Chapter Text
Strohl isn’t one to eavesdrop. Gossip and hearsay is nothing but trouble, his parents would say. You can’t rely on someone else’s word when you could simply find the truth for yourself, Leon. And while he isn’t afraid of confronting the truth, he’s encountered his fair share of devastating truths to last a lifetime by this point. There isn’t any other truth worth pursuing that he hasn’t already uncovered himself.
Except the trip from the Hushed Honeybee to the palace happens to pass by a pub, and as it is late morning on Idlesday, drunkards of all kinds are on their way back home, tongues still loose from the previous evening’s ale. So loose that Strohl overhears a gaggle of them exclaiming about something.
“The king will take no wife,” a man says, whispering so loudly he may as well have been shouting to the entire street, “I’ve heard it straight from the palace meself!”
Strohl pauses, as if frozen on the street. He does not look back, nor does he take another step. The men continue on.
“Neither did his father, so I’ve heard.”
“Well, he couldn’t. The prince’s mother was Eldan, but not just any Eldan— the chieftess. He couldn’t very well bring her to Grand Trad, could he?”
He could have, thinks Strohl, he very well could have. It just might have saved everyone a lot of grief.
“That’s besides my point. The king refuses to marry,” the first man continues, “Word from the palace is that he refused his first proposal.”
At this, Strohl does turn around. It is so sudden that he startles the small group, who quickly recognize him due to his uniform and leap into a litany of apologies before excusing themselves. He watches them scatter off in different directions, left in the middle of Sunshade Row with the morning sun and early hours of business.
He tries to think, but can’t. A proposal. A proposal . Someone is vying for His Majesty’s hand and it has not been more than three years since he’s taken the throne. Three years of peace and prosperity, with so many more to come. His mind races in too many directions to keep track of: who is it? What do they truly want? What did he say?
It’s a struggle not to sprint back to the palace. Being one of the king’s Six Partisans out and about draws enough attention as it is. Seeing one of them break into a sudden sprint would, possibly, cause a small bout of hysteria. One might think a human is rampaging in Grand Trad.
The first person he thinks to go to is Hulkenberg. She is exactly where he expects her to be: in the training yard with the young recruits where she’s knocked another poor soul onto their arse with a simple flick of her wooden blade. Strohl was meant to help oversee the lesson, had he not gotten quite sidetracked.
But he approaches her with a look so grim she nearly asks if the kingdom were being invaded. At his inquiry of the king’s whereabouts, she tells him he is where he always is this time of day: the palace garden.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, just before he’s about to turn on his heel and march out of the training yard. “Has something happened?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing— dire, I assure you. I’ve just a question for His Majesty.”
Hulkenberg frowns, but does not ask further. Strohl knows she will get the whole story later from Will himself, anyway. It is only one of her many duties as captain of the royal guard to know every inch of His Majesty’s life, after all. He doesn’t know how Will can possibly put up with it, but Will only thinks it sweet. She’s always been like an older sister to me, even when we didn’t know who I really was, he’s said, if it is this important to her, then why not leave her be?
She only calls for a proper duel as he leaves. Swordplay is far from his mind. There’s only one person on his mind, someone who’s made a home for himself at the very forefront of it and refuses to budge.
The garden lies on the opposite side of the training yard, its doors finally opened after years of isolation. Will and Gallica specifically took special care to rebuild it flower by flower and shrub by shrub, but the rest of the king’s Six Partisans had their fair share of work put in. Will made sure to feature something that they all liked— edelweiss for Hulkenberg, chrysanthemums for Eupha, and an entire row of rose bushes for certainly no one in particular, Will assured with a wink— and thus the space is lively with flowers and plants of all kinds. Hulkenberg commented that she hadn’t seen the garden so full of life since before the prince was attacked, when His late Majesty made sure the garden was well-kept for his son.
Strohl briefly greets the guards posted at the doors and finds him at the garden’s gazebo.
Will paints a lovely picture, as he is often prone to. He’s lounging along the bench of the garden gazebo, legs kicked up and crossed at the ankle as he leans against the railing with his cheek in his hand. There’s a book in his lap but he is not currently reading, eyes casted over the sprawling expanse of the palace garden and its slow blooming flora and fauna. At the sound of Strohl’s boots against the cobblestones, His Majesty looks away from the gardens and grins once he realizes who’s come to visit.
“General Haliaetus,” he greets, sweet as a song to Strohl’s ears, “how kind of you to come see me.”
Will draws his legs towards his body, making room should his general decide to sit. He is dressed in greens and blues today, gold accents threading along the seams of his waistcoat that seem to sparkle with the midday sun. But unlike Strohl, he is without any medals and capes and leather boots, and therefore looks more like that of a lordling than he does the King of Euchronia. Three years has done little to change Will. Access to the finest silks and textiles in the kingdom could hardly change who he is at heart.
And the offer is tempting, to spend the next handful of hours at his side listening to yet another summary of whatever novel he’d gone and plucked from the palace library until one of them is called away, but that isn’t why Strohl is here.
“You’ve received a proposal?” asks Strohl, “For your hand?”
Will’s smile sours into a grimace. He turns towards the book in his hands and thumbs at a page.
“So,” he sighs, “you’ve heard about that.”
He watches Will carefully, noting the little frown on His Majesty’s face and the slight furrow in his brow. The page between his fingers is bent at the corner; he must have just begun reading from where he left off. Strohl knows Will has always loved to read, but he’s also learned that the urge to pick up a book becomes stronger the more stress has piled onto Will’s shoulders. A brief respite from the face of reality in the form of a well-written fantasy.
