prince he promised himself to and far from safety. Instead, time and time again these past few months, he had eagerly rode to the outskirts of the new territories to personally quell uprisings and rebellions, had taken the riskiest routes, placed himself at the front lines of war. Eager to face death, stare it in the eyes. Perhaps more eager than he has been in a while.

(Because when he thinks about home, when he thinks about being stationed stoically by the side of the throne, he thinks about how he can see out of the corner of his eye, how Joshua reaches for Alecto Crabtree’s slender, pale hand, fingers lacing -)

Better I had died, he thinks the same phrase over and over, striking the wood training dummy with an overly violent blow. Curse his resilience.

A soldier’s expiration date is short. And sometimes, so is a lover’s and really he should have known better.

The problem is, Monty doesn’t know how to think about how he feels right now. He never had to (and no one ever really cared to ask, didn’t really expect or want him to have any emotions: they needed him to be a loyal knife, and blades do not think or feel) and didn’t have the eloquence to express it anyhow. All he knows is that recently his chest hurts more, deep in between the ribs, than the wound in his stomach. And being at the castle, so close to the royal family and his charge (and his beautiful, thoughtful amber eyes, his shock of golden hair, his smile like the warmth of the sun itself -), seems to make it worse.

No matter. None of that matters. Monty had a job to do anyhow and he's trying to make sure he can do it right, do it to the caliber expected of the royal kingsguard's lord commander.

He forces his body to move faster now, just for a burst, grunting with the effort as a familiar pain blooms around his still tender wound. He focuses on that physical sensation, steels his mind away from...all those other thoughts.

So it's not that he doesn't see Joshua there, watching him. He does, but he pretends he doesn't notice until he's sure he's done with this one moveset, perfecting it to his liking. Only then, does he straighten, breathing somewhat heavily, and turns to look.

My Prince, he thinks when he sees Joshua start to approach. But he doesn’t say that, (he really doesn’t say it much anymore these days). “Your highness,” he says instead, polite and reserved, lowering his head in respect briefly before going to put the training weapon down, trading it for a damp cloth to wipe his face, his arms, before pulling on his worn shirt hanging over the gate. “Is there anything you need this hour of the night? It’s late.” His request is genuine, gently attentive, at the ready almost on instinct to provide Prince Joshua anything he should happen to want or request for any reason.

After all, he was his Crowned Prince’s through and through. Body, heart, life, soul. That would never change. But he was a fool to think he could ever consider Joshua his own in any real, lasting way.

[Burned like one burning flame together]

[singinthestorm]

As a prince, there were many situations in which Joshua Archer was used to getting his own way. From childhood he had been indulged, his whims and preferences catered to whenever practicable or doable - and at times even when they were not. That he'd managed to grow up not to be a complete monster was likely a matter of innate personality and luck. At some point, he'd taken the preferential treatment as incentive to strive for more - to work harder, to be better - and at least in matters to do with ruling.

In other matters - well. He was still a prince. And if his methods had gotten more subtle with age and experience, he was still very much practiced in arranging things to his liking, and expected the world to go along with it.

Hence, this particular evening that he'd been contemplating for some time. With Monty recovered (in more than one way), he'd reclaimed him for his duties as Joshua's bodyguard, rather than being sent off on all manner of lesser errands, and finally been able to dismiss the four rather intrusive guards who'd been set up to replace him. With Alecto Crabtree's position more or less established at court (and in Joshua's bed), there is very little suspicion or scrutiny to contend with in that regard; at this point, it was only to be expected, and while there hadn't yet been talk of dissolving the arranged marriage with the princess of their allied kingdom, it was no longer the certainty that it had once been, not that premarital fidelity had ever been expected of him. Alecto had certainly opened his mind to many things, in the months since he'd been gifted to the prince.

He'd excused himself before dinner to retire to his room, citing a headache after a long day of (hopefully fruitful, eventually) discussion over next year's tax code and the need to garner support from the commonfolk of the recently pacified territories, the kingdom's sphere of influence spreading slowly through the independent duchies and earldoms that had fractured into separate fiefdoms after the fall of their former Capitol, standing up their own armies in the aftermath. He's still mulling the problem over even as he requests a tray of lighter fare to be sent up to his room in hopes of eventually whetting his recalcitrant appetite, and then gets sidetracked into another conversation that he only just manages to gracefully extricate himself from.

