dorea_mch

He was already standing to greet you.

It shouldn’t have caught you off guard – your arrival must have caused some ruckus outside of the chambers and with him being a man whose survival depended on hearing the danger as it was coming if not before that, there was no wonder he stood alert – but it did.

Much like it did surprise you that for all the portraits and dreams you had dreamed of him in a stranger’s bed, for all you had thought you remembered his features sharply after only having met him for barely a moment, you had forgotten with just how fine care and reverence the gods and angels had carved his face.

How sweetly they’d diluted the blue of his eyes with kindness and warmth, warmer than the flames from the hearth that played across his cheeks and jaw and in the golden halo of his hair.

How your heart raced upon a single meeting of your gaze and his. How much you felt yourself sinking into the colours and wonders of the sky caught inside his irises.

And how it felt like drowning – to cast your gaze low, to the floor, when the heavy door behind you closed shut, the sound snapping you from your reverie enough to act with the respect a man like Steven Rogers I., The Just, deserved.

You bent in your knees so low they almost touched the floor, keeping the position unwaveringly despite every step you heard him take, his voice a caress, like the soft touch of a summer breeze.

“My lady… please, rise. And be welcomed.”

You obeyed, a shudder rushing through your body when you lifted your gaze slowly, trailing the impressive lines of his body until it reached his face again.

Open. Welcoming indeed. A brief flicker of his eyes all over, one corner of his lips rising higher in his smile as if whatever he was seeing pleased him greatly – and sincerely. As if the trial you had so desperately hoped to pass when you had found yourself at your wit’s end, wishing to choose a dress in likes to the king’s wishes, was the most successful when you had not thought about it at all.

When you let your heart guide you and left all worries behind.

You wished you could do so completely; the light in the king’s irises made you desire so, almost as if coaxing you to forget what had brought you here.

But you could not. Not with your heart having leapt to your throat, fear and cautious anticipation battling for your breath.

Your felt heat rise to your cheeks as you bowed just a fraction once more, to show profound respect and gratitude.

“Your Majesty,” you said, only rising when light scorn creased his brows. “Apologies for my tardiness… and for missing the dinner, that was not my intention in the least. I meant no offence if you could believe it.”

“I do believe you, my lady,” he replied, his frown smoothening. “Yet I wish for you to understand there was no offence taken. I meant what I said – what I wrote. I am glad you found peace and rest here. Would you sit with me for a moment?”

You gulped, willing your lips to curl up in a smile; with barely any effort in the face of his kindness, however surprising still.

He waited for you to nod before he set off, slow, but easily gaining several steps on you as you stood frozen for a moment, taking in the room for the first time. The fireplace with a heavy wooden table and three cushioned chairs at it dominated the spacious room, even if barely; the bed, not unlike the one in your temporary dwellings only with heavier dark blue canopy, took up the most space and was nothing short of a masterpiece. One wall was entirely lined with bookcases, while the three remaining ones were each adorned with a painting you were sure had been painted by the hand of the king himself; a landscape with mountains, the ocean, the golden fields. Three large windows, two of them hidden by thick curtains, one left exposing the view of the starry night.

With how clear the skies looked, it must have been freezing outside; yet, you felt like the cold could never touch you here, the room basking in endless warmth a part of you whispered could not come from the hearth only. 

Your gaze trailed over the interior with an absent smile, soon drawn back to the man who truly was at its centre. At its heart.

“Please,” he beckoned to one of the chairs, pulling it out for you. “Would you like wine or cider? It is still warm.”

Blinking, you finally followed him, whispering your choice with a breath of a please and thank you. Watching him pour you a goblet as if it was meant to be the work of a king rather than a servant – rather than your work, since you had been brought to this castle to please him – was utterly bewildering. Dreamlike.

It was almost as if you only watched yourself too, mind outside of your body, as you sat down, the goblet set in front of you before he poured himself one as well, sitting next to you, chairs angled towards each other, dangerously close – and yet, to your heart’s yearnings, too afar.

You observed him in mute awe, thousands of questions and hundreds of vague answers circling your head, the absurd – and absurdly natural – circumstance not lost on you. The only thing truly at loss – and lost in his gaze – was you. His eyes hadn’t left you either; he watched you with intensity which would have been unbearably unnerving had it not been so pleasant at the same time.

“I do hope you found the entirety of your chambers to your satisfaction. I wish you found yourself comfortable here.”

You nodded minutely.

But you did not understand.

You did not understand how you had deserved his hospitality.

Neither you could as much as hope to comprehend why, despite feeling so out of place, you felt right at home and safe.

But much like you knew to pray and thank to any higher power there was for being it so, you knew to express your gratitude here, to the man whom, at this point, you owed everything.

For he owed everything you had.

Including yourself.

A rational part of realised how utterly terrifying that should make you; another part which you could feel residing deep within your chest did not find it terrifying in the slightest. For if there was one man who you needn’t to fear, it was him.

Your gaze, unable to bear the power of his, lowered to your lap where your fingers fiddled with the skirt of the lovely dress you had been gifted.

“I… words cannot express how grateful I am for all your generosity, Your Majesty. I admit I am… not quite certain how I deserved such, but I assure you it is my every intention to repay your kindness with all I am.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw his hand twitch; as if he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“The gifts you have been given are given freely, without conditions, my lady.”

For you deserve everything, my sweetling, the soft breeze caressing your cheek seemed to whisper, an echo of the very voice that had just spoken. You deserve everything and I shall give you all that your heart desires.

You shook your head lightly, feeling the voice fill your ears sweetly, words of the kind you knew better than to believe:

The world, as different as this one seemed from the one you had known all your life, did not work in such ways.

For all the riches the man sitting across from you must have possessed, he could not afford such generosity to be true, to give so much away without conditions attached; for it would be too foolish. And to have gained such riches, to have been entrusted with them and to keep them, one could be no fool.

And yet – you would not look the gifted house in the mouth. You were not one who could afford to question.

“Your Majesty is too kind,” you whispered. “Even as I am certain I am far from the sole recipient of such kindness, I feel profoundly grateful. As… as no doubt the men who brought me here do,” you added, trailing off.

You were not sure why you’d even brought them up.

You had little reason to wish to think of Dimitri and Henry, for they had brought you nothing but misery, even as they were the sole reason why you were here, safe and warm and far away from the townspeople who had been secretly eyeing you for prize.

You had little reason to remind the king of them too; for they had angered him with the ways they had spoken at first.

To mention them was risking upsetting the man who was being nothing but pleasant and almost unbearably welcoming until that moment. And yet. Yet, something inside you had whispered you to tempt fate.

Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was fear of not having been done with the mercenaries just yet. Perhaps it was the inviting gentleness Steven had emanated, coaxing you to be all too honest and blunt even in subtlety of your claims.

The little breathy laugh erupting from the king’s chest was not an amused sound, not quite; it startled you enough to snap your gaze up, met with a storm in his irises, a glint like a flash of lightning born there.

“I am sure they do. But they more than earned the reward they received for their trouble… even as they shall not be joining the Royal Army.”

“Oh?” you chirped instinctively, unable to hide your surprise; and then quickly shook your head in a display of regret at failing to behave appropriately. Again. “My apologies, I did not--- I did not mean to pry-”

“It is quite alright, my lady,” he assured you, his features softening even as the stormy clouds remained in his eyes. “If you wish to know, ask.”

Ask me anything, my sweetling, his gaze whispered, his lips not moving an inch despite the heavy promise spoken in his voice echoing in your ears. I shall never lie to you.

You hesitated for barely three beats of your frantic heart, your question quiet.

“How so?”

He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his thighs – and what an inconvenient moment for your gaze to flicker there and notice the powerful thickness of the muscle there – capturing your gaze with his without a chance to escape.

“Because, my lady, as much as you are a gift, you are not a thing to be dragged here under the threat of death, with your house burned to ashes so you’d have no home to return to.”

Your heart seized in your chest; your lips parted for a breath that caught in your throat instead.

Not because of the images he painted with his words, as painful as their shadow was, no; for the fact he knew.

“How— how did you-“

You knew the answer before either of you spoke a word, the realization creeping upon you much like the unamused smirk did to Steve’s lips.

‘Please, tell me more of the trouble you went through to deliver me a gift and about what you’d wish for…’

That was what he had asked.

‘Tell me more of the trouble you went through…’

He had not asked to reward them.

He had likely never intended to do so; every word he had chosen carefully to coax them into telling him everything. Telling him of every wrong they had done beyond binding your hands hard enough to bruise and treat you as a commodity rather than a human being.

Oh he was no fool at all indeed.

“Perhaps I too am guilty of being such, but I hear men are known be quite the simple creatures. Have them believe they speak of their heroics, and they can no longer tell the difference between bragging and a confession.”

I hope you can forgive me if I ever behave such too, my sweetling. Forgive me if my words have misled you at first.

You caught yourself before you could nod in reaction to the echo of his voice in your head, stunned.

And with startling clarity despite the sudden spin your mind set off to, you were certain in your very bones that you would forgive him anything. Let alone worrying you while tricking the men who hurt you into confessing every single one of their crimes against a knight’s code. A code of an honourable man.

A man like the one facing you now.

Your throat felt tighter than before, even as something in your ribcage cracked with soft understanding, the images of Steve in your head – that of a good, just man, a fierce warrior and yet a tender artist – blending together seamlessly once more.

“But then--- then their reward-“

“Was what the law commands as punishment for arson and laying a hand on a woman in the ways they have,” he said, voice tender despite the embers of anger smouldering under. “A brand burned to their arm to mark arsonists. A broken hand to remember not to use their strength to hurt an innocent ever again.”

A shudder ran down your spine, a thrill of justice executed; but for the first time in the king’s company, one of true fear too.

For for all the relief you felt for having him understand the situation perfectly, guilt bit into your conscience. The king was no fool indeed; and he seemed a man with a sense of justice etched into his very core. You could feel the righteous fury on your behalf simmering under his skin despite the air of quiet gentleness.

There was only one justice for men like that, as it should be: a universal one.

And you, too, had already committed crimes that would require the intervention of justice; you did not need to know the precise law of Starkerbürg to know such. You had taken what was not yours to take; stealing was a such an offence it had even been written into the Scripture.

And so, there was a punishment awaiting you. As it should.

It was the will of the Lord, of the old gods, and men alike.

Thou shalt not steal, spoke the Scripture, recited so many times in your home by your father’s slurred voice.

Honour thy father and thy mother.

You knew what your father had thought the punishment should be for breaking even one of the commandments.

What was the punishment for theft in these lands?

What would be the punishment for other wrongs you had done?

“Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to frighten you… nor to remind you of your sorrows-”

You shook our head as another shudder followed the first one, colder, guilt taking another bite off of your soul.

“It is--  it is not that, Your Majesty,” you offered quietly, a little white lie; but not quite, for your fear could truly not be blamed on him, only on yourself. “I merely judge that the word has not been wrong about you – your mind is quite brilliant and cunning indeed.”

Something flickered in his eye as he sat a bit straighter at the praise, shoulders relaxing, a reassuring smile playing on his lips.

“It would not be just to leave a crime as grave as this unpunished.”

I would never stand for you to suffer while the bastards who are to blame for your tears and bruises and cuts walk free, the enticing voice swore, Steve’s eyes boring into yours with fire burning as gently as fierce. As the fire, you supposed, should be burning in your veins by your lineage.

Yet the only burn you felt was shame seated deeply in your stomach, slowly crawling out.

Your smile in response – however grateful for Steve’s sentiment, true or imaginary – was tight, eyes turning glassy as you took a wavering breath and looked away, unable to bear it.

There he sat; a good man, honourable and generous and brave and cunning, believing in justice with all his heart.

You could not hold pretence in face of that. You could not find it in your soul to lie or keep a secret. Not from him. Even if your heart clenched in horrifying anticipation at the mere thought of confessing your sins.

“You are admirably fair, Your Majesty,” you husked, clearing your throat to raise your voice from but a whisper. He was worthy of as much. “As you are just… it feels even worse a crime not to say I do not deserve half the kindness I have been offered.”

Steve tilted his head to side a bit, observing you with curiosity, his face, gods bless, such a beautiful face, twisting into a slight frown.

“Why would that be so? You deserve to be treated with decency and respect and more. More so since you have done no wrong.”

His voice was so sincere in that belief that the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, the harsh truth scratchy on your tongue:

“I threatened my father with gutting him if he tried to touch me one more time.”

And I might would have done so had it come to it, raged the blood in your veins, a memory of your nails digging into his skin to protect yourself, a fiery sensation as brief as the words themselves, before dread of facing the rightful judgement replaced it with ice.

Judgement.

Disgust.

Loathing.

Punishment.

You did not dare to as much as glance up from where your fingers were gripping your skirts; not until you’d swear you heard Steve teeth clank together and grind, making you to look up anyway.

His jaw was set tight. Fingers dug into the armrests. His shoulders – wonderful broad shoulders, right arm twitching towards where you remembered he had kept the sword by his throne, now leaned against the table – squared and prepared for battle.

He was positively shaken by your inappropriate confession; but his conviction was not. If anything, it seemed to grow tenfold.

“If he had touched you once, it was one time too many,” he spat. “I fail to see how wishing to be safe could ever make you less worthy of the treatment you have received here.”

I would have personally ripped his hand clear off for such offence, committed on his own daughter no less. A mere threat, my sweetling, seems a kindness. I am proud of you and grateful you kept what I hold dear safe.

Your breath caught in your throat.

But it was the gentle ghost of a voice, dark with a promise, warm, that somehow urged you to continue, to share your own darkness so it may touch light; it was the unshakable ghost of the hand of your father on your shoulder, cold, that spurred you to try and defend and justify his drunken actions.

Honor thy father. Do not speak ill of him.

“He… he’d be too drunk to tell whether I was his daughter or a thief or… whether—whether I was my mother-”

The wood of the armrest cried under Steve’s grip, causing you to fall silent in an instant, palm flying to your mouth.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. Please… forgive me. Such talk is not for polite company,” you whispered swiftly, ignoring the sharp itch of tears in the base of your nose, the burn of shame in your cheeks. “…suppose should only serve to prove my point of not-”

“Yes, indeed. Proves my point perfectly.”

You met his gaze, not uttering a single word, hand slowly falling back into your lap.

For a quiet moment, you simply observed each other, each lost in your own thoughts.

You would not hope to image what his thoughts were beyond pity for what you had been through.

He, in turn, could not hope to imagine how deeply beyond overwhelmed by guilt you grew with every passing moment of the silence that had settled, interrupted only by your stumbling, frantic heart.

Sweet. Compassionate. Patient.

A flavour of silence you were not worth of tasting.

You closed your eyes as the fatal confession fell from your lips, unable to face the sincere warmth in his gaze, built up on the lie of you being but a victim, a good person through and through.

“… I stole a knife from your kitchens. When they brought me food, I--- I took it. And hid it… I—I hid it.”

Silence again.

Deeper than before; deep enough for you to drown in your own ragged heartbeat.

Darker too, in your sudden loneliness.

And yet all but such.

The air was cold and stiff and terribly still until it wasn’t.

A whisper of an instinct as ancient as this world, a whisper of what was to come just before it did, was the only thing that prevented you from nearly jumping out of your skin when you felt the touch.

A tender brush of a hand over yours, steadying the tremble by closing around it.

A stunningly, bafflingly gentle squeeze.

Endless warmth seeping through your skin to the very marrow of your bones, golden threads of a profound sense of right threading through your veins all the way to your heart.