“It seems as if the whole kingdom has heard, I’m afraid,” Strohl says slowly. Will keeps his head bowed towards his book and continues to rub the page between his fingers, but does not flip it. He is not reading. Skimming the page, perhaps, but absorbing none of the words.
“I figured. I should have known that word travels fast.” He eventually says. When he lifts his head, starlight brushes against his cheek and settles against his shoulder. Will had taken to letting his hair grow ever since taking the throne, and as it is now, he looks every bit the prince he didn’t have the chance to be. “I should have told you all myself. It was just— so sudden . I thought it was an ordinary letter from Lord Montario, but once I began to read, it became quite clear. It was a marriage proposal. To a member of the royal Montarian family, a rhoag girl who’s just come of age.”
Strohl feels as though the wind were knocked out of him. So this isn’t some bit of baseless gossip, this is real . A real marriage proposal dropped into Will’s lap with the expectation that he would agree— and why shouldn’t he? Royal blood ought to stay royal. Even His Majesty before him had fallen in love with royalty. Will is teeming with royal blood.
And Strohl is… well. He’s nobility. He’s a house and a name and a hometown that he’s working hard to rebuild thanks to Will, but it is nowhere near ruling over a kingdom .
He clears his throat softly. “And you’ve…responded?”
Will sits a bit straighter and huffs. Truly huffs, with all of the pomp and pretense of a little princeling being reprimanded for skipping out on their afternoon classes. “Of course I have,” he says, “I politely refused. And I managed to do so before Eiselin got her hands on the letter. She would have had a fit.”
The good captain of the royal guard would have had more than a fit, Strohl thinks. How can they believe anyone worthy of His Majesty’s hand? she’d exclaim, The audacity! The impudence! He can hear it all now. As if she could ever allow anyone within the palace walls whom she’s not personally vetted thrice over, much less allow anyone into His Majesty’s bed.
Of course, Strohl stands as the exception. He cannot help the little sigh of relief that leaves his mouth once he hears of Will’s refusal.
His Majesty stands from his seat beneath the garden’s gazebo, novel in hand as he begins onto one of the cobblestoned paths. Strohl starts after him, cape fluttering behind him with the chilled breeze of early spring.
“I will not take a wife,” Will says simply, “and it isn’t as if I need to, anyway. I don’t need to produce an heir. That’s what we fought so hard for, after all. The kingdom can simply choose their next ruler once I’m finished.”
Strohl sputters for a moment, thrown by the mention of an heir. While it is true that he indeed doesn’t need an heir, it still manages to put ideas into Strohl’s head that aren’t the least bit helpful right now. Will walks ahead of him, head bowed as he continues to pour over his novel as Strohl jogs to catch up. The decorative medals along his chest jingle not unlike a dog’s tag on its collar and he knows he hears Will stifle a giggle ahead of him.
“Even so, Your Majesty,” he huffs, slowing his pace once he’s at Will’s side, “aren’t you afraid that the public will talk?”
“They will talk regardless.” Will turns the page of his novel as their pace turns leisurely through the garden. It is early springtime and the sprouts of baby’s breath have just begun to bloom, dotting the walkways with ivory. Their pollen tickles at Strohl’s nose. “As king, everything I do is already scrutinized— from the way I dress to how I walk. It’s all a spectacle. A wedding would be the biggest spectacle of all, no matter who I marry.”
Strohl frowns, but he knows his king to be correct. Even if Will were to take the hand of any fellow royal, it would be bombarded with scrutiny. Accusations of collusion being just one of the many headlines Strohl could see sprouting up in the papers. And if he were to marry an ordinary person, all eyes would be on them, waiting for the slightest mistake, pitchforks at the ready.
Though, Strohl doesn’t think Will needs to worry about either option.
Casting a glance towards the guards posted near the doors to the palace, he lowers his voice. “I doubt marrying one of your Six Partisans will go over very well.”
“Oh? And to which one am I promised?” asks Will, tapping a finger against his lips. “Strange. I don’t recall a proposal from any of them. I certainly would have remembered.”
The smile he gives Strohl is cheeky. He doesn’t even throw a glance towards the guards before pulling Strohl down by one of his medals, using his book to conceal the moment their lips meet. It’s chaste compared to what Strohl knows his king is capable of, but it’s no less thrilling. His heart still threatens to leap out of his chest and into Will’s hands all the same.
“You don’t have to worry. I’m not taking a wife, nor am I taking anyone else,” His Majesty promises, knocking their foreheads together, “I’ve only eyes for my general.”
Strohl feels as though he could replace one of the rose bushes with how furious his flush overtakes him. Will laughs, letting go of him to instead continue with his stroll down the cobblestone path. It’s a moment before Strohl can shake himself of the heat rushing to his face and returns to Will’s side.
“You shouldn’t be so bold, sire,” he tries, but it’s half-hearted and mumbled through his teeth. Next to him, Will only hums, hooking his pinky around Strohl’s and delighting in the squeak it startles out of him.
He lets go when one of his attendants greets them, informing him of his afternoon tea with the visiting Lady Junah. Strohl watches him go, left surrounded by the flora of early spring that tickles his nose and cannot help but wonder— not for the first time— what it would be like to hold steadfast to his hand, no matter who might be around. To not wrench his touch away once they were past closed doors.
Strohl sighs quietly and forces himself to leave the royal gardens after His Majesty. There is other work he can better dedicate his sighing to.