Unsurprisingly, when he does make it up to his rooms, Alecto is already tucking into the tray, lounging on the bed with a grin on his face, while Monty stood watch by the door, looking almost skeptical. He sighs and smiles at the same time, loosening the heavy court robes he'd been dragging around all day.

[infringe]

“Welcome back,” Alecto croons, comfortably laid out on the bed in nothing but a simple silken robe barely tied on. He’s plucking a strawberry from the tray and slowly eating it with clear delight, the sweet juices staining his lips a darker red than they already are. “Productive day in court, I assume?”

He watches as Monty automatically goes to help Joshua disrobe, making it so that he doesn’t have to ever turn or bend down or do anything unseemly or unsightly, no strain at all needed. “What a good, loyal dog he is,” Alecto clucks with a put-upon pout. “I’m jealous.”

He’s being a brat. On purpose. Because he’s bored. And the vaguely irritated look Monty shoots him makes him want to giggle. “Relax. I mean that as a compliment,” he amends, plucking a grape from the vine on the silver tray and tossing it into the air before catching it in his mouth, surprisingly elegant.

He and the lord commander of the kingsguard still had a lot of pain strung out between them but their relationship has been less stressful as of late. Sure, Monty had nearly died to save his life and Alecto wouldn’t be quick to forget that act but the two of them as people didn’t have much of a foundation to stand on together and for a while were either awkward about it or straight up unwilling to try to establish one. Alecto realizes he has a role to play in this as he’s avoidant and standoffish to most people that he wasn’t required (for political or social reasons) to interact with (“You’re very unapproachable,” Monty had said, to which Alecto replied, “And yet here you are.” So he’s aware he’s part of the problem).

Nonetheless, Monty had sought him out a few times these past few months and they’ve had surprisingly nice though short chats (which sometimes dissolved into some sort of snap judgement or argument but that was completely dependent on Alecto’s mood). One day in particular stood out to Alecto though: when they met in the gardens and Monty had chosen to gift back to him the trophies he and his men took from their initial conquest of the riverlands. Including the fish sigil pin that Alecto’s lover worn in battle. It had taken every ounce of self control for Alecto not to have buckled over and cried just then as he slowly received these items back into his arms. Instead he had stiffly nodded, lip quivering, and told Monty to get out of his sight.

That was…one of the more pleasant conversation they’ve had thus far.

[And sometimes thro' the mirror blue/The knights come riding two and two]

[blessed_is_he]

Justin Baruch had been looking forward to this tournament for quite some time. While he was kept very busy with his own myriad duties, the rumors from the capital of a fearsome knight who had recently begun appearing at the young Prince Joshua's side - apparently drafted from among the ranks of the commoners - was intriguing and diverting, and he was always interested in new blood. While his own background and training were of the highest caliber, he had yet to fall into the trap of complacency and condescension that tended to ensnare those in his position. He's very much aware that he was starting to move past his own personal prime, that age would catch up with him sooner rather than later, that there was very much an expiration date on his service and capability. Fortunately for him, he had no real fear of being cast off or set adrift - he had trust both in his liege lord and in the resources he had stored up over the years - and was looking forward to a quiet, leisurely retirement, whenever that time should come.

But that time was certainly not yet.

This was the year Prince Joshua turned thirteen, and therefore was a momentous occasion for the entire kingdom and her associated allies, and the tournament thrown in his honor was nothing less than a spectacle. The young prince was an adorable sight - blond hair glinting in the sun under a small crown, maintaining an expression of solemn dignity despite the heat of the sun, though familiarity allowed Justin to detect a hint of a smile that was not as readily apparent to others - and Stiva seems in an appropriately charitable mood as he presents a personal gift along with his formal greeting when the visitors are formally presented to the royal family. Stiva had always had a bit of a soft spot for the polite and well-spoken prince, despite his general apathy towards children, and the longstanding accord between their houses had continued on good terms for many years.