The hot tears rolling down your cheeks from your tightly squeezed eyelids were as much shame and as sweet heaviness of relief.

You felt the absence of judgement whispering through your very soul, but you were sure it would coming. It had to.

It had to, for you had sinned, for you had taken what was not rightfully yours, abused kindness-

He might have steadied our hand, but your lower lip began to wobble.

“I am so sorry, there is no--- Your Highness—Your Majesty, no penance, but please-- please forgive me, I-“

I shall make it right, somehow- I--

“I heard.”

A shaky intake of breath caught in your lungs, eyes snapping open.

You were met with Steve, Steve Steve Steve watching you earnestly, the blue of his eyes brimming with emotion.

No anger. No judgement.

Not pity either, not quite.

Compassion.

And a profound understanding already assuring you that despite all logic, despite your confession, no punishment was coming for your crime.

I know of your shortcomings, my sweetling, his touch whispered, I do not blame you; I see you. Gods, do I see you.

He knew. He had known.

And still, he observed you without as much as minute change of expression, without malice or accusation.

Your face was damp with tears, but your throat felt dry, your voice but a scratchy sound.

“They--- they told you… And after all you have offered to me so generously and beyond, you knew I stole from you… and you--- you let me get away with it. So far.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” you choked out, the answer coming written all over his face, nonsensical and yet so right you had no reason to question it.

Because it’s you. Because you are mine.

Steve hummed a soft noncommittal sound. His free hand took your other hand, engulfing it in warmth.

“My mother used to say that one must always fight for what they believe in, for what they deem just – by sword, if necessary. And that yet, oftentimes, the greatest power one can wield is mercy and compassion.”

You shuddered.

You should already be whispering of gratitude. You should be falling to your knees. You should be swearing loyalty.

But you could not move, words growing heavier and heavier on your tongue you as he kept looking at you, hands cradled in his, eyes serious and so deeply kind, patiently waiting for you to process and fully understand what he was saying.

This is the time to exercise that compassion and mercy, my sweetling, and I shall do so.

You cleared your throat, only prepared to state the obvious.

“She... she sounds like a wise woman.”

Steve’s irises lit up with fondness and longing all too familiar; one of love lost, affection for the person who loved you despite your flaws and made you, fundamentally, into who you were.

“She was. Had she not fallen ill in the sick tents where she had been tending to the injured and ill, she would have died of the number of grey hairs I had given her.”

With the smallest of smile tempting your lips, you could not but recall Bucky’s words, all too similar, all too fond too. And you could not but notice how Steve’s voice, slow and reverent, translated perfectly into the affection the portrait of her you had seen had been painted with.

“I do not hold your actions against you. You do not deserve punishment for taking the knife,” he said, tender but firm. “You deserve to feel safe as that is the basic right of all. I stand by that and I shall continue to do so, all the more after what you have just told me. As much as I wish that my right hand, the best soldier and protector in the kingdom, stationed in front of the door to your chamber would make you feel so, I shall not deny you the comfort you are accustomed to.”

For all your confusion at what he meant by that and what by gods he was suggesting, for all the fresh tears rolling down your cheeks, you could not look away; you could not look away from the depth of the blue you were drowning in, the golden threads weaving through your body by Steve’s touch, reaching out through your skin, interlaced into a quilt warmer than anything you had ever felt. Safer than any armour you imagined you could ever wear.

Words failed you.

But perhaps you did not need them just yet.

“I rose from nothing. My father died too young in a senseless war, my mother was a healer serving the Royal army. I was barely a soldier without any chance of ever climbing ranks, until I was fortunate enough to end up fighting side by side with the king… I used to sleep with a rusty knife under my rag of a shawl instead of a pillow too.”

Your breath hitched deeper in your lungs, the sensation of your very soul being seen raw but not entirely unpleasant. For most of the fear people ever felt of being seen stemmed from the fear of being judged if it happened so; and there was nothing but profound understanding staring back at you.

And perhaps your own understanding, however impossible after knowing the man sitting in front of you less than half a day and having spent but half an hour with him, was staring right back at him.

Steven Rogers I., The Just.

The king who believed in justice driven by morality and compassion and mercy rather than cruelty and rigidity inspiring fear. Inspiring loyalty instead.

“So I shall not have you punished and I shall not take your comforts from you. Only, should you accept it, I would rather gift you a dagger as that is a much more proper weapon than a butter knife.”

Your exhale was almost a huff of laughter, a wave of fresh tears flooding your face; for he could not mean that.

And yet; yet you had no doubt he did.

He would reward a theft by another gift. And somehow, at the same time, he was not foolish in the slightest, however incomprehensible his actions were.

The gods and angels must have not only carved his handsome face; they had built his soul and heart with the same tender love, extending their care through his late mother.

The sudden urge to fall to your knees – not to beg forgiveness as it did not seem he would give it if he felt there had been no crime, but to display your respect and gratitude – was halted by the smallest squeeze to your hands. As if he knew; and as if he warned you not to. For to him, there was no need for as much as a thank you.

Perhaps there was a little piece of fool in him; for there was no world where you would not give that at least. 

And yet; when you vision cleared, there was something glimmering in his own eyes, that brought a little smile to your still wobbly lips.

“As grateful as I am, your Majesty, for your mercy and such kind offering, I am afraid a knife is all I know how to use. A gift of a dagger would be rather wasted on my hand.”

His smile seemed almost proud; a brush of his thumb over the sensitive skin of your wrist, a warm shudder rushing up your arm, only turned his smile wider.

“Then we shall teach your hand to handle a dagger as well as needed. I can show you – or have Natasha or Bucky teach you. I have yet to meet a person more skilled with blades smaller than a sword than them… should you wish so.”

“…thank you, Your Majesty,” you said, no other words making sense, no words at all able to encompass the entirety of the storm of emotion and wonder raging in your mind and heart alike.

“It will be my pleasure, my lady, to ensure that whichever you choose will be done.”

For I shall fulfil your every wish, my love.

He squeezed your hands gently once more, hesitant as their warmth slowly withdrew, along with the golden tendrils of comfort and profound understanding threading around your heart.

Silence settled on the room once more, sweet and heavy; and too quiet for your mind, swirling with too many loud questions and conjectures, too quiet for your pounding heart and still burning eyes.

And you could not bear it; not for but a few rapid beats of your heart so strong in your tight ribcage you worried the muscle might break free off your chest. Not when he observed you with the steady bottomless kindness you had just understood he had a capacity for – but still made little sense.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I—I do not understand. I don’t--- for all you said, for the kindness I can see you have abundance of, I do not understand,” you husked, your voice betraying you, as the intrusive and profoundly evil echo of Henry’s voice whispered slimy answers to the questions you were yet to ask. “Why would you do such? What should I--- what is expected of me? What would you wish me to do in return? What-”

The king’s mouth barely opened when the assault of your questions ceased and you were already apologizing swiftly for it.

“I am sorry. My apologies, for— I should have not--- I-“

The hand to grasp yours returned in an instant; and it should not sooth you as much, for it made no sense, but it did. It did, for it allowed you to breathe again, to meet his gaze, to keep your heart steady. For the warmth and calm returned.

With a single touch.

How? Was that one of the blessings the gods had graced him with? Magic?

“I expect you to be honest with me, my lady,” he said simply, slowly. “I expect you to be honest with yourself. I expect you to do as it is in your power to find happiness in life and I hope you can accept my aid in doing so.”

Why? You wanted to ask, but he was not done, and his thumb drew a soothing circle over your wrist and you lost yourself in the tender gesture, tense shoulders falling, mirroring his own.

“And my hopes are that… perhaps, while staying true to yourself and without any duty you might think you’d have to repay me for that aid… that you might give me a chance.”

“A chance?” you echoed quietly.

“To prove myself a good man to you… worthy to be allowed to try and win over your heart.”

For that is all I wish for, my sweetling, my love, my queen, his voice whispered in your mind, his eyes most sincere despite the utter madness the words carried.

And yet the beat your heart skipped was not one of a startle nor a doubt, as much as your mind protested such reality. It was one of bliss.

He is a king, your mind argued.

He is mine, the heart hummed peacefully in return, and I am his.

The question fell from your lips nevertheless, breathless, but entirely justified.

“Why?”

Why me, the single word implied, even as with any lesser man, the question could also ask why bother proving anything and asking for a chance, when he could simply take.

With Steve, you already knew the answer to the latter, long before he could continue to prove to you as he apparently wished; for he was a good man.

The first shadow of uncertainty in the entirety of the evening passed over his face, hesitation clear as his hand twitched over yours just a bit, his gaze flickering to one of the documents on the edge of the table you had been politely ignoring for you had barely even noticed them, let alone thought to pay them any mind without a grave breach of a law, politeness and trust.

It was a single sheet of parchment, dark ink masterfully curled into letters just as beautiful as the letter you had received from His Majesty; while you could not read the words, for they were too afar and partly concealed by the natural curve of the parchment, you had no doubt the author of the words was holding your hand.

He took a wavering breath, drawing your gaze back to his, and his eyes turned the softest yet, even as his sudden determination shone through, his voice carrying an almost ceremonial note as he recited words that touched your very soul, the warm threads of gold travelling through your veins and bones, blooming inside your chest in an inevitable masterpiece.

“The first snow, like the last ashes, is settling down

A phoenix from them ashes rises, worthy of a crown.

A gentle soul, tireless spirit, bound by chain

Of exquisite beauty, heart restless, clothing plain.

A lonely soul soaked in gold’s already defied fate

Set aflame once it meets eye of its one true mate.

The glory of just rule is one of long-lost precious arts

The key to just world lies in two pure and content hearts.”

You listened with bated breath as the words rolled off Steve’s tongue with reverence; and with familiarity of something one had read and recited to themselves a thousand times before.

You had never heard those words spoken before in your life, you were certain; and yet you’d swear you could have recited them along with him, for you knew them. You would swear on your mother’s grave you knew them; a whisper as old as time itself in the back of your head, goosebumps rising on your skin at the touch of something, an entity that did deserve reverence indeed.

“That is beautiful…” you whispered, a ghost of a smile passing on Steve’s lips, soft. “Where does this come from?”

“A prophecy. Made by the Scalet Witch the day I was crowned the king.”

A prophecy I wrote down and learned by heart for I understood the fatal importance of it, the squeeze of his hand to yours murmured, the brush of his thumb over the back of your hand having your lips part. The importance of you, my sweetling.

A prophecy, your mind echoed, the likeliness of his wordless claim as absurd as the unlikeliness.

It would have been preposterous to believe a prophecy made by a figure as legendary as the Scarlet Witch could be speaking of you of all people.

But it would have been downright foolish to ignore the obvious. You would have to be nothing short of stubbornly blind to not see the reasons why Steve should believe it coming true with your arrival.

‘The first snow.’

‘Fire and ashes.’

‘Bound.’

‘Clothing plain.’

Clothing plain, rang in your mind with more familiarity than anything, your free hand instinctively curling in your skirts, the one dress you had put on and never changed from, almost mindlessly, driven by a force you did not quite understand; and yet you understood it quite well for it was a deep longing to see Steve as soon as possible.

‘Set aflame,’ a whisper sounded in your very soul, the fire your mother had always spoke of, the thing that was meant to keep crackling in your soul and was all but gently kindled by the threads of golden warmth seeping into you through Steve’s touch.

‘Soaked in gold.’

‘Defied fate.’

‘Just rule.’

As clear as these words were to speak of Steve Rogers I., The Just, it seemed as if they, of all things to be said of him, were not chosen by accident. You were feeling the consequences of all these qualities of his at the very moment; basking in the warmth of his touch, having found a relatable experience, having benefited from his merciful sense of justice.

And yes; one might argue other things mentioned were questionable at best and yet, you did not believe the Scarlet Witch said anything at all accidentally.

And neither did Steve.

Steve, who waited patiently for you to process what he had had years to come to terms to.

Had he been waiting, with every arrival of winter, for the prophecy to come true? Looking out of the window awaiting the first snow with longing for the one person, the one thing that seemed most unattainable and yet was the sweetest promise of the prophecy, foreseeing one true love, dooming all other love conquests as possibly futile in the process?

The tender crystals of blue in his irises – as he didn’t shift his gaze away from you, not once in your prolonged silence – were an answer enough.

“One true mate?” you questioned quietly. “…a soulmate?”

“That is my understanding, yes,” he said, not needing a second longer to think. “The one true love one only meets once in their lifetime… if they are fortunate.”

If I could ever be so fortunate, my sweetling, after all the blessings I have already received.

Earned, you wished to argue, fingers twitching, releasing the fabric of your skirts, gravitating towards the hand that held yours, fingertips brushing the skin of his knuckles, roughened by battle and scattered with scars that deserved nothing but a careful, soft touch.

The hitch of Steve’s breath a was tender music to your ears.

“…do you believe it? That…” Your voice faded out, unable, unwilling perhaps, to finish the exhilarating and yet fragile thought.

Not to believe that soulmates existed – you’d like to hope that they did, however they would come to be, written across the stars in your skies, the book of fate, a red string threading through people’s lives – no.

To believe, for some inexplicable reason, that the person for him could be you.

Reluctant to believe it despite fate having toyed with the pair of you more than he was yet to know.

He gulped and cleared his throat at your question, straightening in his seat.

“Yes. The Scarlet Witch has been with the court since I was a boy. She has not once been wrong.”

The Scarlet Witch, yes, you thought, unable to entirely swallow your disappointment at the sheer rationality of the answer while what was blooming inside you was all but.

Without doubt, however, his point was undebatable – for the Scarlet Witch was larger than life.

The mystical woman living everyone and nowhere, in the woods, in the streams, in the wind. No one knew of her true origin, only of her power.

An incredibly gifted prevoyant.

A god-like figure only few were fortunate enough to have seen for longer than a passing moment, let alone spoke to her.

Some believed her to be the daughter of the gods, others whispered she had made a horrible sacrifice of her own children to the gods in exchange for the gift of clairvoyance and other immeasurable powers. Some thought her but a charlatan with clever ways of speaking things; others called them fools for that for they swore that their grand grandfathers had seen her being the witch who would not burn at the stake several kingdoms over. And many had witnessed her to warn kingdoms of floods and fires and diseases killing the crops; many a warning which would be ignored by some and had them pay the highest price for they always came true. 

You had no doubt she could see things that were to come… for all you knew, she might even be the sister to Lady Fortuna herself or was able to read her scribbles.

She had not once been wrong indeed; and if she had been, no one dared to speak of it, out of fear and respect alike.

“And yes, my lady. Yes, I do,” Steve added softly, the answer to your true question.

Almost as if he could hear your thoughts; or read in your face that legitimacy of a prophecy was not quite what mattered to you the most, even as it probably should have.

But how could it, if fate, Lady Fortuna, the gods, or whoever or whichever, had led a kind, generous, brilliant and undeniably handsome man into your path?

“Do you believe then that was it fate that brought me here?”

That brought me here to you?

A contemplative furrow appeared on Steve’s brow as his gaze fell lower, his hand shifting on your thigh to cradle your palm, thumb tracing your lifeline almost absently, a small smile playing in the corner of his lips when your other hand instinctively turned palm-up as well, an offering for him to place his free hand there.

Acceptance.

Of him. Of fate. Of whichever brought you here in his path.

Regardless of where that path would lead you.

He laid his hand into yours willingly, warmth seeping through even as it was your hand that cupped his, attempted to despite how large it was. It sent a shudder through your entire body, all but unpleasant, and the smile on his lips grew a fraction.