Another letter comes from his Lordship Montario. Will reads it over twice, and reaches for the quill on his desk. He takes care to write his refusal as neatly as possible, and spends the evening being ravished by his general.
It’s a silly proposal to begin with, thinks Will. I offer my great-grand niece’s hand to His Majesty, writes his Lordship, as I believe this will be a grand union both politically and economically. This will undoubtedly usher in a new era for Euchronia. Will wonders just what this “new era” entails, but does not dare ask. Such a question would certainly invite more letters and therefore lead the prince into believing this engagement actually has a chance. Still, Will is not cruel. He pens a firm refusal and softens it with an apology, because it is not the girl’s fault that he is uninterested. The fault lies entirely with the man warming his bed.
Days later, Eiselin knocks at the door to his study. It is mid-morning and Will has just settled down to review a bit of paperwork he’s been slacking on at Gallica’s nagging, but the captain of the royal guard quickly puts a stop to his bout of productivity.
“What did you say to his Lordship Montario?” she asks. Her voice is hushed and her pace is quick as she marches into the room, door shut clean behind her. “About the proposal?”
Will shares a glance with Gallica, perched against a stack of books on his desk. “I refused again. But I was polite, I promise you.”
“What’s got you so upset?” asks Gallica.
It’s odd to see Eiselin so flustered. Will hasn’t seen her in such a state since meeting Lady Junah during the competition, starstruck and lovelorn at the chance to even shake her hand . A far cry from what they get up to now.
“Well,” She looks briefly behind her shoulder as if the doors could burst open at any moment, “Your betrothal has just been announced by his Lordship on your behalf.”
Both Will and Gallica rise from the desk so quickly his cup of tea nearly topples over. So this is why Eiselin looks so spooked.
Anger is the first thing to fill Will’s blood. It seems to bubble from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, spurred by the blatant impertinence of such an announcement. Is this meant to provoke him? Is this a test of some kind, a trial put forward by his Lordship to gauge how far he can push the new king before he snaps? Were the rest of the principalities in on it?
But such questions were childish. Will cannot allow himself to fall into such a rabbit hole of conspiracies that may not even be true . He wants to have faith in his fellow rulers, but perhaps the prince of Montario simply— lacks reading comprehension. That proves a better explanation than a secret coup, plotting his downfall and murder.
Will shakes himself out of this headspace. There is no Louis to come kill him in the night like his father, however often he plagues his nightmares. There is only a marriage proposal and a prince who, apparently, cannot take “no” for an answer.
The second thing to flood Will’s mind is Leon. He looked so worried when he came to him in the garden earlier that month, his handsome face as pitiful as a puppy who had just been left abandoned. If they hadn’t been in such a public space, Will would have kissed him stupid between the rose bushes. Left him with no room for doubt as to where his heart lies, reassure him that he would take no wife besides his General.
He scrubs a hand down his face. “When was this announcement, Eiselin?”
She hands him an envelope, its seal already broken. “A letter from the prince arrived earlier this morning.”
Will and Gallica scan the contents of the letter, which reads more as a formal announcement than a conversational letter like the last two he received. Cursive lettering dots the top of the page, detailing the union of His Majesty of Euchronia and Countess Althea Montario! and supplying a date as to when to expect the royal family in Grand Trad in order to further discuss wedding plans.
“So,” Will says, “they’re already on their way.”
Gallica’s wings flutter as furiously as the flush spreading across her face. Her small hands ball into fists at her sides as she asks, “Who does he think he is to just— announce something like that on his own? Especially when he’s been rejected twice!”
Eiselin rubs at one of her temples. “His Lordship might want to marry this girl off as quickly as possible. The fact that His Majesty happens to be younger compared to the other leaders of the principalities might have spurred this… reckless decision.” She huffs, all frustration and nerves. One would think she is the one to be married with how blatant her indignance is towards the situation, but Will knows she is simply concerned for his safety. With all that’s happened, he cannot blame her for reacting this way. “No, it can hardly be called reckless. This is calculated. It is because His Majesty is young and king that they now choose to cart off one of their own like a piece on a playing board.”
Will sighs quietly. “I wonder how this girl feels about it all. She’s only just come of age. To be married so quickly… The prospect is scary.”
“We mustn't rule out every possibility,” says Eiselin, “Perhaps she fancies the idea of being queen. Perhaps she fancies you.”
“I—” He sputters, “We’ve never met!”
“She could have attended your coronation. She could have seen your portrait in passing. Again, ‘tis a possibility. We cannot know until we speak to his Lordship Montario and get this ordeal sorted out.”
Will slumps back into his chair and buries his face into his arms with a groan. He feels a bit silly to be so startled by the idea of marriage, as if he were the blushing bride awaiting her husband-to-be whom she’s never met. He’s never read any stories where the husband is the nervous wreck who refuses to be wed. He ought to write the first one. A man so unnerved by the idea of marrying a girl of royalty that he’d rather hide in his office with the captain of the royal guard and a fairy.
Though again, it is hardly the girl’s fault. At least, Will wants to believe it isn’t. He wants to believe she has little say in this matter and is only following the duty given to her. Even if she is lovely, Will cannot allow himself to be so cruel as to entertain the prospect of marriage when he belongs to another, and has always belonged to another.
Gallica’s wings flit anxiously near his ear. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll get it figured out. They can’t just force you to get married.” She turns to Eiselin, “Right?”
The captain’s voice is steeled for war as she says, “I invite them to try.”
Will peeks up at her, voice muffled by his arms. “This isn’t a war, Eiselin, it’s just marriage.”
“I see no difference. It is a battlefield all the same.”