As for Justin himself, he is glancing around the scene, sizing up his opponents, both known and unknown; his usual habit, given how much of a target he was, still in possession of many of the top records of the tournament. It is not difficult to spot the man - well, the boy, really, surely not more than seventeen or eighteen - he was most interested in meeting, in the form of a tall, dark-haired knight with bright blue eyes standing just behind the young prince, scowling out at the crowd, that Justin had never seen before. He had a surprisingly savage look to his eyes, a kind of hunger that transcended physical need, and Justin can feel his pulse quickening in anticipation, the heat rising in his blood. But the look on the young knight's face when he glances down at Joshua is a completely different story altogether - devotion and love and possessiveness, an underlying frustration mixed with a thwarted, writhing need that Justin cannot help but grin at, even as he makes his formal bows to the Prince.

Well, well. This was definitely going to be fun.

The tournament begins with displays of skill before moving towards the dueling competition, champions set against champions leading up to a battle royale of those still left standing. Justin had not lost once in several years and he was looking forward to a challenge, though the early fights between familiar faces are just a little disappointing.

[tensions]

He notices he's being watched, sized up, almost immediately. It's impossible to miss after all. See, there is intimacy in the moment where the eyes of two enemies meet. There is a tenderness in knowing you share the same desire with another person, even if it's the bloodiest kind.

And Monty finds that he's kind of buzzing, like a hive with no begging and hollow cavities, just a low and constant thrum of inhibited impatience. Granted, he's used to this, this peculiar kind of psychological hunting done before a fight. He's familiar with the sour taste this unique anticipation brings to his mouth that fuels the raw list for combat. It boils his blood, shoots sharp pangs of anxiety through his stomach and down his spine. In fact, Monty thrives off of it all. It makes him sharp and alert and hungry. It makes him feel alive. As he readies himself, fastening himself into his armor, sharpening his blade, so many pairs of eyes crawl over him: his body, his face, his arms, trying to find the softest parts of him, trying to expose any tremor of weakness he might have. He can tell by how they’re looks at him that they’re confident he’s no threat. He can tell that they're all underestimating him with how they look at him like he's below them (too young, too lowborn, too pretty to be here, to survive). Like he's prey.

That's fine, he thinks. Let them believe that to be true. They'll come to regret it soon enough.

His prince glances up at him, right before he steps into the arena, full of bright and hopeful trust. He ties a pale, embroidered ribbon to the top of Monty’s arm, a symbol of the royal family's approval (and claim). Monty softens briefly, a young beast masquerading as a grown knight in shining gold and platinum. He glances down at his battered knuckles; he sees anger and duty.

The fights begin. Monty rips through his opponents, a gorgeous surge of violent sweeps and spins and charges. He fights dirty and smart. His motions are unconventional, unpredictable, and risky. It shocks the crowd, entertains them. He hears some of them roar with approval, some calling for his head on a spike. The dirt beneath his feet darkens with the blood of lesser men.

But then there's Justin Baruch. He recognizes the sigil on his chest: a roaring black bear carrying the flaming sun on its back. A prominent noble house from the Westerlands. Monty squints at him from past his mess of dark hair, damp with sweat and oil. For some reason, the man's smiling at him.

[the sunbeam showers break and quiver/in the stream that runneth ever]

[blessed_is_he]

The festivities for Prince Joshua continue on for another two weeks, with all manner of other events - hunts and feasts and entertainments - being played before the gathered guests. Justin himself takes full advantage of a new hunting grounds, charming a few courtiers here and and a few of the local peasantry there, taking himself back to his liege's bed when called and offering up tales and his own body as entertainment in whatever way Stiva most wished to have him. He spares a passing thought or two for the young prickly knight following after the even younger Prince like an obedient dog, his blue eyes bright with hunger and confusion and adoration, for the way he'd opened up so beautifully for Justin's cock in the dark of an evening, his limbs quivering with exertion and unaccustomed restraint, his words quick and unstudied, desperate for polish. It's endearing, but not really something Justin is inclined to exert himself for without a special reason.

He is lounging comfortably in his allotted room, dressed only in his innermost layers - covered, but only barely - laughing and teasing one of the more charmingly forward ladies of the court, dark green eyes and flame-bright hair, his hand resting lightly on her thigh - when he hears a commotion outside.