Does it matter whether it was fate, my sweetling, if you are here with me?

“I believe there is a higher power. The gods, the Lord, Fate, Fortuna – I do not know which. Perhaps all at once,” he mused, thumb still stroking your palm, as if he was trying to commit the sight and feeling to memory. “I… I believe in paths we are offered, perhaps in certain fates which are indeed inevitable… but I believe in free will too. We make choices. And those choices make us who we are and make us responsible for the consequences our actions have. To us or to others.”

His eyes snapped to yours with gravity and it was not difficult to guess what – and whom – he was thinking of; of men who treated others, who had treated you, wholly differently than he was now.

“Should the prophecy, and thus perhaps fate, speak of me meeting you – and I shall hope so and I believe so – then it is still my responsibility to treat you best to my ability and conscience. And I will,” he promised. “…And yes, it might mean then, that perhaps those men were always meant to bring you here, one way or another – but how they chose to try to earn my favour and how they mistreated you, that was their choice and it sent them on the path they walk now.”

The path they walked… in the dungeons, a brand burned on their skin, hands broken—

A tremor whispered along your spine, cold and strangely satisfied yet – and all the higher it reached, the more it made you shiver in reverence and respect in front of that higher power, perhaps fate or Fortuna indeed, who had threaded carefully to lead you here.

And yet, with a choice.

You thought of all the moments you had considered trying to escape but chose not to.

You thought of your choice, however subconscious and desperate, to grab a knife to your protection and giving into the strong urge to confess it to Steve, only to witness him being merciful.

You thought of your father’s choice to drink as much as he had those few fateful nights ago, getting into a brawl; a choice that had made you all the easier target for Henry and Dimitri.

You thought of the men’s decision to take you, to bring any woman to the king in the first place, by any means necessary, all but shy of violence and threats to your life and destroying what could have been left of it right in front of your eyes, such wicked actions, irreversible harm--

You drew in a sharp breath as the realisation landed on your chest heavily, the gravity of the thought this could all have been destiny lit anew.

“You have punished them for arson… and for laying a hand on me…” you whispered, and even as you were staring at your joined hands, you could feel Steve’s gaze on you.

Gaze thoughtful, sorrowful, and heavy with guilt.

You did not have the heart to finish your thought out loud. To voice the accusation, one you would have barely had the right to made, since what he had done was already more than you could ever ask for. To speak of it as of something to hold against him and blame him for.

You could not; for with humility which a deity as large as Fate deserved, you understood.

And so instead, you simply stated the facts.

“You did not punish them for taking me... For whether they were aware of such or not, they were but fulfilling their destiny. Guided by Fate…”

You dared to glance up, strangely certain of your assumptions, eyes falling on Steve’s face torn by guilt, anger and regret for having solved a dilemma the way he had.

“And as powerful as a hand of a king is, any wise man knows to respect the hand of Fate and that of the gods,” you added softly.

Something flashed in Steve’s eyes, his hand twitching in yours, thumb pressing against your palm.

“You are not wrong, my lady,” he admitted, hesitating but briefly before he continued. “But I also… I alone did not feel adequate to give punishment of a gravity fitting the crime since you were the one who has been done irreversible harm.”

Your lips parted, a violent shiver rushing through your very soul, a lick of a justified angry flame at your veins, a fire put out just as fast at the mere thought of holding someone’s fate – someone’s life, entirely possibly, the most precious entity – in your hand.

As empowering and all too terrifying as the thought was, it did not blind you. You were not unaware of the heat that settled in your stomach at the chivalrous and almost savage gesture of giving you the power to choose, instead of doing it himself; nor that you did not see, once again, how justice worked in Steve’s mind and how much you approved of it.

“And so if you choose their punishment and bestow me the power to do so, I will see to it that it is done,” he vowed, eyes boring into yours with intensity that made you see the very flame inside you mirror in his cerulean irises, before his gaze fell in what could only be shame. “But I am but a man too, my lady. Selfish in my ways like any other, despite priding in acting as just as I can. And I… I do struggle to—it is quite difficult for me decide a grave punishment for someone whose actions, however undisputably wicked and condemnable, I benefit from immensely… for you are here.”

And I am trying my damnest to be a good man, my love, for you the most… but I am not perfect. Far from it, whispered your mind in his voice, an apology, an atonement, a plea for forgiveness.

You observed the sorrow on Steve’s face, softened by his last words that made your heart sear, and you could not think of how wrong he was.

Not far from it in the slightest, was what you thought and almost as if he could hear it – or merely understood what the gentle squeeze to his hand meant – his features softened further, gaze lifting back to yours, the faintest hints of a smile in one corner of his lips.

“Can you forgive me for my shortcomings, my lady?”

You reciprocated the small smile, barely fazed anymore but no less grateful for his kindness and self-awareness.

“I cannot forgive for what I do not see as wrong, Steve. ----oh no, I mean-“

Faster than you could comprehend, faster than you could finish your apology for the too familial of an addressing that had no place in your mouth, for in your mind he might have had turned Steve long moments ago, but he remained His Majesty--- three tender fingers were laid over your lips, pressing lightly, sending delightfully dizzying tingle straight into your core, mind coming to a halt as all you could see and feel was him.

His eyes, tenderness incarnate, boring into yours.

His lips, plush and parted.

The touch of his fingers, roughened by hard work but all the more careful, no longer pressing but caressing your mouth, tracing its shape and feeling the stolen air.

His voice, echoing in your mind, resonating within your bones.

“Have never heard a sweeter sound, my sweetling… my lady.”

My love.

His gaze flickered to follow the touch of his fingers, so overwhelmingly warm you were sure you’d never feel a day of cold ever again, your heart racing miles a minute in sinful harmony of the pulse you could swear you could feel on Steve’s fingertips.

Your breath stuck deeper in your throat, a whisper of his name falling from your lips again, his gaze an inferno inviting you to say it over and over again; you only felt your chest finally expand with an inhale when his hand shifted, leaving your lips suddenly cold with but a sweet aftertaste, his knuckles caressing your cheek instead, the tenderness of the gesture filling your lungs with light and sweetness.

My sweetling, he’d said, the true sound of the echo you’d been hearing in your head like the headiest wine, making your head spin – letting you rise into heights you never wanted to leave.

But you did; his hand fell back into yours, a bliss nevertheless, however faint compared to the sensation still pulsing inside your veins and burning in your stomach.

You blinked, gathering your wits, a nearly lost cause given the hypnotizing smile on Steve’s lips.

My sweetling, my love-

“Where are your thoughts, my sweetling?”

Your cheeks burned at the addressing; burned with the urge to smile, gaze where your fingers laid interlaced still, a sight no less alluring with the protective hold Steve’s hands seemed to have on yours.

It took you a while to school your thoughts into coherence, the wild carousel of questions and answers and destiny and choices spinning still.

“Merely thinking about fate and choices… Perhaps Doctor Erskine was always meant to invent his great experiment… but you asking to the be one to undergo the risk brought you to the throne. A little bit of fate. A little bit of choice changing the courses of the lives of many,” you mused, raising your gaze to find Steve observing you, exasperated surprise blended with fondness all over his expression.

“Bucky has been talking.”

Indeed he had.

You smiled, remembering all too well he had clearly told you many things not only to paint Steve in the best possible light, being good a friend, but also to showcase his glee. Glee at Steve meeting someone at least half as stubborn as himself, ready to challenge him – and exasperate him too, to repay his for all the years he had been doing so to others with all the choices he was making in life.

Insane choices made for a greater good. Choices… made on carefully built paths and crossroads of fate itself, steered by the choices of others.

“Yes,” you admitted, seeing no point in denying so. “He also spoke of how--- how much pain it cost you… and how you might have not survived had it not been for the Doctor’s wife’s choice to run off with him from another kingdom and join his efforts.”

Steve’s eyebrow rose; no trace of anger, only surprise. You wondered briefly, if you had revealed too much, knowing more than Bucky could have told you; and whether Steve realized such or not. There was no telling whether the story of the woman – your grandmother – was known to many.

“Bucky truly has been talking… but yes. I believe that might be the case.”

“Her choice… or her fate. Fortune, really.”

‘Lady Fortuna is watching over you, my little love,’ your mother’s voice echoed in your ears for many a time that day, tempting you to believe. Believer her. Believe in fate. Believe in you. ‘The red thread of hers will lead you to your fate.’

Steve smiled warmly, nodding, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand. “Yes. Whichever it was, all there is to know is that I owe them both a great debt.”

For I have lived. For I have lived and have been given the chance guide the lives of many towards a better life.

For I have lived long enough to meet you.

None of those words were spoken and yet – you read them so clear in Steve’s irises they might as well have been.

And whichever choices had been made… you had no doubt they were the right ones, indeed, if they had, eventually, led you here.

Here, where despite all circumstance, everything felt right on such a fundamental level it must have been so.

“They certainly seem to have chosen well.”

Steve’s chest subtly puffed out at the praise, his chin inching higher, a spark of pride appearing in his irises; and it pleased you to have such effect on him, so simply as to speak—

And yet fright seized your mind at once, heart stumbling in your chest painfully, throat tight as it hit you that Steve, ever so slightly, turned into a vision of pride.

And pride… pride was a dangerous thing.

There was no doubt Steve deserved to feel so and had earned your every word of appreciation – to deny you thought so might as well be a crime.

But His Majesty the King was a wholly different entity than you.

For you, you were short of a virtue and exceptionality.

Under Steve’s gaze, with all his sweet words of soulmates and prophecies, with his touch pouring a sweet mist into your head and into your lungs expanding so wildly it affected your heart, it was all too easy – all too tempting – to be led astray. To believe it all to be true.

That you were exceptional.

Special enough to have been chosen by Lady Fortuna to be by his side.

Special enough to be mentioned in a prophecy made by one of the most powerful figures of the entire generation.

‘The women of our family have been blessed; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls,’ your mother used to say, the dreamer, the believer in great things, her light having been dimming every day as if to deny her words.

‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,’ your father used to say, your daily bread, the deadly sins, the ten commandments, the warnings not to be seduced by evil that not o rarely wore a pretty face, all gold and promises glinting. ‘Humility, obedience – such is the true way of a good life. The way of a good woman. Honour thy father and thy mother.’

“I am trying to make the best choices possible too,” Steve’s gentle murmur snapped you from your dark reverie.

“From what I have seen, you have done so…” you said, words leaving your lips absently as your mind roamed shadowy places, doubt beginning to sprout in your chest despite the sweet threads of gold still blooming around your heart. “Me, however… it is still difficult to believe, despite all evidence, should we call it such, that a fate so great has been bestowed on me of all people.”

‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall—'

Steve’s gaze was inquisitive as it roamed your face, a myriad of emotions suddenly hard to read playing across his features, until a shadow of well-masked sadness covered it, his hold on you growing rather slack.

“I believe it,” he whispered, earnestly so. “And you know already that I believe in fate, in higher power, as much as in choice… What I do not believe in, however, is forced affection.”

Your heart skipped a startled beat, confusion no doubt showing on your face for you were at loss as to why he would say such thing. Unless his displays of affection, so warm and perfect and the incarnation of a home yet to be tainted by grief of a loss, were so.

Forced.

Pretend.

The mere idea was a cold stab straight to your heart, beating vigorously in opposition of the possibility of such being true.

“Please know… Should you not find me worthy, should you find that you do not feel the same… I would never force you to stay, never forced you to charm affection where there is none,” he continued, realization dawning to you and stealing your breath even as your lips parted to disprove the terrible misinterpretation of your own words--- “I would never take back what I have given and never laid a hand on you or otherwise punish you. Should you wish to leave… I would not stop you. I could not… but least I would ask you if you’d accept a chest of precious gems to ensure you were well off.”

But do not, my sweetling. Please. I could not bear it.

My heart would break, half my soul leaving with you.

You blinked, the ache of the loss as if already pulsing inside your ribcage, knocking all air from your lungs.

But it was the last sentence, so nonsensical and so contradictory to the truth of life that has proved to you that you always had to earn the fortune’s favour and the gods’ and Lord’s benevolence – and kindness of strangers, kindness of men – that urged you to ask questions; rather than reassure Steve that leaving was the last thing on your mind. For your heart, your soul, your mind, however foolish to have already fallen for him, would not bear separating from him either.

The loss of the warmth of his touch alone poured potency into the ache in your chest. To leave him altogether would rip you apart.

And yet… how could what he had said ever make sense?

“How would I deserve so? After all you have-“

“For I would never wish you any harm,” he said, his grip on your hand firmer again, his gaze a sea of regret. “And yet, it has already been done.”

Many people have been done harm in the course of their life, you thought to argue, but the touch, the blissful touch returning stopped you at once; and offered clarity without words, Steve’s hold on your hand as strong as the cage of his gaze he trapped yours with.

But none of them are you, my sweetling – and none of them, none, suffered in my name.

And those who had done so, serving me or my kingdom, had done so willingly; and even those, if it were possible, were compensated.

He did not speak those words yet you did not have the faintest doubt that they were true.

For he was the king of the people, serving, like the rest of them.

For he was the king responsible for his people.

And you were one of his already, in one sense of the word or another. A gift to him; whether he had asked for it or not, whether it was fate or someone else’s choice.

In the dim lights of the hearth, you nearly moved your hand to shield your eyes from the strikingly clear sight of him offered, his very soul speaking to you in tongues ancient and never learnt; and yet perfectly comprehensible.

He was not wearing a crown now; not even the simple circlet of gold he had worn when holding the very court you had been dragged to and yet, the shadow of the crown sat on his head heavier and more apparent than a few hours ago. And it was not the precious metal of it that weighted on him; it was the very responsibility he had told you he believed came with being given a choice, grown hundredfold as it came with the power bestowed to him as the king.

And gods help you, you never wished for him to be weighted down, weary with pain or as much as worry – but looking at him now, he was the most beautiful you had yet seen him. A fundamentally, undeniably good man.

And despite that, somehow, he had read your reluctance to belief in being so blessed as something to have anything to do with him not being enough. As if being a soulmate to the embodiment of kindness and fierceness was a feat rather than the most generous gift you had never done anything to deserve and had been given nevertheless.

And perhaps accepting it made you proud.

Perhaps it made you a sinner.

But you would atone for your sins the only way that, seeing the man in front of you, felt right in every fibre of your being.

By loving him.

“I see,” you rasped, emotions thickening your voice as it constricted your throat. “Your kindness sees no bounds… but I believe you misunderstand me.”

He winced as if you slapped him; but the brave man he was, wishing to understand, he held your gaze.

And thankfully, your hands too, still.

You let a small smile curl your lips, causing his head to tilt minutely to the left, some of the previous shadow falling away.

“I do have trouble believing, still… but I do not wish to leave or this not to be true. Quite the opposite. I… I only fear--- there so little sense in all this, and I fear that if there were any chance we might be wrong after all… that in all the hopes and--- wishes of such to be true, that we are— that you are forcing yourself into something you do not… yet-- feel…” Your voice trailed off, weaker with every word while hope grew in Steve’s eyes, determination rising and fleshing out right in front of your eyes.

You suddenly recognized how your worry seemed so silly with all you were feeling and was mirrored in Steve’s face, how it made little sense indeed, but it made all sense, with how you could still feel the touch to your lips, still tingling, still humming in your blood-

Warm.

So warm as his hand left yours, palm cradling your cheek instead, crystal-like blue shining around dark pupils observing you like you were the night skies with the most wonderful and rarest of constellations known to men visible for the first time.