That draws a laugh out of him. He sits up and smooths his hair from his face, mindful of the plaits Gallica helped him with this morning. “Your concern is appreciated. Both of you,” Will sits a bit straighter, and in turn, so do his companions, “Let his Lordship Montario come, and I will simply have to refuse in person.”
“And if he doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer?” asks Gallica.
“Then I will tell them that I will not take a wife. Be it a rhoag from the Montarian family or any other woman.” The quiet conviction in his voice is clear. Will is hardly one to back down from a fight. He’s earned his right to the throne and he has earned the right to refuse this girl’s hand, or a thousand other hands and proposals and thick-headed insistences.
He clears his throat, then adds softly, “If I must, then I will announce my courtship of General Haliaetus myself.”
Eiselin stifles what looks to be a smile. Will tries to ignore the heat flooding his face as Gallica scoffs.
“As if the whole palace doesn’t already know about it,” she mutters.
“Be that as it may, do you think that wise, Your Majesty?” asks Eiselin. “The palace walls are one thing, but the public is another. Not only that, he is one of your Six Partisans. They might suspect Strohl of vying for the throne himself.”
That had been the entire reasoning behind their secrecy. It was a mutual decision once Will ascended the throne to keep their courtship private, away from the public eye and its scrutiny. There are many things which Will cares little about public opinion for— Leon is not one of them. The older he grows, the more he begins to understand his father’s intense devotion towards his mother. How easily he fell apart once his world had burned away, how quickly he beckoned death. But where he may have crumbled, Will feels the pinprick of anger’s fire in his chest at the thought of anything happening to Leon. Eiselin may have been right when she called this a battlefield.
So better for nobody to know than have Leon bear the weight of the kingdom’s judgment. Will can shoulder it on his own. He cannot allow himself to follow in his father’s footsteps and remain passive. Besides, the fact remains that a formal announcement of their courtship is much overdue. They have nothing to be ashamed of, and they have nothing to hide.
“Well,” he says, “If the public demands to know how genuine General Haliaetus’ devotion is, I have no issue showing them.”
Gallica groans at the same time Eiselin gasps. “Okay, you don’t have to go that far.”
Word of His Lordship Montario’s upcoming visit to Grand Trad reaches the public quickly. Will explains to his Six Partisans the purpose of the visit before stressing that this is not an acceptance, but rather an in-person rejection.
“Since someone can’t bother to read His Majesty’s letters of refusal,” Gallica sighs, “we’re just gonna have to host them for a few days until Will gets the message across.”
“And how long will that take, d’you reckon?” asks Basilio.
Junah frowns, crossing her arms over her chest as she says, “There’s nothing a good ‘no’ to the face won’t fix. Honestly, how thick can they be?”
Strohl looks towards Will, seated at his desk as the others begin to chat amongst themselves about the situation. Half of his hair is pinned back, held fast with one of the pins Eupha gifted him from her home a few months ago. It leaves his face open and vulnerable, caramel skin dotted with freckles from sun exposure. They are pretty additions to his already pretty face. His fingers twitch at his side, but he resists the urge to brush his fingertips over the one on his cheek.
Instead, he asks, “Are you alright, sire?”
Will smiles easily. He always gifts his smiles so easily to Strohl. “Of course. I’m just dreading this visit. I’ve never had to refuse someone in person, before. Well— I’ve never had to refuse anyone, period. This is my first proposal.”
“And it might not be the last one,” says Junah, “Since you’re refusing, others might think they stand a better chance. His Majesty will have a line of suitors outside the palace.”
A line. Strohl can picture it so easily. Of course he’d have a whole line of men and women after his hand. One look at Will and anyone would be enchanted. Strohl certainly was spellbound. The rest came easily, and he fell ridiculously fast at his feet. He doesn’t doubt any other poor sap could suffer the same fate.
He sucks in a breath. This won’t be the last of these marriage proposals. Not as long as Will remains unmarried and king. It is a dangerous combination to be.
“Well,” chuckles Will, “I’ll just have to refuse them all. I’m already spoken for.”
The entire room seems to stare straight at Strohl. He tries and fails to fight off the flush spreading from his cheeks to his ears. He mutters a “ Sire,” before Junah launches into a story about some poor soul who tried for her hand some odd years ago only to end up penniless from his attempts to court her. It’s all entertaining enough for Strohl to manage slipping away, away from talk of suitors and lines and failed courtships.
He isn’t quite ready to retire to his own chambers yet, so he settles for wandering the halls until he finds an empty balcony perfect for brooding. He isn’t so far that he cannot hear the bouts of laughter from His Majesty’s office, carried by the evening breeze like leaves on the wind. Strohl can pick out Will’s laughter among the group easily. It’s his favorite sound, besides the ones he can get Will to make between the sheets, and he longs to bottle it up like fine liquor to stash away where no one else can find it.
His sigh is heavy. Too heavy to be carried by the wind, he hopes.
But apparently not quiet enough to go unheard by their knight-commander.
Heismay’s steps are soft as he approaches Strohl, voice somehow softer. “I figured you’d have gone off to mope on your own.”
The eugeif stands next to him, peering through the railing of the balcony as Strohl leans against it with his cheek in his palm. “I am not moping ,” he mutters, “there’s nothing to mope over.”
“Even so, you’re terrible at concealing your emotions. You wear them like the medals on your uniform. It is plain that something is bothering you.”