[tensions]

Monty is making a commotion outside. It started with him stalking up to the guard on duty and demanding to see the “bear king’s knight” and being outright denied. And Monty, lacking any finesse and control over his temper, driven so much by blind impulse and eruptions of dramatic hysteria, immediately shoved his elbow into the other man’s jaw, likely dislocating it, before trying to shove the rest of him aside to get to the door behind him.

But Monty is young and stupid. He is a knight in name but not yet in practice. He is riddled with blind spots.

So, he doesn’t expect the knee in his stomach. Nor the boot to his face. Apparently the songs were true: the men of the Westerlands are well-known for their aggression and vengefulness.

By the time the door opens, Monty has bloody teeth and a hand in his messy hair holding him against the cold stone floor. He hears the man say something like: “Sir, this...little beast dared to request an audience with you. Should I teach him a thing or two?”

[a mighty silver bugle hung]

[singinthestorm]

Prince Joshua was used to absences, the constant interplay of duty and responsibility, the inevitable refrain of putting off what was wanted in service of what was needful, of living up to expectations, of necessary sacrifice. And Monty, the prince's faithful knight, protector, and lover, was bound by duty in his own way - to his calling, his position, and his own nature of carefully and perfectly honed violence - and his absences in service of that duty were dangerous, arduous ones, leaving Joshua fretful within the safety of the castle, regardless of whether Monty was called for conquest or for protection.

On this occasion, it was the latter - the internal foment of a neighboring kingdom's conflicts spilling over the borders as the various factions seek out an easy victory and mandate to end their jockeying for power - and a combined force of several allied kingdoms ride out to meet them. For his part, Joshua is kept in discussions - endless discussions of allocation of resources, of morale, of how to prevent their newly ingested territories from finding common ground with their current invaders - and falls into bed exhausted each night, physically safe, but mentally drained.

The only two bright spots - Alecto Crabtree, staying by his side, offering cover for his exhaustion and distraction and his usual quiet, incisive insight, as well as the comfort of a warm body on those few rare nights where he wasn't utterly devoid of any kind of desire or energy, and the few scrawled missives - delivered by courier and raven - he received from Monty at the front at irregular intervals. Each letter was a painstaking effort for the young knight, rough hands far more used to wielding spears than pens, but in deciphering his handwriting, his rough, blunt way of speaking, Joshua was able to glean some measure of comfort - of knowing he was still alive, still excelling on the battlefield, still providing his ineloquent but deadly accurate assessment of conditions at the front.

The news had all been good, of late - of the allied forces being able to push the encroaching forces back, of joint maneuvers with the armies of the Westerlands being applied to great effect - but Joshua hadn't heard from Monty in almost two weeks - a worrying amount of time to not even get a note. Frustrated with Joshua's pacing and anxiety, Alecto had suggested a more taxing activity to get his mind off of things.

So Joshua lay facedown on the bed, wrists and ankles tied securely, legs spread out wide, burying his flushed face against the sheets as Alecto works him over deliberately, eliciting desperate, instinctive reactions from the young prince's body with every bit of contact.

[tensions]

He stops sending letters once he decides he's coming back to the capital early. Enough work had been done on the front lines by then that he was confident to leave the rest to the banner houses and taking a few of his convey back home to their families, spouses, and lovers.

And so he rides across the bloodsoaked grasses, past the sea and its cold beaches, back to the black castle gates bordered by triumphant white and gold flags flapping in the wind. It takes him nearly a full week of traveling to return, through rain and hail and mud and heat. And when he finally arrives, there is no fanfare; there is no one to receive him. That's how it's always been. He is but the royal family's most trustworthy shadow, sent out in silence to dirty his hands in order to keep theirs clean.

Monty gives his warhorse over to the stableboys without a word and heads up through the kitchens and the backdoors to his young prince's quarters, eager to surprise him, a small collection of spoils in his pocket (a ring, a bracelet, a pressed wildflower) from the lands out West. He doesn't even bother to change out of his stained and bruised armor, his hair still a dark and sweaty mess from his journey, tied back messily at the base of his skull now that it had grown longer.