Your breath hitched as the golden warmth seeped into your skin anew, rushing through your veins like the most potent wine and cider combined, neither of which you had touched tonight, but the touch, gentleness and firmness aligned, lit you alive like one of the stars on the skies indeed; and so did Steve’s voice.

“My sweetling… there is no doubt in my mind, in my heart, in my body nor soul,” he whispered and you caught yourself leaning into his touch, nuzzling into his palm, sinking into his tenderness and promise, for nothing had never felt like the touch of divine itself like this before. His eyes crinkled at the edges as you did so, a brilliant soft smile curling his lips. “Seeing you… having the privilege of touching you… it awoken something in me. We only have just met, I barely know your name, and yet I feel like a part of me, deep within me, my heart or my soul-“

“-has known me for a lifetime,” you finished the thought gingerly, finding yourself leaning in, gravitating closer to him, a force of nature you, at last, gave in to, the distance slowly erased.

Much like your doubts; and you were not bothered by either, not in the slightest.

Steve’s expression – and gods, he was nothing short of stunning, even up close, so close his exhale would almost tickle your lips, so so far – grew warmer.

“Yes. Is that…?”

You lowered your gaze, incidentally, glancing over his mouth, the curve of his broad shoulders in your peripheral, all exquisite things to observe.

“I… am not unaffected myself. I do not know how… or why.”

Yes, you do, my sweetling. Yes, you do.

You licked your lips. Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Though I suppose I do… or I believe so,” you added, reluctantly raising your gaze only to meet Steve’s, a soft inferno of emotion staring back at you.

“Should you wish, we could explore that path together… I certainly wish so, if I have not made myself clear yet.”  

You have, my love, you almost pushed past your lips, the last worry of yours the only obstacle.

That and the fact that Steve’s proximity was much like a spell you were quickly falling under, the sweet vertigo of a free fall making words lose all meaning.

“My only worry then is-“

“Isn’t it weary to worry as much, my sweetling? No need for it… I shall protect you from any further harm. From the gods themselves if I must…”

You sighed, weary indeed, where the weight of his crown seem to have but fade away when he held you.

And how tempting would be to believe him, to let your heart alone guide you, to set your fears and doubt free as if you were the one clutching at them and not the other way around.

“I am not of noble blood,” you husked, the issue seemingly so insignificant with the little distance between Steve’s lips and yours, his fingertips brushing your hair, his palm cradling your face oh so gingerly, his other mirroring the gesture, holding your face like the most precious gem with the fragility of a spring blossom- “Surely-- surely the laws-“

The instinctive flicker of your eyes to his mouth as he licked his lips was nothing short of devastating and delightful, the gentle thud on his forehead against yours almost comically tender compared to the violent pulse and rush of your blood past your ears and temples.

Your eyes slipped shut.

“I am the king… I am the law,” he spoke firmly, even if barely audible, sending a shudder down your spine, not at all cold. “I do discuss all important matters with my council, my trusted ones, the former queen, my friends… but if I wish to make you my queen, if you wish the same--- I shall see it done.”

My sweetling, my love, my queen-

All these wonderful unshakeable vows dissipated the last traces of hesitance and doubt like the very magic the Scarlet Witch possessed was at work, and tangled the words on your tongue.

“If it lightens your soul, my sweetling, Tony-- the late King, was not quite known for standing by the rules as old as his lineage either. I am the living proof of how much. I do not have the faintest care whether you are of nobility or not. I came from nothing. And I rule to my best conscience all the more for it, perhaps… if anything, a wife who understands such is the perfect partner… the perfect queen.”

My queen, sounded possessive and decisive and alluringly sweet and tempting in your ears, Steve’s breath tickling your lips, his warmth, his touch, the vision of him behind your closed eyelids an overwhelming assault on your senses tempting you to give up. To let go.

And you did.

The release of the air stuck in your lungs made you as light as a feather, as warm as the summer midday sun on your skin.

“Are you saying I am nothing, Your Majesty?” you whispered, an intimate tease more than anything.

And what a gorgeous reward you received, hearing his smile in his voice when he spoke again, feeling his fingers twitch on your face, tipping your head back a bit as if on pure instinct.

“Oh no, my sweetling, not at all…”

His lips a hair’s breadth from yours, he stole your breath and gave his in return, offering a torturously long time to withdrew as if you had the slightest intention of doing so--

“You… are everything.”

The small sound born in your throat at the sincerity in his voice was drowned in a sea of bliss.

In the light poured into your veins, sunshine and moonlight and stardust born in your bones and consuming your heart and soul alike.

In the heat spreading through every fibre of your being, from your fingertips to your core, beginning and ending where Steve’s lips pressed against yours with delight of the first kiss and deep familiarity of it having been done thousand times for a lifetime. 

In his kiss.

Your hands laid against his chest and shoulder, the most solid anchor in the storm of sensations, his lips warmth and softness incarnate; hesitant but sure, cupping your face still for his hesitance neither stemmed from lack of desire, only fear of rejection.

Your lips parted with a breath, heat thrumming though your body when Steve’s deepened the kiss, thighs clenching at the not unfamiliar but shockingly powerful pulse in your core, your fingers clutching on the fabric of his chemise.

The action must have not gone unnoticed, for he shifted, a silent rumble in his chest and he retreated, parting with pressing a small chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth and a sigh.   

Your ragged breathing meddled with his, forehead once more resting against yours, your grip on the fabric unrelenting; the idea of letting go painful despite it being the only logical thing to do.

Later then.

Never.

Steve caressed your hair, another kiss brushing your lips, drunk eagerly like the sweetest cider and the most delicious of wines.

You savoured the taste and let it sink into all your senses, refusing to open your eyes just yet.

“My sweetling, my queen…” Steve rasped, the rumbling noise bringing a tickling swoop into your stomach, “as belated as my questions seems… would you do me the honour of allowing me to court you?”

You huffed a surprised laugh, a quiet delightful sound that felt awfully foreign, an echo of a distant past, and yet so natural in his company. You opened your eyes at last, offered the gorgeous sight of him still savouring the moment, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones, mouth kiss-swollen and red, and gently raked your fingers over his nape, his smile joining yours.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When he met your gaze, sparkling with joy and the gentlest scold, only then you spoke what your heart had been whispering since the first time you had set your eyes on him, as reluctant as you had been to hear and listen:

“… yes, Steve.”

Another sweet kiss to your lips, before his hands slowly released your face, only to cradle your hand again and press one more kiss to your knuckles like the gentleman he was, a promise to court you and sweep your off your feet indeed.

“Thank you, my lady, for allowing me such honour… I feel I should escort you to your chambers, for the hour must be rather late…”

Before you could protest, for away was the furthest from where you wished to be at the moment-

– Forever, my love, for ever-

-he did so for you.

“Yet I cannot imagine parting from you for the night, not just yet… Would you sit with me for a moment, my sweetling?” he asked for the second time that evening, all respectful despite the profound plea you could not but hear, for it echoed your own, written all over his expression, all over his cheeks dusted with the faintest pink.

Your body sifted closer to him as he let your hand fall between you, never releasing it, and you pressed your free palm to his sternum, glancing up at him with an ever-present smile on your lips.

“It would be an awful shame to waste a drink, wouldn’t it? And a night so wonderful so far… I should wish to stay, my love.”

The endearment rolled off your lips with such ease – so nonsensically true and so right – that you could not find yourself regretting it, less so upon seeing Steve’s gaze light up like the starry frozen night outside, brilliant happiness shining brighter than the sun and the moon together.

“Indeed, my sweetling. Your wish is my pleasure to follow.”

And so after another passing moment of indulging in indecent proximity, you inched away far enough from each other to clear your minds at least a bit, yet not once not touching – a hand, a knee brushing the other, a kiss to your hand, a caress to his knuckles – and toasting to a new courtship.

And your heart – while racing, excited and perhaps a little scared of the future still, and with gentle fire crackling in your soul, with golden threads of affection interlacing with the red thread of fate in your veins – was content and blooming with pure love.

And never once taking your eyes off Steve, you could tell that you were not alone in feeling such.

One next to another, beating in hopeful harmony, sat two pure and content hearts, with a promise of a bright future ahead.

For both of you – and for the entire kingdom too.

S.R. masterlist

Hello esteemed readers 🥰 Thank you for reading all the way here, hopefully with a dreamy smile 😌 I am considering a fourth part where they would... consumate their marriage and union, but have nothing specific in mind, nor a solid plan... for now, their story on paper/screen ends here even as it is their beginning 🥰

Please, remember interaction is love and food for writer's thought, as well as greatly appreciated 💕

Two stairwells up.

A maze of corridors.

A quiet, distant part of the castle.

Safety; or a calculated imprisonment and an insurance that a guest would not wander anywhere near the people important to the crown nor near the kingdom’s most guarded secrets.

You did not know which one it was that you were led there – perhaps both.

If you truly were a guest to the king for a reason beyond your understanding, you were safely locked away from the men who had taken all but your dignity from you.

If you were a prisoner, you certainly would have never imagined to be treated with such kindness and be offered such luxury – and you had been raised better than to scoff at such generosity.

The space of the guest chamber was as large as the entirety of your home used to be, warmer in interior, colder in personal touch and memories. The windows appeared larger than life, allowing for the remnants of daylight to seep through the heavy curtains framing them, the beautifully decorated wardrobe as sturdy as the desk with two chairs at it, the vanity table crowned by a mirror whose frame alone was a piece of art.

The true jewel of the room, however, was the bed. An enormous bed built of dark wood, its carved detailed decoration calling for an admiration by a gentle touch; if you had dared to do such, however, you would have taken the damnest care to not put pressure on the fine piece of art heavier than a brush of butterfly wings. Your breath caught at the sight of the wooden leaves curling like vines around the bedframe with canopy of light, soft blue fabrics, partially concealing a place to lay one’s head you could hardly imagine sinking into for it appeared as soft as clouds in the skies.

Your gaze flickered all over the room, always, always drawn back to the bed. Your muscles felt suddenly weary like never before despite having handled years and years of hard work, your bones achy and joints stiff, silently begging to be put to a comfortable rest, no matter how otherworldly and unreal the cushions might look to your eye.

Your heart raced in your chest, every beat vigorous and painful, warning you of a lie and a trick – of this being but a taunt before you’d be dragged through another maze of corridors, downstairs this time, where you imagined the dungeons were awaiting you.

And yet.

Yet, a tender voice in your very soul hummed about comfort and safety and a promise – that this was yours, at least for the time being. A tender voice which suspiciously resembled that of your Steve, a ghost of an intangible touch brushing over your hand and squeezing in reassurance.

You are safe, my sweetling. And as gods command it, what is mine is yours – be it weighted in gold or in matters of heart.

You would swear you could hear it, a sweet voice of a man you had just met, whispering straight into your ear; and despite all rational thought cautioning you that believing this beautiful lie was madness, much like hearing the voice of someone who was not in the room with you was, there was a part of you somewhere deep within, that believed.

For all the tears you had shed in the past hours, for all the times your eyes burned but no tears had welled up anymore, the sincerity of that damn voice calling you a sweetling and his lady, chased fresh tears into your eyes.

“My lady? Are the chambers not to your satisfaction? Or are you in much pain?” another voice, distinctly female and most certainly real asked, causing you to snap from your reverie and straight to Natasha’s face.

You were shaking your head wildly, hands trembling, before you could hope to find your voice.

She did not need another answer. She smiled politely, nodding, busying herself with pointing out individual spaces, her words, however wasted in sharing the obvious, aiding in steadying your breath and hands, even as your mind spun, circling the one and only crucial question.

Why?

Why were you here, in luxurious guest chambers, with a woman to assist you, instead of being casted away? Or imprisoned? Why weren’t you already warming the king’s bed since that must have been the only reason to keep you since he had even said so – that he would do as he pleased? Why-

“-and I shall see to it that while you bath, some refreshments are prepared for you, for you must be weary after the… long journey,” the redhead added, her smile sympathetic, but not pitying; and where her words concealed the fact she could imagine how exactly your journey had gone, her knowing gaze did not.

Strangely enough, her eyes spoke not of pity either; instead, they seemed to speak of certain and quite absurdly misplaced pride.

“The water should be here in but a moment. Will you require assistance, my lady?”

You shook your head again as you dried the few tears that rolled down your burning cheeks, your lips quivering with a sob you refused to release. Natasha nodded.

“Very well, then. I shall be right outside, guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes. He is the most trusted friend and protector of the king – you may rest easy knowing he would not let any harm come to you.”

You blinked, taking a wavering breath, processing the new piece of information and hoping to hide the shudder at the image of a man standing at your door – to keep anyone from coming in and harming you indeed… or you from coming out and wandering. Or fleeing.

Not that you would wish to do either.

A bath, on the other hand, sounded heavenly; and the bed, gods help you, was calling out for you even as it was entirely inappropriate for a woman of your standing doing anything but fluffing the pillows for the nobility sleeping there.

“T-thank you kindly, good lady-“ you croaked, earning but a smile and no mocking at the terrible quality of your voice.

“Of course. You may call me Natasha, should you feel comfortable. I will leave you to it… I believe one should catch a moment of reprieve alone after having to deal with men.”

She winked, honest to gods – unless you dreamed it, much like you must have dreamed up all of this – and backed away from the room, shutting the doors behind her with practised quiet ease, before you could as much as muster up a response.

As soon as the door closed, you felt your chest deflate, one weight falling, another settling in with crushing intensity.

You realized that for the first time since having been ambushed by Dimitri and Henry, you breathed in freely; only for a sob to erupt from your throat, one you were quick to muffle with your palms. Your knees gave out, sending you toppling over to the floor arse first, the skirt of your new dress rustling, the noise barely registering over the sound of your frantic breathing and your thundering heart.

Natasha was not wrong; a moment of reprieve was much needed, even as the most intense of the feelings swirling in your chest was relief, raging in your head so loudly it swallowed even the confusion creeping all over your skin.

For long moments, you simply breathed, chest heaving, ugly sobs silenced by your hands, tears streaming down your face through tightly squeezed eyelids.

Gods. Gods, thank you, you prayed to heavens, to hell, to every flower, tree and living thing, to the goddess of fire and life and death and all those you could think of.

You might still not know what awaited you, but with hands free of the binds that had left marks on your wrists, and with deep certainty whose origin you were not quite sure of, you knew you were free of the men having taken you. And whatever fate the king would proclaim for you, you knew deep in your bones as well as in your soul that it would be fate much better than the one which you’d meet should Dimitri or Henry get their hands on you again.

By the time a tub and godly warm water with soft scent of lavender were brought – to you, for you, just for you, your mind supplied unhelpfully – you allowed the relief you had little basis for consume you, a reprieve indeed from worrying about the future.

In the soothing embrace of the bath, even the marks left on your skin appeared less angry; more irritation than scrapes, more bruising than blood.

Soaking your skin in the warmth and another moment blissfully alone, your thoughts wandered to your late mother; wishing you could ask for advice or simply share the overwhelming emotions, good or bad. But most of all, you recalled her gentle touch and allowed the echo her sweet voice fill your very being, a memory relived thousands times over and over.

Lady Fortuna is watching over you, my little love. The red thread of hers will lead you to your fate.

And so you prayed to Lady Fortuna as well for your mother, and to the Lord of the new religion for your father, hoping for guidance towards your fate indeed.

And you hoped to all forces beyond human that the fate that awaited you was better than death.

-.-.-

By the time Natasha brought you food, the water had gone cold and you had grown restless by your idleness, unused to staying still for so long.