Strohl’s eyes skim across the view from the balcony. They aren’t very high up, but they are high enough to see the night market in front of the royal cathedral, sprawling with business. People move to and from stalls, bartering for lower prices on herbs and water and meat. If he really tries, he can easily picture Will among them, without the lavish clothing of a king and instead dressed as comfortably as he likes. He’s still the spitting image of the elda traveler Strohl happened upon all those years ago. He’s still just as captivating.
“I’ve been too stuck in my own head, I suppose,” he says after some time.
“Do you doubt His Majesty’s affection?” asks Heismay. There’s no trace of anger or disappointment, like Strohl expects. He asks without a hint of judgment.
And Strohl’s answer is immediate, “No,” he says, “it’s not that. I know he— I know his feelings are true. As are mine.”
“Then what is it, lad?” Heismay continues patiently. It’s a practiced sort of patience, Strohl thinks, that can only come from years of child rearing. He can’t help but feel a bit like the spoiled little lordling he once was, throwing a tantrum because something isn’t quite going his way. Even though he has everything he could want, and he’s fought to have everything that he’s wanted. None of them have had it easy, least of all Will.
“I want to be there for him,” Strohl says, “in the same way he’s been there for me. He shouldn’t have to shoulder so much on his own. That’s what he has all of us for, isn’t it?”
Heismay gives a thoughtful hum. He tucks his hands beneath the cloth of his uniform against the chill of the evening breeze and says, “Of course. He wouldn’t have trusted us with the kingdom as he does if he didn’t believe we could fulfill our duties.” His smile is sly when he looks over at Strohl. “But I think you want to be selfish with His Majesty.”
Strohl opens his mouth to retort but the knight-commander continues, chuckling as red dusts his cheeks, “That is not necessarily a bad thing, mind you. It is natural to want to share in your partner’s hardships, however painful. While the rest of us can certainly stand by his side, we cannot comfort him like a lover. We cannot ease his anxieties in the same way you can. In that regard, you ought to be as selfish as you want.”
Grateful is the word that comes to mind. Strohl ought to be grateful that Will confides in him as he does, as grateful as he feels that he can confide in Will. He’s always lent an ear and a hand whenever Strohl asked, and sometimes he didn’t even have to ask. Will simply knew, or had an inkling, or was simply so attuned to Strohl’s wants and needs that he was always two steps ahead.
“It’s clear as day how he fancies you, and has always fancied you,” Heismay says softly, “Long before his ascent to the throne. But clearer still are your feelings towards His Majesty.”
Strohl feels his heart skip twice. His flush has turned his cheeks and neck ruddy, uncomfortably hot despite the early springtime chill. All of him feels warm, as if he’s had one too many drinks and is made of more alcohol than blood and water. Thinking of Will like this reduces him to such a dizzying state so quickly. Strohl wants to run and find him and profess all he’s been feeling at once, to drop to his knees and ask for his hand, if he should even consider letting Strohl have it.
The idea is tempting. Far, far too tempting and therefore dangerous. Will has always scolded him for his impatience and recklessness. You should be more careful! he’d say, Honestly, you’d think I ought to keep you on a leash.
“Do you think he’d have me?” asks Strohl quietly.
Heismay does not answer right away, but when he does, it is as he ducks back into the palace. “He is probably wondering the same thing, General.”
That night, Will seeks Leon out in his chambers. He likes to joke that it is part armory and part bedroom, with half of the space taken up by swords of all kinds— some mounted, some not, some spotless, some still in need of a good polish— while the other half is occupied by a bed and minimal furniture. Most of his things are in his hometown, where his family house stands rebuilt. Will knows Leon’s heart, while in Will’s hands, will always be in Halia. He cannot fault him for that.
“My bed is a bit too cold,” he says as he slips inside his room, “can I share yours?”
Leon lets him in with a warm bout of laughter. “You can’t keep using that excuse anymore, you know.”
Will flops face-down onto the cleanly made bed and breathes in deep. No matter how clean, they still carry a smell that is distinctly Leon, a pleasant combination of sandalwood and vanilla that he wishes he could drown in. There’s a reason he’s swiped more than a few articles of clothing from his closet and drawers.
He watches Leon remove his uniform piece by piece from where he lounges on the bed. First, the cape, which even after years, he cannot seem to get used to. Second, the overcoat, which he hangs over the partition before stepping behind it. It’s a matter of following his shadow and imagining how smoothly his knit sweater slides off of his body. Will pillows his head in his arms as he does so, feeling not unlike a schoolboy with a crush.
Leon’s voice comes from behind the partition. “People will talk if they see the king of Euchronia sneaking into his general’s chambers at night.”
He’s smiling as he speaks. Will’s ears perk up at the jingle of his belt, eyes following his hands as the leather slides from his waist and onto the partition with his clothing. He doesn’t know if Leon is stripping out of his clothing slowly on purpose, taking care with each garment instead of simply leaving them in a pile like Will is prone to doing, but it certainly feels targeted. And with everything going on with his Lordship Montario and this marriage proposal, he only aches to be with the only person he would truly marry even more.
He thinks back to Junah’s words from earlier that evening. It might not be the last one. Just the thought of anyone else asking for his hand sinks a pit into his stomach. Will doesn’t particularly derive pleasure from refusing people in such a way. Today it is prince Montario, but tomorrow it could be a set of parents trying to push their daughter or son into the royal family. He can’t bear to dash so many hopes.
Will kicks his legs into the air, crossing them at the ankle with an exhale. The time to think of that will come in a few days time, when this Althea girl is at his door. “As if catching the general sneaking into the king’s chambers is any better,” he says, “you really ought to just move into my room. You hardly sleep here anymore.”