The oak door is heavy against his shoulder but he pushes past it only to see -

"Your highness," he says, his voice a low rumble of surprise, heated with the flickers of clear arousal. Alecto, that slippery little minnow, glances up from where he's been tonging at the prince's taint and grins, his chin shiny with spit and the slick of oil.

"Look who's come home for you, Joshua," Alecto all but purrs, his fingers spreading inside of the young prince's body as his fine, delicate wrist continues to pump in a slow rhythm. "Your loyal dog."

four gray walls and four gray towers overlook a space of flowers

[blessed_is_he]

It was a relatively common practice among the nobility to foster out, forming a complicated web of exchanged children, a mix of goodwill, hostages, and careful diplomacy. There were other aspects, of course, from bringing allies closer together, exchanging ties of friendship for those of blood, to sealing the bonds of former enemies to maintain a fragile peace.

Behind the more obvious transactions of the ruling class, were further, but no less significant exchanges, the blending of families between kingdoms. There was a freer sharing there, the blurring of relations without regard to the drawn borders of official maps, a slow, inexorable mingling of culture and country that was far more effective a unification than the most meticulously planned political marriage.

A few countries though, practiced a more specific and directed exchange, of knights and soldiers, whether sending promising young warriors off in a kind of apprenticeship, or accepting those of a close ally. Soldiers were an asset as much as children were, and truly good ones could be just as difficult to replace.

Both the Shchervaskayas and Archers had been on extraordinarily good terms for over a century. And it seemed - according to rumor - that the knight to the king, Justin Baruch, had conceived of a certain fondness for the very young favorite of the Archer's Crown Prince, since they had first met on the tourney field at young Joshua's thirteenth birthday. So only a few were surprised at the relatively conservative and straightlaced Archers sending one of their most promising fighters in decades to more licentious lands to complete his training, uncharacteristic though it might seem.

And Justin, at least, had no qualms at all about accepting the young knight under his care for the finishing touches of his education, offering a far more varied experience than could ever be available to him within the bounds of the Archer kingdom.

"Isn't that right, little knight?" He says aloud, in the middle of an errant though, apropos of nothing, as he slides his big hand between young Montgomery's shoulderblades. He is bent over, hands dug obediently into the round globes of his backside, holding himself open to accept the thick phallus that Justin is teasing along his crease, prodding at the furled hole of his ass. "You'll be good for me and keep this in during our ride out to meet the camp?"

His liege Lord was already about a half day's ride away, having set up a camp there for training exercises and maneuvers. Justin had been tasked to join him, along with a caravan of supplies for replenishment, and a fresh batch of recruits to undergo the necessary training. And of course, Justin would need to bring his favorite pet along - young Montgomery Quill - whose training had proceeded so very nicely and well over the past six months.

"Do you want my cum filling you too, little knight? For you to feel sloshing about inside you while you clench around your phallus on our ride together?"

[tensions]

He groans sharply, an almost angry sound, but he replies, "Yes, sir," obediently anyway. He's used to taking orders from Justin now, though it wasn't always this way. When he first arrived in the Westerlands as Sir Justin's charge (and officially a ward of the state), Monty was difficult and tempestuous and rebellious. But after so many months now, those "bad habits" (as Prince Stiva had called them, smirking behind his goblet) had been dealt with. More or less. Monty knew at least how to hold his tongue while he bent the knee. And he most certainly knew how to take a good, solid fucking without complaint by now.

It's not too hard to manage until they get onto the horse. Justin insisted they ride together, some breezy explanation about safety and efficiency that nobody else questioned. Monty grits his teeth, determined to endure.

He barely lasts 15 minutes.

Justin's chest is pressed against his back and with each step the horse takes, their bodies press tight against each other and the phallus inside of him thrusts up just enough to make Monty grunt. Sweat beads on his brow and he can barely sit up straight when the horse starts to gallop downhill. Monty buckles over, his fists gripping tight around the lead, the leather cutting into his skin. He says nothing, doesn't beg for relief. He knows better than that by now.

The terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue

[tensions]

In the early mornings while the sky was still grey and cold, sputtering fog, Monty had developed a habit. He gets up and cuts across the kitchen through the back of the castle grounds, past the servants' quarters and towards the stables. Usually, there is no need for anyone but the stableboys to be here, tending to the animals with their gentle touch while the rest of the court stirs awake to begin their day, donning sword and silk alike.

Which is exactly why Monty chooses to come here at this hour. He knows they'll be alone.

His warhorse ("What do you want to name him?" "Apple." "...Oh. Why not something a bit more..." "No. His name will be Apple. He likes apples." "...Very well.") was difficult to handle. He was large and stubborn and exceptionally strong. He didn't take well to strangers either but Archie, the resident caretaker for Prince Stiva's fleet of noble steeds, had quite a unique touch. Monty was confused and surprised and said so, to which the boy had simply flushed such a pretty pink it made Monty's cock twitch in his slacks.

He started to visit the stables regularly from then on. Today, he brings with him a pocket full of sugarcubes and two biscuits he swiped off a plate placed at the door of some nobleman. "Morning," he says, his voice still deep and rough from sleep as he unlatches the side gate and walks in towards the stalls. He sees Apple instantly, his dark coat a stark contrast to the silver and cream colored horses (popular amongst the Westerlands) stationed beside him. "I've a treat for you, pet." He pauses and smiles, when he notices Archie's messy blonde hair too. "Well. I meant the horse, but I suppose I have one for you too."

[singinthestorm]

One of the distinct (and few) privileges of the servant class was the opportunity to make personal judgements of their betters, within their areas of particular expertise. The laundresses gossiped about the state of the sheets, the cooks bemoaned the finicky appetites, the ladies' maids, with their sharp, discerning eyes, commented on attire and lovers both secret and open.

The stableboys, tasked with seeing to horses of every possible purpose, had the care of everything from ponies and plowhorses to prize studs to warhorses. They had to adequately house the carthorses of delivering farmers, the high-spirited carriage horses, and the aggressive, ungelded stallions that the most prominent knights of the kingdom insisted on riding into battle. But there was a peculiar kind of honesty here, between man and animal; you could gain far more insight into the owner from the behavior of a particular horse and their treatment of the lowly servants tasked with their care than you could from their attire or belongings. Old garments could be patched, and expensive jewelry had cheap from hock, but a horse was an investment that reflected on the breeder, their training, and their current owner's use.

The young visiting knight that Sir Justin had taken on from the Archers had an absolutely beautiful horse, still relatively young - three years now - and exquisitely trained. It was a high-spirited horse with a near perfect stride, but also an aggressive one, particularly with strangers. Of all the stableboys employed by the castle, the horse - with the unassuming and patently ridiculous name of Apple - only allowed Archie close enough to properly brush and care for the stallion's mane and coat. Rumor had it that the horse had been selected and trained by the young Crowned Prince himself as a personal gift for his knight, and the not-so-imaginative gibes about Archie's name confusing the beast - oh, ta, your royal highness, hoping to get adopted? - had not dissuaded Archie in the slightest from lavishing the best possible care he could on Apple, who responded in kind to Archie's patience and gentleness.

And caring for Apple, of course, meant more opportunities to see and interact with Apple's owner...

"Ah," he breathes in a slow, measured reply, startled but careful not to show it to avoid setting off the horses, when Montgomery appears like a vision at the door of the stall. "Good morning, Sir Knight," he dips his head in a respectful bow of greeting, eyes fixed on the ground, before turning back to Apple's mane, running his brush through the last few inches so he can put it away again, along with the rest of the tack. He should really be used to these early morning meetings (and more) by now, but he always got so absorbed in his duties that it felt like a surprise every time. Montgomery Quill - the last name a gift from the Archers - was an intimidating young man, tall and broad and growing into his larger frame with the amount of training he had been getting for the past year or so under Sir Justin's tutelage.

"Don't give him too much," he admonishes, automatic and instinctive, some of the words belatedly registering. "The spring grass is sweet enough, and he'll be spoiled for the tourney at the end of the week."

And then the rest of the knight's words bring a pink flush to his cheeks and flooding down his neck beneath the brown vest he is wearing.