She was kind enough to ensure you had everything you could possibly need and more, genuinely unfazed by the sight of you in nothing but a soft warm sort of robe that had been brought to you along with the bath.

What King Rogers had described as ‘a little to eat’ and Natasha as ‘refreshments’ was enough to feed you for a day, albeit there were what you assumed was simple foods by nobility’s standards. The selection of fruits, breads and cheeses and jams had your head swimming and your mouth watering – but your attention was drawn by something else.

With the food, three different dress were brought for you, all clearly sewn of quality fabric, much like the dress you had arrived in; but neither the dexterity the attires were made with nor the finest fabrics was what caught your eye and had your heart race.

It was the variety.

And the choice to make which felt like a trial to pass, even as all dresses were in shades of blue.

Each was nothing short of beautiful, the finest the kingdom could offer, you were sure; but where one seemed something a royal would wear, with the finest details and jewels sewn onto the bodice and skirts, the other would perhaps be suitable for a noble lady who would wear it with only enough pride to not overshadow a queen or a princess. And the last one, while still gorgeous and worthy of a wife of a rich merchant, was rather plain.

Your eyes were flickering between the three, head spinning, even as the last one spoke to you the most – the one that would make you feel like you were perhaps out of a place still, walking the same halls a king walked, but not out of place in the sense of yourself.

On the other hand, should you meet the king, he might be offended by such choice, for perhaps this dress was unfit for the occasion; he might read scorn in your refusal of the luxury offered. At the same time, choosing the most expensive gown could be considered greedy; and where the middle ground of choosing the second dress could be seen as reasonable, it could also be regarded as taking the simplest path to walk and thus being worthy of being scoffed at.

“Your Majesty hopes you to join him in two hours,” Natasha startled you from your musings. “Sir Barnes, who will be guarding your chambers still, will bring you to the King’s quarters, should you agree.”

Your pulse flew sky-high; and the moment you met her clear honest eye, the words were tumbling out of you despite all reason and politeness.

“Do I have choice?”

Your hand slapped over your mouth a second too late to take the words back, horror pouring all over your skin.

But Natasha’s gaze sparkled with now familiar mirth, amused by your bluntness; she did not laugh, however, and if possible, her features softened and hardened at once.

“Of course you do. And not participating does not equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise. You have a choice here – and you’d do well to make it your own, not whichever you believe is required. Whether it is of sharing dinner with S—His Majesty… or of an attire,” she added, one corner of her lips rising in a knowing but not unkind smirk.

You gulped, a cold shudder rushing down your spine at the reminder of what had taken place mere hours ago still, the phantom feeling of a blade being pressed to your side every single time your captors believed you might try and flee returning. Despite Natasha’s word clearly being meant as encouraging, you felt yourself deflate, your stomach, however empty and nearly growling as the smells of the foods slowly settled in the room replacing the aroma of lavender, churned.

You had been treated with utmost kindness. Natasha seemed nothing but honest with you. But no matter her beliefs, no matter the soft voice in your heart and soul you did not quite understand, the memory of Henry’s words rang in your ears like alarm bells, a reminder of just how fragile this illusion of safety and comfort truly was.

‘Might not be she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastard.’

You would do well to remember the nature of all men you had encountered in your life and heard of.

You would do well to display the utmost respect for the generous offerings, showing gratitude and humility like a good woman should and your father had taught you.

You would do well to remember that oftentimes, life offered choices to act as a trial indeed and one could easily fail and ruin all.

You nodded in acknowledgment of Natasha’s words, thanking her for all her kindness and helpfulness, insisting you did not need help with dressing up; it felt like blasphemy and mockery, for you were the furthest thing from a noble lady, while she seemed to be exactly that. Even telling her she may go, in as polite way as you possible, wording it as a request rather than an order, was a picture perfect of absurdity.

With heart having leaped into your throat, you resisted the urge to walk out right behind her and do your damnest to dismiss Sir Barnes as well, since he most certainly had other and much more pressing obligations than to guard a simple woman being prepared to warm his king’s bed; but the insolence it would take to even attempt to counterorder what the King himself had probably asked for, was an offence worse than the fact the knight was there in the first place.

Gratitude. Gratitude and humility. Choosing the right path to walk and the right hand to play was the key to survival and to earning Lord’s favour, you reminded yourself. Must be that such rules apply to earn the King’s favour as well.

Worried that you might as much as crease, gods forbid stain the most luxurious dress you planned to wear to please His Majesty’s eye, and with your original one having been taken away, you opted to wear the simplest of the gowns for now.  

With stomach tight and heavy with anticipation, thoughts of how to best prove your gratitude and humility in the face of the King’s kindness swirling in your head, you seated yourself at the table near the fireplace, reaching for the food. If it went untouched, surely it would only serve as an offence; and while your hunger battled with anxiety, you were not one to scoff at the blessings the table offered. With the bread alone tasting like heavens on your tongue, fresh with the softest crumb and crunchy crust, the knot in your stomach gave way to the hunger easily, appetite growing with each bite, the sweetness of the jam, the delicacy of the cheeses and the rich taste of ripe fruit nothing short of a pleasure, causing you to practically melt into your seat.

Should this be your last meal, your mind supplied, should you indeed meet fate as awful as death, you would be leaving this world grateful for experiencing this bliss.

And yet. Once your hunger was sated, senses fed beyond, the dark concerns returned tenfold, shivers crawling over your skin and raising goosebumps even as the room was far from chilly.   

Memories of the past hours filled your head, the smell of lavender, wine and spices and sweat and smoke, images of men’s faces contorted in a gleeful warning and a challenge, snarls twisted into sharp smiles, flashes of cords of muscles on the arms handling you, a blade to your hip, a grip on your chin forcing you to watch the flames and the smoke and crackling and the taste of ruin, voices—a cacophony of chuckles and spits and threats and knowing smirks-

-not worth to give him an heir ----can still have his bastar’-

---them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us--

--ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth---- he’s one of us-

-ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin---

The words felt like screams and wails in your ears, trembling hands thrown up to cover your ears, to shield you, eyes squeezed shut. But the darkness was worse; a scary blank slate of the future determined by your past, and there was no hiding – no hiding from the noise born in your very head, carved into your memory-

---ensure my favour-- you brought me a gift?-

-your utmost right to do as you please—

– And I shall--

--I’d be pleased if you’d join me-

-guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes---

---guarding your chambers still---

-guarding you or caging you in with violence if needed, the nails digging into your scalp whispered menacingly as you shook your head, realizing you had curled into yourself, but there was no hiding-

---will bring you to King’s quarters—

--in two hours-

You pushed away from the table and rose to your feet, the scrape of a chair a welcomed distraction for but a moment, gaze drowning in tears, the next words but a powerful echo, over and over and over-

-equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise—

—your end--- by knife-

Knife, knife, knife-

Your hand was gripping it before you knew you had reached for it, your frantic breathing settled but a fraction with the familiar and yet unfamiliar weight, shiver subduing just a little.

A knife. The one thing that had kept you safe for almost two years and was torn away from your hand much like the rest of your life.

You took a wavering breath as its silvery glint, a mocking to the rust your entrusted weapon had carried, had your shoulders fall with your exhale.

A knife under your pillow.

In a middle of a castle, a guest, a prisoner, a thing to warm the king’s bed, his lady, whichever name they would call you – this could be your certainty.

It made no sense. In the very back of your mind, you were aware your steps towards the bed felt absurd and ridiculous in the worst sense possible, but you were but a spectator – your gait wobbly, you walked to the soft cushioning and placed the blade, cleaner but less sharp than the knife you had used to have, under one of the fluffed up pillows, something deep within you blooming with relief.

A knife would be little help against any threat that might come through your door, be it a mercenary, a knight, a guard or the king himself and the idea of being able to as much as nick the skin either of those, let alone to overpower them, was terrifyingly laughable; but the cold comfort that spread over your skin was better than feeling fear alone.

Your clammy hand caressed the impossibly clean and soft fabrics of the pillow, fingers sinking in for just a moment.

You had never had such beautiful thing; you had never as much as touched a cloth as precious.

The call of the bed, gorgeous in frame and too soft in cushions, returned.

Two hours.

By your estimate, however likely inaccurate, you still had plenty of time; it would be wise to lie down and to close your eyes for but a moment, to be rested as much as your jittery mind would allow, so you could face the king with at least remnants of dignity and enough life in you to please him indeed. You were not likely to be able to fall asleep, and if so, you’d be no doubt haunted by night terrors even before the night would fall – yet the idea was now etched into your mind and would not allow you not to act upon it.

Taking off your shoes, with as much reverence as your exhausted body and mind was capable of, you climbed into the bed, slowly laying your heavy head, cheeks still wet with tears, onto the delicate softness of the pillows.

You did not muster enough strength to free the covers once you had laid on top of them and drape them over you; your hand, however, found its way under the pillows with practised ease, the hold on the cold metal like a comfort aching in your bones.

And despite your mind running in terrifying circles, you were lost to the dreamland as soon as you closed your eyes…

…and much to the shock you’d experience once you’d wake, you were not haunted by evil spirits nor images worthy of the worst horror tales about monsters among men.

Instead, you dreamed of a soft touch.

You dreamed of a gentle respectful voice calling you my lady with emphasis on the ‘lady’ rather than the ‘my’, a pair of sincere blue eyes full of warmth and kindness and sparkles of humour without malice.

You dreamed of strong protective arms holding you rather than caging you, tender fingers of an artist tracing the features of your face like they were brushes against canvas of a work of art.

No punishment will come to you, sweetling, the man whispered, his hair like a halo of an angel of the new teachings.

Please, believe me. Allow me. Believe in me.

-worthy of a crown---bound by chain– exquisite--- clothing plain-

You are safe, my sweetling.

Yes, yes you are. No man will lay a hand on you ever again.

- lonely soul defied fate—one of long-lost precious arts—

--two pure and content hearts-

You are safe.

In your sleep, you lost the grip on the knife, and once you did, your soul relaxed into into the soft warmth of your dreams, sleeping sounder than before.

You woke up with a startle and a gasp, finding yourself sitting in a strange bed, hands fisting delicate sheets that gleamed gently in the light and shadows casted by a fire.

You found yourself blinking, heart hammering in your ribcage as your mind slowly awoke, along with memories – horrible memories wrapped carefully in an inexplicable feeling of comfort and safety that had your frantic breathing settle despite your racing heart.

The chambers were dark safe by the fire someone had kindled in the hearth but was long gone; much like the food you had not managed to eat, the cutlery and dishes replaced by what you assumed were two plates hidden by cloches – and an envelope.

You were on your feet so fast your head spun, curiosity and creeping realization leading your wobbly steps, sleep having been wiped from your mind but not your weary muscles and bones just yet.

You had slept through the dinner.

There was no denying so; not when the day had long said its goodbye.

Not when the envelope was sealed with what could only be a royal seal.

A letter from a king, should you be so presumptuous to think you were of enough importance for him to spare the time to write to you, be it for whichever reason.

To express dissatisfaction or even rage.

To reveal what the consequences of your absence would be.

To invite you to your own execution, perhaps, for having denied him.

And yet; a warm feeling of certainty you had no basis for made you dismiss the dark thoughts before they could take root.

There was no use in wonders and musings, no use in trying to figure out a man you had only met in passing; for all the truth one could find in their own heart, for heart could at times see more than eyes could, there was no doubt some truths were found in both actions and words.

You reached for the envelope, hoping your experience of handling the trades on the market after your father had given up, correspondence and short contracts included, were enough to have you understand whichever message the letter carried.

Your fingers were shaky; and breaking the seal felt like sealing your fate.

Reading the words written in beautifully curved letters, then, felt like a caress over the back of your hand, two strong hands cradling it and squeezing gently in reassurance.

My dearest of guests,

I regret I have not been able to welcome you at your chambers as I would have wished and you would have deserved. I shall only hope you found the suite satisfactory and I hope that Natasha has made sure you were most comfortable.

However disappointed I might have been, missing you at the dinner table, I was most pleased to have been informed you had found your rest after the dreadful experience you had been subjected to. I took the liberty to save your plates for you and have them brought for whenever you might welcome them.

Should you need anything else, please, know that a word is enough for it to be fetched if it only is in my power to give.

Should you wish to talk to me yet, as I wish to you, one of my most trusted men shall always stand guard to your chambers, so you may sleep soundly knowing you are protected. The same guard may serve to lead you to my chambers.

I am most looking forward to conversing with you at your convenience.

Steven Rogers I., The Just, The King of the Lands of Starkerbürg

You reread the words several times, breath bated, marvelling at both the individual letters which were closer to having been painted rather than simply written and the message itself.

Had you not once had to take over the trade of your family, you might have not been able to read the king’s words at all; but as fate or Lady Fortuna had it, while you might not read or write on the same level as nobility did, you understood well enough.

And yet, such did not equal comprehending how this had come to be; nor did it help you understand the sudden urge to speak to His Majesty in the very next moment, not led by fear of having already disappointed him, but a desire to truly know the man whose hand had led the ink so skilfully it might have as well been a piece of art.

Your heart ached with the need; fear silenced for the time being, soothed by the inexplicable dreams in which kindness, patience and affection seemed to be wearing the King’s face.

You had been reprimanded nor rushed despite the delay, and you were in no position nor right to demand or command. And yet, you could not imagine withstanding another moment spent here, another hour without speaking to His Majesty.

You could not bring your hand to lift the cloches off the food delivered and lose precious minutes by eating.

You could not bring yourself to as much as glance at the dress you had been sure you were to wear to acknowledge and appreciate His Majesty’s hospitality and generosity, the sweet echo of a gentle voice, ‘of clothing plain’ guiding you to hurry past, just as you were.

Your nerves were battling an instinct beyond your comprehension humming in your chest. On the one hand, your anxiety argued, asking for anything more than you had been given, even if it was but meeting the king as he had requested, seemed an arrogant overstep; on the other hand, an overwhelming feeling of being on the right path and needing to walk it despite causing inconvenience to the man guarding your door and potentially the king as well, was impossible to best when it flushed your veins like a tidal wave.

Opening the door for a slit, cautious still to disturb as little as possible despite the growing need blooming in your chest, you peeked though, finding a dark-haired man you had a vague recollection of having seen in the royal hall standing tall and alert, guarding dutifully.

He turned to you fully in an instant at the sound of the door, leaving you no choice but to open fully when he welcomed you with a subtle bow.

“My lady. How may I be of assistance?”

You gulped, reciprocating the curtsy, attempting a grateful smile, unsure whether you succeeded.

“Thank you kindly, good sir, for standing guard and watching over me,” you whispered, lingering in your bow as to express your genuine gratitude before rising. The poor solider – and he must have been a soldier in more than a rank, given his built – would have likely been in getting his much-needed rest had it not been for you. “I was… wondering whether it was still appropriate and whether it would trouble you to-- bring me to His Majesty? Please?”

The man let a hint of a warm smile curl his lips at your request.

He was a handsome man; the raven hair contrasted sharply with his eyes the colour of a winter sky, his features sharp but softened by a stubble and gentleness of his expression – of which you had no doubt was deliberate, since you had seen his profile, hard and deadly focused on potential intruders but a moment ago.

“Of course, my lady. He… expressed the wish to speak to you at your convenience,” the man said, something in his gaze almost, almost whispering of mischief, reminding you of Natasha. “Follow me, please… and should you wish to address me other than a good sir, they know me as Sir Barnes or Bucky in these halls.”

You observed him mutely for several beats, stunned by both his willingness and the offer to address him by a familial nickname.