“That’s because His Majesty is quite needy come evening.” Leon slips out of his pants. Will bites his lip. He took care to come with as little clothing as possible beneath his robe, delighting in how it would fluster Leon so. The man’s flush would reach down to his collarbones and he’d stutter his way through a weak protest, saying something about being so indecent, honestly, what if you were caught? but his hands would roam and grab and squeeze and oh, for God’s sake, Will needs him out from that partition this instant.
“Needy doesn’t begin to cover it,” he mutters, lifting his head when Leon finally steps from behind the partition in his sleepwear. It’s light, loose-fitting clothing that always leaves Will a little breathless; he’s nobility, after all, and he’s been raised to cover every inch of skin. Why, even a peek of the skin between his wrist and coat is enough to make Will weak at the knees, but to have his arms and neck so easily accessible, practically flaunted right in front of him— his own hands itch to grab. And he does, the moment Leon is within distance for Will to reach and yank onto the bed.
He’s kissing every bit of skin he can find. His cheeks, his nose, mouth and throat until Leon is a sputtering, giggling mess beneath him. His laughter is a honeyed sound, a soothing balm to the midst of the nonsense tangled in Will’s head, and the sigh he lets loose is full of adoration.
“This is how you ought to sound all the time,” murmurs Will, burying his head into the crook between Leon’s throat and shoulder, “you should be as carefree as a spoiled little lordling. If I truly had my way, it’d be law.”
His general smooths his hands over the expanse of Will’s back, down towards his waist. His fingers play at the cord holding his robe together. “I’d say I’m plenty spoiled already, sire.”
“Please, I’ve had enough of ‘sires’ and ‘Majesties’ for a lifetime. Just Will. Your Will.”
He sits up for a moment to undo the cord himself. The silk slips from his shoulders and pools along his arms. Leon’s eyes seem to dilate at the sight of his bare skin, centering on the jagged scar on his sternum. A reminder of not only the curse, but of everything he’s overcome. His past life and current self, reconciled.
So really, a marriage proposal shouldn’t seem so daunting.
It makes him laugh a bit. That, and the way Leon’s hands skim over his navel makes him ticklish.
“It’s silly, isn’t it?” he asks. Leon raises an eyebrow and prompts him to continue. “This— mess with prince Montario. It’s become so much bigger than it needs to be.”
“Well, had his Lordship not ignored your letters of refusal, this wouldn’t have become such a mess,” Leon’s words have bite, but none of it is directed towards him. He simply sounds as annoyed as Will feels.
“Eiselin is ready for war, you know. She tried talking battle tactics with me over tea today.”
“I think that’s a conversation more fitting of your general, wouldn’t you agree?” He pinches playfully at Will’s side, grinning at the laughter it draws from him. “Perhaps I ought to schedule tea appointments with you. Fill up your calendar so you can’t meet with anyone else. The principalities could come knocking and you’d simply be too busy to entertain them.”
Will thrills at the prospect, wriggling his hips against Leon’s to find his arousal growing more prominent by the moment. He lets his own hands wander, slipping beneath the hem of Leon’s sleep shirt. His lips curve into a smile at the man’s shiver. “You’d keep me at your side so selfishly?”
“I think I’ve earned the right to be a little selfish.”
Leon tucks a hand just beneath the hem of his underwear, silken like the robe he shrugs off. His thumb brushes near Will’s sex, and he’s only a little embarrassed about the amount of slick that’s gathered there. It’s becoming exceedingly difficult to control himself when Leon is speaking of keeping him all to himself like this, even if it’ll only remain a fantasy.
But the way he looks at Will is— different . There’s a soft desperation behind the grip he has on his hip, inching towards his backside as the other continues to tease against his cunt. A quiet intensity in how Leon sits up, presses his mouth against Will’s at the same time his hand slips into his underwear to really touch him that leaves His Majesty gasping. His back arches as his arms find a home around Leon’s neck, body slotting wonderfully against him.
“You may be right,” he sighs pleasantly, “you’re plenty spoiled already.”
“And whose fault is that?” His general hums. For all the intensity in his grip, his smile is a warm, pretty pull of his lips. “Let me return the favor, mine darling.”
Will hasn’t a sip of wine yet all at once, he feels intoxicated. Any and all worries seem to melt when Leon kisses him again, working the anxieties away with skilled hands. It’s as addictive as the first dozen times they’ve gone to bed, maybe even more so ever since coming to the palace— there’s something about being bent over as king that Will shamelessly thrills in— and he’s left a panting, quivering mess by the third time he’s come undone on Leon’s cock and leaking his spend.
This bed is no different than his own, yet Will finds he can relax against the silks and cottons much easier. Perhaps it’s the fact that this is Leon’s bed, with the sweet comforts of sandalwood and vanilla and the arms he can so easily climb into. Perhaps it’s because it is far from his own chambers and the expectations that hang over it, heavy like a curtain.
Whatever it might be, he allows himself to enjoy it. He curls over Leon’s body like a cat, smiling when he hears the man chuckle. There are arms around him in an instant, pulling him closer still.
“Don’t worry about this proposal business,” says Leon, somehow guessing the very thing needling away at Will's mind, “Let his Lordship come and we’ll handle it together, as we always do. It’s only a matter of refusing again.”
Will takes a breath. “I’m announcing my courtship to you,” he says, “I’ve already decided. I’m putting an end to these proposals before they get worse.”
The hand carding its way through his hair stops. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Will lifts his head to meet Leon’s eyes, moonstone meeting onyx, “And I won’t let anything happen to you, Leon. I won’t stand for slander or attacks on your character. You’re my heart, the dearest thing to me in this entire world, and if I must wax such poetics to the whole kingdom , I will.”
Leon lets out a shaky breath. It’s daunting, Will knows very well. Everything he does will be held fast under the public’s eye, a constant trial of how he measures up next to the king.
But he’s never known Leon to back down from a challenge. They’re both so alike in that regard.
He agrees with a kiss, soft and chaste. Will lets the steady rhythm of Leon’s heart lull him to sleep.
His Lordship Montario arrives with little pomp and circumstance. In the few years Will has ruled as king, he has come to familiarize himself with the prince’s subdued tastes. He doesn’t enjoy attention, neither he nor her Ladyship, and thus they arrive to Grand Trad with quiet carriages and even quieter greetings.
The few Partisans that happen to be in Grand Trad stand at Will’s side with Gallica as he receives the prince and his party, Leon being among them. He stands next to Eiselin, who looks better prepared to strike an enemy down than to receive a guest, and Eupha. Heismay and Basilio are away on business in Altabury in Will’s stead, insisting he stay behind to resolve this headache.
“It’s not like it’s particularly affecting us,” Basilio clarified, just before they set off, “but the good general’s been sighing as if someone’s died. Best fix this before he actually drops dead himself.”
And now, said headache bows before the king and his Partisans with her Ladyship in tow. Just behind them is a taller figure, fixed in a curtsey so low Will thinks she may topple over.
“We are honored to host you all here at the palace,” says Will, gesturing for them to rise with a wave of his hand, “I hope the journey wasn’t too tiring.”
“Not at all, Your Grace. It is we who are honored to be here.” Prince Montario reaches for the girl behind him, guiding her to stand between himself and her Ladyship with a gentle push. She looks at Will with soft eyes and a softer smile, bashful as a flush paints her rounded cheeks. Pale pink markings adorn her forehead and the bridge of her nose like flower petals against her dark skin, as pale as her plaited hair.
Will smiles warmly. She looks younger than he imagined. “This must be Althea.”
She dips into another curtsey. “It is an honor, Your Majesty.”
“The honor is all mine. Are you hungry?” asks Will, chuckling when she nods enthusiastically. He asks the attendants to take their belongings to their rooms, and begins down the steps from the throne. “Come, I won’t leave you to starve.”
Prince Montario starts after the pair. “But Your Majesty, about the—”
“We shall speak business after we’ve eaten,” he declares firmly, before supplying a smile, “Let’s not spoil our appetite, Your Grace.”
His Partisans must glare something terrifying because his Lordship is quick to follow behind, and does not bring up any word of the proposal all throughout dinner. The spread is large and lavish; Will instructed to spare no expense and personally asked Fabienne for her assistance. Despite the reason behind their visit, his Lordship and his family are still guests, and the king of Euchronia will not allow his guests to dine on anything less than exceptional. Meats of all types littered the table, accompanied by fresh picked vegetables, steamed and seasoned, all plated as elegantly as a painting.
And conversation is, dare he say, pleasant throughout the meal. Althea is quiet until Eupha comments on her home of Brilehaven, which sparks a conversation on the different imports of Brilehaven and Eht Ria. Althea, despite her young age, is well-versed in her nation’s economics.
“It’s always fascinated me,” she says, “I’ve always found it the most interesting out of all my lessons growing up.”
“That is no small feat to understand something so complicated,” offers Will, “I still find myself struggling to keep track of so many things all at once.”
“That’s because you sneak novels in between paperwork.” Gallica points out, and her presence delights Althea all at once. It solidifies just how young this girl is, and to be forced into the middle of such a life-altering decision at the hands of the prince all for the sake of the king’s good favor makes the blood in Will’s veins run hot.
But the wine is cooling, so he takes another sip as dessert is served. He placates his temper for the time being with a slice of vanilla shortcake— Leon’s favorite.
By the time the meal is finished, everyone is noticeably on edge. His Lordship Montario appears eager as he, her Ladyship and Althea are escorted towards the palace garden, where tea is to be served and shared as they discuss the real reason they’ve come all this way.
His companions wish him luck. Eiselin offers her sword, should His Majesty need it. Gallica reminds him to give a shout if he were to need back up. He thanks them, but he knows this is something he must do alone.
Besides, he thinks as he starts towards the garden, no one else can put into words how he feels about Leon. To do so would be a heavy burden, as heavy as his heart.
Will hears Leon before he sees him approach from behind, the delightful tinkling of his medals ringing throughout the hallway. He wears the same intense look in his eyes as the other night, and it sends a shiver down Will’s spine. His general seems determined about something, but he doesn’t have the time to ask what about.
The hallway is empty, which must be the reason why Leon feels bold enough to reach for His Majesty’s hand and press a kiss against his knuckles. “Pick your battles,” he says, giving a firm squeeze, “don’t give them the satisfaction of making you upset.”
Will shifts their hands so Leon lays on top of his, and mimics the kiss to his knuckles. “No promises.”
Althea looks right nervous when Will finally joins them at the garden table. He asks one of his attendants to bring a pot of a floral blend, and his favorite biscuits. Will needs something to calm his own nerves, after all.
His Lordship speaks first. “Your Majesty,” he begins, “I am well aware of your past two responses to my letters. However, you must realize how auspicious this marriage would be. Our Althea is bright, capable and highly intelligent— a true match for your wit.”
“And only eighteen,” offers her Ladyship warmly, “she's the smartest of my nieces and nephews.”