Surely, he had not meant that? He was a knight and a noble, one of the king’s most trusted men and clearly of the most capable soldiers the kingdom had--

And he would take you to see the king.

You willed your smile to grow despite your anticipations rising, stomach twisting in a knot as pleasant as nervous.

“Thank you… Sir Barnes. That is most kind of you.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, not commenting on your choice, and merely beckoned you to follow him.

With heart having leaped to your throat, you did.

You attempted to retain the route, one stairwell, a twist and a turn, another set of stairs – but you soon found yourself distracted by your thoughts as well as the art pieces lining the walls and the solitary guards you met patrolling the castle, greeting you mutely with subtle bows. Instinctively, you reciprocated every single one of them.

Other than that, the walk through the corridors was silent.

Had you not been able to hear your steps echoing through the walls, the thundering of your heart in your ribcage and your thoughts circling in your head, it would have been a silence of the pleasant sort, almost comfortable.

For much like the king, as you now recalled with curious clarity, Sir Barneshad a kind aura around him, whispering of him being a protector.

And much like the king, he carried himself a warrior: his manners and the kindness he was emanating was a matter of choice. He was such not for the lack of capacity for violence – you had no doubt that had he chosen to do so, he’d be able to choke the life out of your throat with one hand – but for the decision made of his own will. It was the small almost supportive smile he gave you, a flicker of mirth in his eye when he saw you in the plainest dress, that settled any worries of him hurting you.

That and his respect for silence.

The only moment he spoke up again was when he warned you of a very uneven spot in the floors; and then when you had stopped dead in your tracks, air knocked out of you as your gaze, having been admiring the interiors and art, fell on a portrait of a man and a woman.

For a several startled beats of your heart, you were rendered speechless, body completely still, unable to breathe in, let alone comprehend what you were seeing, mind firing in all directions, aimless.

What you were seeing was… impossible. It could—that wasn’t--- but-

Your mind frantically searched for an explanation, coming out empty, as the only plausible one could not have been true – and yet, it somehow had to be. It had to.

The woman in the painting. You knew her.

You knew her better than your own heart, or so you had believed.

“My lady?” Sir Barnes questioned lowly, clearly attempting not to startle you.

He did not need to worry; you doubted anything could startle you at the moment. Had the skies fallen on your head, you would have barely noticed.

“Who… who is that?”

“Doctor Erskine,” Sir Barnes replied without hesitation, snapping you back to reality where, naturally, he’d believe you were inquiring of the man. “And his wife. The kingdom owes them a great debt, Steve most of all. Which is why he’s asked the late King Stark to have them painted.”

Wife? Impossible, your mind whispered again, a nagging thought even as Sir Barnes’s words raised a hundred new questions.

A doctor? A debt? Steve – the king – in particular? Could it be true then that the man who would be King Rogers used to be very sick, owning his life to this man… and woman?

With great effort, you tore your gaze away from the painting, glancing at Sir Barnes with a silent question.

It was rude perhaps – it certainly was if you considered you had been on your way to the king, and while he did not know you were coming thus couldn’t await you at a specific time if at all, you were stalling – but Sir Barnes only smiled and sighed almost fondly.

“Doctor Erskine was a visionary – perhaps that was why him and King Stark got along so well. They both had a knack for turning mad dreams into reality… and Steve, having been sick a lot, smaller too – as you will see further down the corridor – was… he was crazy and desperate enough to help further, beyond advising us on strategy, that he offered himself to let the Doctor try to make one of these visions true… and he did.”

You blinked, trying to comprehend the way Sir Barnes was so openly speaking of the king’s former struggles, and the late king’s habits with plain admission of them having been foolish. Or not, you assumed, forcing yourself to breathe in and out as he continued.

“To this day, I am not sure how Erskine did it – and he never got to repeat the experiment as both him and his wife were killed in an attack on the castle soon after. But I am grateful for it. Maybe it was pure medicine, maybe it was alchemy, a miracle, gods, magic, the damn fairies – I don’t know. All I know is that when Steve came to himself again, he’s grown several inches taller, turned healthier than a horse and had enough muscle to be able to lift what his arms would have broken under before.”

You stood frozen, stunned and mesmerized not only by the incredible story, but by the one single word that could explain the uncanny, impossible resemblance of the woman in the painting to your mother.

Alchemy.

Doctor Erskine, may he rest in peace in heavens or wherever afterlife had taken him along with his wife, had been an alchemist.

And unless your mind was playing tricks on you, unless the gods were laughing in your face… he was the alchemist your grandmother had run off with soon after your grandfather had passed and you had been born.

Lady Fortune is watching over you, my little love, red threads of fate shall lead you onwards, your mother’s melodic voice hummed in the back of your mind, a lump having grown in your throat.

What were the chances of such? What were the odds of having ended up a gift to the king who rose from people, who had become a knight in the first place by the helping hand of the man your own grandmother had run off with? 

You curled your trembling hands into fists by your side, unable to hide the shudder.

Sir Barnes did not comment on it, likely thinking you were merely letting the story sink in; but the fact you were processing was much greater.

He wouldn’t know. Much to your pain, you carried little resemblance to your mother, at least in appearance, having been likened to your father much more often. Apparently, such was not the case for your mother and grandmother; initially, you genuinely believed that by gods’ whims, a portrait of your own mother had been hung on the castle’s wall.

You gulped, mind whirling, trying to scramble for any resemblance of manners.

“Incredible… His Majesty was very fortunate to have had aid of such a gifted man.”

Sir Barnes hummed, an agreement and a protest at once.

“Well… all the more grey hairs for those of us who knew how crazy chances Steve is willing to take with his safety when it comes to fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves,” Sir Barnes muttered, causing your lips to twitch in an unvoluntary smile of both amusement and surprise at his bluntness.

You liked Sir Barnes. A knight as he was, perfectly polite with you, more than you’d deserve, and no doubt loyal to the kingdom, he was also clearly a man with a very friendly relationship to his king. It seemed their friendship had been through many years of trials – and perhaps not only those on a battlefield.

He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is that… Erskine truly allowed for Steve’s body to catch up with how great his spirit and heart was. I know… I know you’ve been dragged here and you don’t know much of him yet, but… he’s a good man.”

You nodded without a word, gaze lingering on the painting.

Yes. The king so far had been hundred times kinder to you than you could have hoped – puzzlingly so, truly – and keeping a painting of those who had aided him in becoming the sovereign he was spoke of his character too. There was no arguing that and you’d inquire more of it later, hoping to get more insight since Sir Barnes seemed to be quite the source of information, as biased as he no doubt was in favour of his king and his friend. But before you’d do so, there were still burning questions you couldn’t but at least try to ask.

“And what of his wife then?” you asked quietly. “You said the kingdom owed to both of them? …a figure of speech?”

You could hear the rustle of cloth even before you turned your head as Sir Barnes shook his head vigorously, meeting your eye with gravity.

“She was his greatest assistant, helping with all, healing not only the people of the court but also soldiers and townspeople… I owe them too, since they both are the reason why I haven’t lost my arm to--- it does not matter. But what I said before referred to the transformation Steve underwent. It took two days.”

You gulped, unsure why his eyes darkened with pain, even as you recalled that he spoke of the king having to come to himself later on.

Sir Barnes chuckled humourlessly, even as fondness flashed over his features.

“We all knew it was a grave risk, the first time ever experiment always is. But once the substance spread through Steve’s body, he would-- he would bite down on his mouth hard enough to make it bleed, nails digging into his hands just as hard. The pain had to be--- it had to be beyond--- hours and hours to no end, until he finally broke and screamed in agony long and hard enough for us to consider killing him just to end his suffering,” Sir Barnes husked, the heaviness of the memory landing on your own chest, ribcage squeezed tight at the mere idea of such pain. Pain inflicted on who seemed to be but a good man,no less. On Steve. “And then she--- I don’t know how she did it. I didn’t care and still don’t. But she did it. Some kind of a potion, some miraculous elixir she managed to settle him enough to drink with her touch only – and he did settle. He was still in pain, it was obvious, but much less, much calmer. I don’t… he’s always been one resilient bastard---”

You winced at the harsh language even as it was hardly the worst word you’d ever heard. You had simply not expected it from a man who might have been most honest, but also most polite. It truly spoke of the magnitude of emotion the memory awoke in him; you could feel its force too, in your very bones, breath trapped in your throat.

“He’s always had a fighter’s spirit. But… I don’t think that this was a battle he would have won without her.”

I fear he would have died from pain alone, or at least have gone completely mad, Sir Barnes grey eyes whispered what his voice couldn’t anymore, clear as day. An icy fist clenched around your heart and dug it nails in deep at the implication, making it harder to breathe; and released it with a relief and warmth surging through your veins.

Steve had survived.

He had survived and lived long enough to encounter you, long enough to stir the strangest of feelings in you – and long enough to save you from a terrible fate by the hand of the two mercenaries. You knew he did – save you. You knew, inexplicably, that whichever fate awaited you, you were safe with him.

And perhaps… perhaps your grandmother had played the most important role in that.

Yes. It did make sense why anyone would be grateful for that.

You were too.

And you might understand none of the king’s motives to treat you the way he did, nor you knew when his kindness would cease – but if this was how Starkerbürg gained its just ruler, if the children here were allowed to be as happy as those whom you had seen earlier today, you were grateful too.

And proud of what you were now certain had been your grandmother’s doing.

The women of our family have been blessed, your mother used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls. We may scorch the Earth or keep it warm and bright for generations to come. Whether she knew of what her mother had done, even if she had never told you, you wouldn’t know. But with this story… you could believe that she had been right in her whispers and lullabies.

And perhaps, whatever awaited you, you could muster up enough strength and try to kindle that fire to face it with your head held high and with the same courage you had fought off your father with bare hands when it came to it.

“Thank you… for telling me, Sir Barnes. I appreciate it.”

“Happy to serve, my lady. Shall we?”

Your gaze lingered on your grandmother’s face for a few long moments, hoping to draw some of that light and fire your mother used to speak of for yourself.

Then, you smiled at Sir Barnes and nodded.

“Of course. Thank you for your patience.”

“At your service, my lady.”

He fell into step with you again, seemingly following your lead, and even when lost to your thoughts, you could feel the strength and certainty radiating off him. All tuned to you and the rhythm in your step, he guided you so subtly you’d believe you were the one to know where to walk; and yet he followed you like a panther, an animal your mother had been telling you fables about – an elegant black beast stalking the woods in a quiet search of prey. You understood then – that if Sir Barnes was a soldier, a knight, he too, was a spy. In the empty hallway, your steps were louder than his own. Perhaps that was why he did no longer keep silent.

His voice, almost soft, was crystal clear and holding utter respect in his brief commentary of the paintings you were passing by.

A former ruler and his wife. A soldier who had laid his life for the kingdom. Several knights, sitting with King Rogers around a round table. Two doctors standing proudly by an invention that helped cured those whose disease had been believed to mean a certain death.

All exceptional people by your standards – and appreciated by the king himself as well as Sir Barnes.

His demeanour gained true warmth, however, as you were passing a portrait strikingly different from the others, made by His Majesty the King himself. A homage to his late mother, supposedly and undeniably; her features – her kindness – was something you recognized in the sharp memory of the man you met at the Royal Hall; the strokes of the brush tender, guided by true fondness of a man who loved his mother. It made sense, all of sudden, how His Majesty’s letter was an art piece of its own if this was the beauty he was capable of creating.

Sir Barnes’s voice then turned into a sigh, no less proud, when a moment later your steps faltered unwittingly and stopped altogether as your gaze fell on the painting of a handsome young man – a man resembling the king, only with softer features, smaller in frame, and with just as much determination as cognizance etched into his expression.

You recognized him instantly – and if your eyes hadn’t, your heart, stumbling in your chest over its own beats, would have.

Steven – at that time, perhaps indeed only Steven, not even a Sir yet – before he underwent the insane experiment that might have fundamentally changed his body, but could not have changed who he was and whom he was fighting for.

Where you might have trouble believing the large mass of a man you had met a few hours earlier had a soul artistic enough to capture his mother in a painting as lovely as you’d seen, the man portrayed here had a certain soft curiosity about him that spoke of the ability to see beauty in the world of chaos and ugliness – and grasp it in his hands like clay and build a better world out of it.

You could not know – you knew so little of him – and yet you knew this.

And all of sudden, it felt as if you knew his very soul.

Reconciling the two men filled you with understanding you could not quite explain; but it moved your own soul so unexpectedly your hand twitched to clutch your chest when you could feel something in the depth of your ribcage shift and blossom in intangible warmth.

Somehow, the man in the portrait was just as beautiful as the one you were about to face again; and as surprising as seeing the smaller form of him was, that shift in your ribcage seemed to have already happened years and years ago, this very image as if having glimmered in the blue irises you had met hours ago.

They were both the king: a man with a spirit of a fighter, locked in a small frail frame, a fighter with a heart of an artist; and an artist with a soft soul, a good man locked in a body that could bring half the continent to its knees. With mind and teeth enough sharp to do so, with arms strong enough to wrestle injustice out of its reigns in the name of protecting the innocent; with hands capable of gentleness suited for cradling an injured baby bird.

You had spoken with him but few words, had seen him but for minutes, saw the portrait of the man he once had been just now; and yet, something in your veins whispered you had known him for decades. You must have, for you knew all your assessments of his character were true.

“My lady?” 

You blinked one time too many, returning from your haze, moments passing by as you realized Sir Barnes was addressing you; still in such polite and yet completely ridiculous manner given your social standing that you nearly laughed.

You shook your head, eyes barely tearing away from the painting.

“Apologies, I… was lost in thought. His Majesty was smaller in frame indeed… but I can see the spirit you were talking about right there.”

“It is a very good portrait,” Sir Barnes agreed, the warmest note yet in his words, his gaze so intense you could almost feel a hole being burned into the back of your head. “He keeps it around to remember where he comes from… what he comes from. A reminder that he rose from people and to always rule as such.”

Your heart fluttered with affection which had no place to be there, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“A wise man with wise motives then.”

Slowly setting off again, you were no longer surprised Sir Barnes simply followed suit. He hummed in agreement, muttering under his breath, too low for you to understand.

Sensing an opportunity, you cleared your throat, hoping your voice wouldn’t shake with your nerves.

“What of his other motives? He’s rewarded the men who brought me, generously, I assume. He’s said he wished to see me, he’s had me brought to luxurious chambers where I clearly do not belong, he’s treated me more than most kindly, as have you… is that all, too, to simply remember where he came from?”

For I doubt it is, a voice finished in your head, uncertain and shaky – and yet convinced there was no foul play in the king’s motives even as you had rouble reconciling the good man you seemed to know in your very core to someone who would approve of and reward the behaviour of the two men who’d hurt you.

You had no idea of what his motives were then. And as much as you attempted to not feel afraid, it would be foolish to ignore just how surreal and fragile the whole situation was.

Sir Barnes’s sigh sounded almost like a chuckle – enough to draw your gaze to his face, his expression as conflicted and amused as his voice.

“Gods help me if I knew what’s going on in the punk’s head most of the time.”

You straightened, not deaf to what he was saying, trying your luck further.

“But you do know why he treats me so now then… why?”

“It is not my place to say, my lady,” he replied with a smile, as respectful and polite as one could when denying someone – a lady, no less.

The notion was utterly absurd still – and you resisted the urge to huff in frustration in a very unladylike manner indeed, as you had felt you had had some of the answers you were yearning for at your fingertips, only for them to slip out of your reach.