“I recognize her talents very well,” says Will, before turning to the girl making knots of her handkerchief, “Althea, you're very pleasant company. I would very much like to make more of your acquaintance, if you would do me the honor.”
The prince clasps his hands together happily. “Then—!”
“However…” Will steels himself with a deep breath. He tries not to think of the prince’s words just now, how he is well aware of his past two responses to his letters and he’s simply chosen to ignore them entirely to push his niece into Will’s arms. Any snarky response he so desperately wants to give is set to the side. “I must refuse this proposal. I will not pursue anything more than a friendship with you, Althea.”
The girl seems to sigh in relief, before quickly looking towards his Lordship and her Ladyship Montario. Something like panic paints her pretty face and Will wonders just what is at stake here for her to look so frightened.
Prince Montario’s eyebrows draw together. Will hears his frown rather than sees it, lips hidden beneath his beard and mustache. “Your Majesty, when you refused the first few times, I thought you were simply being modest.”
“I’m afraid not. I cannot take Althea for a wife.”
His Lordship sputters in disbelief. It is then that his attendant returns with a fresh pot of tea and a tiered platter of biscuits, cakes and tarts. Noting the tense atmosphere, they quickly excuse themselves and leave.
The smell of crushed herbs and flowers is nonetheless enticing. Will softly requests Althea’s cup and he sets to pouring tea. It is as awkward as he expects when his Lordship is glaring daggers at him the entire time. It is no wonder the teapot doesn't combust from the rage in his stare.
“If His Majesty is worried about the dowry…” starts Her Ladyship, but Will is quick to shake his head. He stands in order to teach her cup on the opposite side of the table, holding the tea pot with two steady hands.
“There is no need for a dowry, as I am not looking for a wife. Please understand,” he then pours tea in the prince’s cup, before settling back down into his seat. His own is the last cup he fills. As Will does so, he thinks of blade polish and nights spent at the Hushed Honeybee. Of sneaking into his general's chambers and vanilla shortcake. “I am already courting someone, and I intend to marry them.”
Althea hides her gaps behind her hand. His Lordship is much less graceful and can barely stammer out, “I beg your pardon?”
“It is as I’ve said. I am spoken for, and have been for quite some time,” Will tucks his hair behind his ear, adding, “Long since before my ascent to the throne, actually.”
“But— we’ve come all this way!” Her Ladyship cries, “Our Althea has been dreaming of this marriage.”
Will turns to the countess, reaching for her hand to give a gentle squeeze. “And I’m deeply sorry, my lady. I should have better detailed my reasoning for refusing your hand in my letters. It might have saved you the trip.”
“Oh no, Your Majesty,” Althea says, flushing as red as the rose bushes, “Please, I’ve taken no offense. I appreciate and admire your honesty.” Her voice drops to a delicate whisper, so soft that Will must lean forward to catch it. “You are doing me a kindness by refusing.”
“A kindness!” scoffs the prince, rising from his seat with indignance, “What sort of kindness comes from rejection, child? What kind of woman could possibly be a better candidate than our—”
The doors to the royal garden slam open. Boots hit the ground running, and with them come the delightful, familiar sound of medals against a uniform. Will immediately looks towards the cobblestone path, thinking that it couldn’t possibly be his general stomping towards them. It couldn’t possibly be his Leon, handsome face steeled for war as he approaches their table.
It couldn’t possibly be. And yet it is. It is his general making strides towards them, and it is his Leon who opens his mouth to declare, “His Majesty cannot accept this proposal!”
Strohl watches Will leave, knuckles still tingling from His Majesty’s lips. His hair flutters behind him, curled inwards at the bottom and shining as brightly as starlight. Like the stars that dot the night sky just outside in the royal garden, where his Lordship and Althea Montario wait with bated breath for a discussion on their future. A future they hope to share together.
Strohl hears the doors to the garden open and shut. His heart is rabbit-quick behind his ribcage, as if in the heat of the hunt and he’s just been cornered. He’s felt this way all evening, if he were honest. Althea is agreeable company and certainly beautiful, with all the grace and elegance of a heiress raised to someday rule. Everyone was charmed by knowledge and conversation.
And yet.
He reaches into his coat pocket and takes a long, deep breath. He thinks of a line of suitors outside the palace gates and Will dressed in white. Of his lonely home in Halia and the stuffy royal military uniform he knows Will keeps in his closet somewhere.
Voices grow louder the closer he gets to the royal garden doors. Her Ladyship Montario is exclaiming something about marriage, and Strohl breaks into a jog. The guards do not dare object when he insists he be let through, stepping to the side as he pushes the doors open unceremoniously.
He can hardly care for decorum anymore. He knows he looks like a madman running towards them but he doesn’t have the mind for anything more, shocking both himself and the others as he announces, “His Majesty cannot accept this proposal!”
Everyone is staring at him, the whites of their eyes nearly taking up half of their faces. Even Will is quite surprised, hand frozen atop Althea’s in her lap. His lips form silent words, what are you doing? but His Lordship Montario’s voice is the only one that pierces the silence.
“And who are you to declare it so?” he demands.
Strohl wills his trembling hands to still for just a moment, balling them into fists at his side as he takes a step towards His Majesty. When he drops into a kneeling position, Will’s eyes grow wider still.
“I am General Leon Strohl da Haliaetus,” says Strohl, “And I am asking for His Majesty’s hand in marriage.”
Althea gasps. Prince Montario falls silent, as does the princess, and Will—
Strohl feels as if he could burst into laughter. Giddy, batty laughter.
Will beams.