It was not your place to huff, however. You were too aware still just how blessed you had been so far. And how easily it could all crumble in your hands should you press too hard.

You gulped.

“I see. I shall not press then… but--- could you… good sir, could you perhaps call me by my name?” For I feel utterly stupid when you do not call me so.

Your request was met with a radiant smile, Sir Barnes’s bow subtle as he never ceased to walk. Had you attempted the same, you would have probably twisted your ankle.

“Of course. I shall do so if that is what you wish. And should it make you comfortable, you truly may address me as Bucky.”

You stopped but for a moment to return the courtesy and bow as well, albeit much deeper – for he was the one deserving respect for the standing he had earned. There was a slight scolding in his eye blending into mischief as you did so – but he did not speak a word of it out loud, simply falling back into step with you when you started moving again.

“…I do. Thank you, Sir Barnes—Bucky,” you corrected yourself, earning what could only be described as a grin, your cheeks burning at the familiarity. “I am… starting to believe my wishes for some reason are… held in high regard.”

“They are.”

“But why?”

Bucky’s delighted grin bled into a hearty laughter you did not quite understand beyond feeling he was not laughing at you, even as you realized you had held your promise not to press and pry for but a literal minute.

He did not seem offended by that, however.

“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Good. The gods heard me out at last.”

He offered no further explanation.

Even if he had one, perhaps he would have no time to share it – for you were just about to reach a pair of guards in front of what had to be the doors to the king’s private chambers.

The sudden anxiety returning to your stomach – along with warm anticipation – made you waver as the guards, gods help you, bowed low at your and Sir Barnes’s presence.

“My lady,” one of them spoke, skin dark and eyes bright, voice formal but not unkind. “His Majesty is expecting you. You shall enter freely, at your convenience.”

You nodded in acknowledgement, yet again too aware of the absurdity of the scene and offer, your smile tighter than your chest.

“…thank you, good sir.”

It was the same tight smile you gave Sir Barnes – Bucky – as he encouraged you to walk in with ease, as if you weren’t about to meet your fate. You sent a quick prayer to all the gods above, to Lady Fortuna, to the damn fairies as Sir Barnes had said, to all higher power you had ever heard of, and quietly asked the guard to let you in – hoping the fiery spirit of your grandmother and your mother’s gentleness stood by your side, as you struggled to hold your head as high as you had promised yourself you would.

Part 3 (final)

S.R. masterlist

Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did and have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕 I know we had more world-building and emotions than Steve, but Steve personally didn't fit int this already long chapter - he's a large, impressive guy. Next time it's all him and his lady 😌

Your feet were cold.

Shoes barely hanging on your feet as they shuffled over the stone floor, you could feel the cold seeping into your skin and weary bones; and yet, it was the chill blooming inside your ribcage that you could not hope to chase away. You doubted there was a shawl warm enough to do so; let alone this sad worn thing you cherished for it had once belonged to your mother.

You shivered. You seemed to always shiver these days. The loneliness that coursed through your veins was like the water of the mountain stream; still fresh and unforgivingly icy.

Two long years since you mother had passed.

Two long years since your father had found the solace from his grief at the bottom of a bottle.

Two long years since your own solace had been none but thready dreams of ungraspable warmth. Dreams of future unknown but steady and sure. That, and memories.

You smiled as your mind conjured the kind features of your mother, your hands tender as you placed the wreath on the fireplace to honour her, her favourite flowers weaved through. She had been of wild nature, full of blooming life, foolish faith in tales of gods that might have once walked the earth. Instead of a lullaby, you had been sung tales of Lady Fortune watching over you, red threads of fate leading you as they had once led your grandmother to run off with an alchemist chasing dreams of creating a cure for humankind miraculous enough to make one walk side by side with gods; with love and hope and faith.

The women of our family have been blessed, she used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls.

You used to believe her, a silly childhood wonder; a straw to clutch at once the childish foolishness had left you. Perhaps it had been truth for your grandmother and for her; the way you remembered her and wished to do so, your mother had been warmth incarnate, even as your father had been dimming her light slowly as years had been passing. She used to be the heart of your home.

You caressed the blossoms in soft memory of her; already wilting, just like your faint smile.

It slipped altogether as you moved slightly to the right, hands turning shaky, another shiver whispering past your spine.

There was no warmth where you had lived for the past two years.

And yet. Like the good daughter, you placed the little wooden cross to honour thy father too. That was what the scripture he used to recite at dinner commanded you; that was what his voice had been shouting for two years straight when you fought to keep the chalice of mead off his lips at the tavern so you’d have enough coins to put bread on your table, so you’d be able to come to the market with goods rather than empty hands of beggars.

He had loved once, you wanted to believe, both you and your mother. His love had been harsher, roughened by the touch of a man who had worked from sunrise to sunset, his words and deeds teaching you discipline. His faith in the new God, in His commandments and His wrath had been unshakeable; a stark contrast to what his hands had become once he had lost the battle against the demon of alcohol.

He had been gone but three days; perhaps his sins had angered his God at last.

His death, gods forgive you, had been a relief for you.

How could it not?

Keeping a household and the house despite the debts which your father had been trying his best to build, sleepless nights with one hand under the pillow clutching a knife for moments when his drunken haze would blur his sight enough to confuse his daughter sleeping on the floor for his wife willing to perform her marital duty. The scar on his neck from your nails had never fully healed; yet the cause of the permanent reminder had been erased from his mind the moment he drunk enough to barely remember his own name. But you remembered, always. The horror of what could have occurred had never left you and nor did the determination to defend yourself better next time.

His death, gods forgive you, had been a relief for you.

His death, gods help you, brought fresh struggles.

How could it not?

For all the hardship he had created, for all he had had less wit than a toddler in his last days, he had been a man in the house. A force to be reckoned with, even as he hadn’t truly been.

In the eyes of many, he had served a shield.

From the moment of his dying breath, the one sharp knife in your house which resided under your pillow still, was to protect you from threats that would eventually come from the outside.

Some villagers came through, aiding you with arrangements. Others sympathised.

The lot of them merely saw a lamb prepared for slaughter, a stray cat with barely any claws they could simply take. A new man to take over the house at the edge of the town and the unwed woman in it. Ripe for taking. Easy.

Like fresh hell.

They could try.

They’d find just how little claws you had, small paws that were skilled in cutting flesh of animals and would not shy away from slashing animals in human form if it meant survival. Gods knew the blasphemous thoughts of doing so to your father on the harshest of days had crossed your mind. And that had been your father, a man you had been made believe to have to honour, always, even at times when his mind was but that of an animal, led by instincts.

At the very core, you were but an animal too. The whole world was.

You shook your head to chase away the darkest of your thoughts. You swallowed against the lump in your throat as you took a step back, and ignored the grumble in your stomach. Tomorrow, you’d have to go to the market as a beggar. But that would be tomorrow; and tomorrow was a new day.

A new trial of survival.

Tears welling in your eyes, your gaze returned to the tribute to you mother, rough fingertips caressing the already dying petals.

You had been taught to honour thy father, but you had always loved your mother most and remembered her fondly for all she was.

Despite that, you genuinely doubted she had been right; Lady Fortuna was not watching over you. Perhaps your mother was still, at least. You sent a little but all the more heartfelt prayer, almost feeling a caress of her gentle touch on your cheek as the tears spilled.

Loving. Warm. A promise.

And yet, the cold creeping from below your feet grew, another shudder running down your spine.

The ground shook where you were standing, causing you to stumble back, cracking of gravel reaching your ears.

The world swung, tilting off its natural axis.

And then you were falling, and falling, and falling.

You jolted awake, the insistent cracking and rough swinging of the world as you laid on your side penetrating your senses, causing you to scrunch your face and squint against the light assaulting your eyes.

They must have opened the cover of the wagon, your mind had supplied fast and unhelpful, scrambling to remember still who was the they, and what were the when and why. Memories trickled in slowly, weaved through sensations and despair creeping to the back of your neck.

A thin blanket had been thrown over your shoulder, and having slipped, it’d let the cold follow you into the dreamland. Your hands felt shaky, cramping as they had been forced to stay in the same position for too long, tied and folded under your cheek au lieu of a pillow, the rope harsh against your wrists, cutting into your skin. Your left cheek still throbbed slightly where they had hit you as a warning to put up fight no more. The one pleasant sensation against your skin was the new clothes they provided you with, a fabric of a quality you hadn’t worn in years, firm but soft and at least a little warm against the first gusts of winter.

The light was sharp behind your eyelids squeezed tight, but the insistent sounds of gravel under the wooden wheels of the wagon were muffled in your right ear as you lay on your side.

The one sense that was assaulted only gently was your sense of smell. Spices, wine, wood and earth; the smell of a merchant’s life.

They had paid him to get you to Starkerbürg, you recalled. Hired him to help you travel the distance and cross the border without trouble; to cross the border like you hadn’t been ripped away from the only home you had ever known, snatched like a satchel of coins at a busy marketplace the same way they had cut it off from people who had been struggling as it was and yet thieves still targeted them.

Or in your case, not thieves. Mercenaries.

You supposed that it made no difference to them. To men like that, who bargained their life for gold and violence, a person, let alone a woman, was merely a thing to steal and possess too. Easily weighted in little gold; an object to buy or sell to the highest bidder.

You tasted tears as you squeezed your eyes further, few salty droplets rolling down your cheeks and seeping into your hair as you nuzzled further into your hands.

You did not dare to move another inch as you heard shuffling right behind your back, forcing a sleepy hum through your lips and praying they would think you were still sleeping, simply stirring at the constant noise.

You prayed, to all the gods you knew; prayed for a few fleeting moments of peace, last moments of reprieve from the sorrows that awaited you in the future, and the horrors of the past hours that had left but hollowness in your ribcage.

Your home, burning down in ashes in front of your blurry gaze; a battle-roughened hand griping your chin to ensure you saw the modest house, barely holding together as it had been, crumble to smouldering piles of debris and dust.

And with it, your life and your freedom.

There had never been much choice in your life. With money tight, your future had been aligned by your father who wished to arrange your marriage as that of most – a business deal – despite your mother having wished for you to marry out of love. After her passing, with your father having lost interest in everything but the bottle, it might seem you had gained. It might seem you could choose your own fate; in truth, you merely could play with the poor cards you had been dealt a little more freely.

And then the two men barging into your home and overpowering you too easily had changed the rules of the game completely and took the last chance to win free will in the fight for your existence.

The weapon you tried to protect yourself with was pressed against your throat in a flash, the unforgivingly hard and cold wall digging into your back as they trapped you against it; a sneer and a grin, a hiss to be careful not to damage the goods – you. You were the goods, you realized fast, even as you understood nothing else. Your heart was pounding loud enough to nearly drown their words, the panic squeezing your ribcage too overwhelming to try and wiggle out of the unrelenting grip.

“Oh angel… don’cha fight no more. Be good…” one of them husked to your ear, a touch of his tongue to your cheek sending a crippling tremble through your body, your knees turning weak as he pressed his full weight on you. Gods, he was so huge, if he wanted to slit your throat or else, you’d be powerless, your attempt to move a mere inch entirely futile- “…and don’cha worry. Gonna get’cha some royal fucken’ lovin’.”

You cried. You begged until your voice was hoarse. You offered to beg for a little of coin tomorrow just for them, but they just laughed, as if the idea of you giving up all you owned and could earn in a day, as pitiful as it was, amused them like nothing had in years.

“Sorry, angel. Where we goin’, them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us and earn us a whol’lat more,” the other one chuckled, grabbing your wrist and hauling you towards the door, uncaring for how you stumbled and nearly fell to your knees.

The fire in the fireplace had been long dead; as you were dragged out, too terrified to make another sound, the man who had held your own knife to your throat discarded the weapon and went to start a fire. A fire that consumed your every hope.

The other one held your throat in a vice so you’d have to watch your life burn.

Just like he kept watch when he rushed you to bath yourself in the lake miles and miles away from your town, having paid to a merchant for a ride to the neighbouring kingdom of Starkerbürg.

You had already crossed the border, you recalled. You had been barely half-awake, having silently cried yourself to sleep, when a knife had suddenly been pressed to your side under the thin blanket. A husky threat to not dare and make a sound of protest, not to move too much. The merchant had told the soldiers guarding the border you were his daughter and your family was simply aiding men, tired from their journey, to get home.

It had been your chance, you supposed, to try to make a run for it. You had considered it, too, your heart hammering against your chest at the very thought.

But what good would have it done? Had you tried to bolt, you’d stand no chance against men trained to fight and kill with efficiency. Had you spoken up, it would have been but one voice against the three; one of a woman, no less. Had a miracle occurred and the soldiers had believed you somehow rather than the men trying to convince them you were a half-wit unaware of what you were speaking, there was no guarantee the soldiers would survive the fight, let alone win. Your hands were already tied; you would not have them stained with the blood of good men whose only crime would be coming to your aid and serving their king with honour.

And they would have been killed.

For you doubted mercenaries had such thing as a code of honour, even if they hoped to join the Royal Army of Starkerbürg, which was known to have one of the strictest ones there were.

It was beyond obvious that it was not the honour the two men had taken interest in; they chased another rumour. They had heard the king paid handsomely to those who served him. Serving in his army was a true privilege.

It would be no easy feat to join the Royal Army; it would not be easy to win his favour. For that, a gift was in order, they believed.

You.

Something to warm the king’s bed as he was apparently yet to take a wife.

Something to entertain and serve him however it would please him.

You dug your nails into your palm, biting your cheek to stifle the sob clawing up your throat. Crying never helped; you had learned as much from your father a long time ago and you had already attempted begging for your life before.

“Ya’ sure ‘bout this, Henry? She ain’t the prettiest flower there is…”

You stiffened as you heard the younger one – Dimitri, as you’d learned – utter half-heartedly, realising that it had probably been their voices what had roused you from the much-needed rest.

Your heart stumbled in your chest as the other one merely sneered in response.

“Yeah? Then why’d ya’ try to fuck her at the lake when ya’re supposed to just keep the damn watch? Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.”

You couldn’t supress the shiver at the memory, your stomach churning as you could still feel the touch of Dimitri’s rough hand on your breast just as you had been about to step into the cold water, huge arm pulling you back to him, fingers twisting your nipple while his other hand sneaked south to your inner thigh. The startled shriek erupting from your throat had been what saved you rather than trying to yank yourself free; in mere seconds Henry was there, ripping the man’s hands off before he could violate you further.

You did not care that you ended up plunging into the damn-near icy lake at that moment; if anything, it soothed the bile rising up your throat as the older man shouted about ‘fuckin’ half-wits’ and you ‘havin’ to be untouched and not a used whore’.

Your felt your nails piercing the skin of your palms as you clenched your fists tighter at the memory, teeth biting into your cheek so hard you tasted blood.

“Tis true she’s still snug and warm ‘nough I bet.”

Fresh goosebumps erupted on your skin as you heard Dimitri talk about you that way, even as that was hardly the first time you witnessed men reducing a woman to that. Hardly the first time you had been spoken to like that.

“Exactly. And she gotta stay ‘dat way…” Henry reminded him pointedly, earning a scoff.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, man. I got she’s a gift ‘n’ all, but… ya’ think he’ll even--- she ain’t real a wife material for a king. They love their bloodlines ‘n’ nobility ‘n’ shit.”

“Ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth either, Dim. He’s one of us,” Henry noted, spinking your interest despite it all.

You had heard as much. That the king of Starkerbürg had not been high-born – not even high-born enough to have become a knight. It was the eccentric ways of the late king Anthony that had allowed him to rise, first as a soldier, then a knight and an advisor and eventually, a king.

But you had heard all sorts of things of foreign kings and kingdoms; of fairies and magic and war machines denying all natural laws, of the kindest noblemen and virtuous mercenaries and corrupt holy fathers and servants of the gods.

The word was that the king of Starkerbürg, Steven Rogers I, had not only been low-born, but had earned the blessings of the God of war, and of the son of the Holy Spirit, a blessing having turned him from a weakling to a sword-wielding beast on a battlefield and into a wolf-like beast on a full moon. The word was that he had died of an animal bite once and came back to life with agony that had reshaped his mind and body and those who’s drink his blood would change as well.

The word was he was as kind and generous as he was dangerous, sharp wits competing those of the wisest scholars, headstrong and as powerful as the gods that had blessed him. The word was that his soul was as beautiful as his face was handsome.

It would be naïve to believe all tales.

But you had to believe that at least the one of him being a good man at heart had some true to it, since the one about his origin apparently did.   

“’n’ like every one of us, he’ll like a pretty thin’ to keep his bed warm. And not just bed,” Dimitri chuckled, his words dispersing your hopeful thoughts in an instant, replaced by dread.

“Now ya’re fuckin’ gettin’ it. And when it comes to ‘dat… princess, weaver, servant or whore, ‘tis all the same if she’s a virgin.”

Burning tears spilled over your closed eyelids once more, breath catching when Henry continued.

“As for bloodlines… might not she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastar’.”

At that, you winced so hard you could not hope to disguise it, not with the whimper pushing past your lips.

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder not two seconds later, grabbing and yanking to roll you over to face them, an order to look at them not something you dared to defy even as your gaze swam in tears.

It was a curse to see Henry’s smirk so clearly as he wiped your tears carelessly, following the salty trails down your cheek and to your mouth, pulling at your wobbly bottom lip.

“Look at ‘dat… our sleepy beauty is ‘wake. Good. Gotta prep ya’ for how to talk to His Majesty…” he said, while Dimitri yanked at the rope binding your wrists together to haul you up, the twine cutting into your skin; you did not make a sound despite the pain; half-stubborn, half-terrified. If he revelled in your fear and pain, you would not give him anymore satisfaction of seeing it.

Henry’s hand never left your face, gripping your chin painfully as he leaned closer, his wine-stained breath fanning over you as his lips spread in a slow, menacing smile.

“And ya’ll be good as a lamb, ain’t ya’? ‘cause if not, we’ll slaughter ya’ like one ’n’ find another. Nothin’ special ‘bout ya’, got ‘dat?”

Somewhere deep within your ribcage, a growl worthy of a wolf was born in defiance of being a good lamb for those monsters; but it did not crawl out. Instead, the rough hand squeezing your jaw forced you to nod, before it let you go and patted your cheek.

“Gods, Henry, ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin-" Henry’s glare snapped to the younger man, who chuckled and raised his hands defensively, shaking his head. “Kiddin’, man, fuckin’ kiddin’, don’cha look at me like ‘dat… ya’re thinkin’ it too.”

Henry only hummed before turning his gaze back to you, smiling so sweetly you’d almost believe him to be kind. Having already learned what kind of a man he was, however, his feigned kindness had every alarm bell in your head go off, your heart pounding so hard against your sternum you worried it might punch its way out.

“Be bad tho… and ya’ pay with blood,” he said, his gaze darkening with an emotion that made your stomach twist. “Be good… and ya’ get to see if King Rogers’s court is real generous as they say.”

Whether King Rogers’s court was generous was yet to be revealed; whether the court was rich however, was clear the moment you set foot to the city surrounding the castle. The castle stood high above the settlement, basking in the midday sunrays – but to anyone who’d set eyes on the city, it would be apparent the court had not stomped on the people of the city to rise to glory.

Life was bustling in the streets, people flowing in all directions; invitations to give a look to this goods and that, arguments over prices, laughter and chatter of neighbours as well as strangers finding a common struggle or joy, aroma of meat and cheese and spices hovering in the air.

As the merchant stopped the wagon at its designated place for the market, Henry tossed him a satchel full of coin as soon as he climbed down, beckoning to Dimitri so you’d both join him. Obediently, having no choice but to be, you did, while both men threw a sack with the little they had over their shoulder, looking around for the fastest route to the castle.

You didn’t take but a few steps before your trio realised you might not make it, not with the strange and fully justified looks casted your way; where the men walking by your side were nothing out of ordinary in the streets, a woman wearing nothing but a warm dress with a thin shawl and a rope around her wrists was. Henry soon ushered you to a less busy alley, untying your hands with words of warning as dark as his gaze, the sensation of a blade by your hip familiar by now.

Try to run and ya’ be dead before takin’ two steps.

You only nodded as the rope fell off, the relief of finally being able to move your hands and arms nearly chasing fresh tears into your eyes.

As Dimitri dragged you back to the main street, you tried not to look at the faint bruises forming around the marks where the rope had cut into your skin deep enough to draw blood. Instead, silvery sparks suddenly hovering in the air caught your eye.

Snow.

The warmth of sunrays would not allow the snowflakes to pile up upon landing, melting as soon as they’d touch the cold but not yet freezing ground; but in the air, they sparkled like thousands of tiny fireflies.

You heard children laughing, attention shifting fully from your captors walking by your side, one on each side just in case you did try to flee. For a moment, seeing the group of boys and girls who couldn’t be older than six summers trying and catching the snowflakes warmed your heart, a ghost of a smile passing your lips.

Nothing sweeter than child-like joy; you had felt it sparkle nights ago in your heart too, when you weaved the wreath for your mother’s altar, unable to resist and weaving a crown from the heather behind your house, one of the flowers strong enough to withstand the first touches of winter. You had placed it on your head, closing your eyes, lips curling for just a few precious moments; remembering your mother’s gentle hands having done the same often, whispering how one day, you’d have a crown like that in your hair on your wedding day, becoming the queen of the man whose heart would then be yours.

You were no longer a child, for many summers; for the past few years, you had been doubting fate would be as kind to you. Now, you were certain such happiness was unattainable, nothing but a tale for children indeed.

You might have a child of your own one day; scrambling to get a piece of bread for them every single day after the king you’d serve as a bedwarmer would inevitably casted you away for you were not fit to be a queen indeed.

The snowflakes melted on your skin, gentler than the tears kept at bay. As they grew in size, you heard the children’s excitement but an echo behind you. Just like where any chance of joy for you lied. Left behind.

When the sun hid behind the clouds, the silver fireflies turned but into a grey-white dust.

Ashes.

Ashes that had been flying through the air and settling on the ground where your house had been standing, around you, landing in your hair, on your cheeks, on your new dress.

You let your eyes slip shut, your arm tugged at as you stumbled over your feet.

“Don’cha fall asleep on us now, angel. ‘Tis almost yar’ time to shine,” Henry muttered into your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice, the anticipation of victory, of gold coins clinking in his pockets as he’d exchange you like a commodity no different than a piece of meat for a place in the Royal Army.

You, on the other hand, anticipated nothing. Expected nothing.

Simpler that way.

Even seeing the townspeople not suffering at first glance, mind whispering of perhaps King Rogers being one of the kinder ones, you did allow yourself to hope for nothing.

If he showed kindness, you’d latch onto it.

If he showed much more cruelty than your captors… perhaps you’d find a moment to flee to one of the towers of the castle, more than tall enough for a fall from them to be fatal.

One had to try to play the game of life with the cards they were dealt – your father knew of this more than anyone when on his brighter days, he’d try to get rid of the burden of some of his debts by winning in a gamble. But sometimes, the only way to play the game was to end it.

Gulping at the icy shiver running down your spine at the mere idea, you looked up to the skies.

As the snowflakes grew as large as baby birds’ feathers, you wondered if this was how the angels, the creatures of the one single God, his harbingers and warriors, wept; if they lost feathers of their snow-white wings instead of tears. Perhaps they did.

You wouldn’t know, Henry might be calling you one, but you were no angel. 

When you had wept, it had been silently and much less beautiful.

And by now, you had no tears left anymore.

A couple with two children no older than three and five summers clinging to their mother’s skirts had trailed out of the doors just as you had entered, your arrival to the royal hall announced by a booming voice of the guard.

No names. No title. No purpose of the visit.

All but the last people of Starkerbürg wishing to be granted some of the King Rogers’s time and attention.

You had not dared to look up as high as where his throne sat on the platform on the other end of the hall; gaze lowered, you needed nothing but to lie one foot next to the other over and over, path set by the two men still walking by your side. Yet, your heart stumbled in its race in your chest as if it could feel the presence of a man said to be nearly as mighty with a sword as a god and a lot more benevolent than one.

Gulping at the whispers rising in what must have been a nearly empty hall, your hands closed into fists, the wounded skin on your wrists protesting with the movement. You forced yourself to release the grip once you had halted in your steps, just a moment after your companions had.

Following their lead still, since you had no experience in meeting a royal, you bend in your knees, head consciously bowing lower than before.

“Rise and be welcomed to the royal court of Starkerbürg,” a strong, surprisingly warm voice welcomed you, sending a shiver all over your skin so intense you nearly forgot yourself to follow the order. You rose but a moment after Henry and Dimitri; your knees strangely weak, a sensation that should be unpleasant but was not. “What concern do you bring and what issue do you wish us to assist you with?”

Your head snapped up before you could think twice of your actions, the words, while carrying authority, chosen much kinder for a ruler than you’d expect.

Your gaze met that of the man speaking such, a pair of sky-blue eyes trapping you with no hope for you to escape.

Your breath caught in your lungs, heart stunned into stillness.

The warmth that had spread over your skin seeped deeper, rushing through your veins and gathering into a heat curling around your heart like flames that should have burned, but gently wrapped around the poor muscle instead.

By gods, the man sitting on the throne was nothing short of magnificent, even as his clothes and the golden crown sitting on his head were much less opulent than you’d thought they’d be.

A large figure with broad shoulders one could easily believe had indeed been blessed by the God of war, the sword resting in its sheath propped up by the throne by his hip, ready to be drawn if needed; sharply cut features of his face, softened by a crown of sand-light hair, eyes framed by long lashes, lips plump enough as if made to speak kind word – and one could easily believe he was thus blessed by the son of the Holy Spirit, or an angel himself to.

Hopes rose within you before you could as much as try to stomp upon them to avoid disappointment and pain. Whether King Rogers changed into a wolf-like beast on the battlefield or whether his blood could reshape human beings, you would not know and wouldn’t dare to guess; but should his soul indeed be as beautiful as his face was handsome, you might not be entirely doomed.

The shocking warmth in his gaze despite the colour of his eyes – slightly diluted by a speckle of green you should not be able to see from such distance and yet you did, you reckoned – told you that he just might be the kind and generous ruler some painted him to be too, despite the explosive power humming beneath.

Over the rush of blood through your veins, thundering in your temples, you were distantly aware one of the men by your side was speaking. Yet, in your haze, still captivated as well as captured by the cage of King Rogers’ gaze, you could not but wonder if he himself could decipher the words spoken any more than you could. All you could focus on was the expanding of your ribcage and calming your heart, warm but startled, and the depth of his eyes, revealing nothing and all at the same time.

Beautiful.

He was breathtakingly beautiful, and you could feel his presence tingle in your very being, from the depth of your ribcage to your fingertips, all-consuming in a way you had never experienced before.

You winced when he tore away his gaze from yours at last, breathing in deeply for what must have been the first time in long minutes, blinking for the first time since you had set eyes on him.

“I see,” he said, his tone impossible to decipher. His hands propped up on the armrests before he rose to his feet, reaching for the sword, clasping it to his belt with the ease of a man who was more used to carrying it than not. “So you wish to join my army and to ensure my favour, you brought me a gift?”

Your gaze fell to the floor at the way he spoke the word ‘gift’ harsher than any other, pushing it through tightened jaw; disdain, mockery and loathing.

Cold weight settled in your stomach, the foundations of hope his displays of kindness had built cracking. The shiver creeping down your spine was truly icy this time and you could not but wince slightly when you heard the rustle of cloth as he must have stepped down from the platform.

Oh he was not pleased with your presence. Not at all. And while you could not find it in your heart to believe – foolishly so, given he had been and remained a soldier – that he would hurt you, he might have no qualms about banishing you.

To nowhere.

For you no longer had a home to return to.

Even without looking up, not daring to, you could feel a quiet and all the more dangerous anger rolling off the king with every step he took closer to you and you squeezed your eyes shut with horrible anticipation, trying to get a hold of the tears that threatened to spill when recalling the ashes of what had been the house you had been born in and lived all of your life.

Everything had been ripped away from you – and for what?

For an outraged ‘You brought me a gift?’.

The vanity. The foolishness. The madness.

Not of the king, however, you could not blame him; of the two men who thought violence was answer to all.

Henry didn’t speak a word until the king stopped but a few steps from you, the rustle of cloth falling silent; much like the entirety of the hall, your own breathing too loud to your ears, intruding.

You winced at the sudden clarity and careful pronunciation in Henry’s voice, blind pride audible despite the tone the king has used.

“Yes. Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“And I assume you asked the lady whether she wanted to travel with you, judging by the bruising around her wrists and on her face?”

You slowly blinked your eyes open as you could feel the warmth of the king’s gaze on your head, his voice, on the other hand, like ice. Your heart fluttered, surprised at the acknowledgement of the harm done to you.

Gaze flickering to your wrists, you supposed it was rather hard to miss; you could only imagine what your face looked like, purposely having avoided as much as glancing into any mirrors while led through the castle before. It was entirely possible you carried one spectacular shiner; but judging by the fact that your companion shifted by your side, only now noticing the king’s outrage, it was more likely the bruise was rather subtle and they had hoped it would remain undetected.

Or at least that King Rogers would not care.

Something in you hummed in sweetly at the fact he seemed to do so; how deeply and how long it would last and what it would mean for you, was yet to be seen however.

“We barely touched her! If she ain’t been such a-” Dimitri blurted out on your left, while Henry on your right cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off with a much more levelled voice – and with enough wit to sound almost regretful.

“We gave her options, Your Majesty,” he lied.

The lie had come to him so easily your head snapped up to him, rage flaring in your very core, hands clenching into tight fists.

Sure you had been given bloody options! To die – possibly defiled since you’d be no use to them – or comply.

Some options those were!

And some help those you had never failed to lend a helping hand were too, looking the other way and pretending to not see or even be awoken when a house caught fire in the dead of the night!

From the corner of your eye, you’d swear you could see the king suck in a generous slow breath, reminded of his presence, as gentle as a caress and a warning at once; you lowered your gaze in an instant, the anger still bubbling in your veins but silently so.

He was outraged at their treatment of you, it seemed – it would be wise of you to be as respectful as possible so you soon wouldn’t fall out of his favour too.

“I see. Would you be as kind as to tell me what your options were, my lady?”

You gulped as you saw him shift towards you only, an instinct ruling you to bend in your knees once more, head bowed low in a display of respect; meanwhile, the entirety of your mind busied itself with the fact he had just addressed you as a lady.

You breathed in shakily, trying with all your might to ignore the fact he had called you his lady and the gentle yet burning sensation it had sent rushing all over your skin; for it was mostinappropriate and inconvenient to busy yourself with such thing when asked a question.

The real question, however, was whether you should speak the truth and how, without offending the king, losing his favour, and potentially saving yourself Dimitri’s and Henry’s rage if your words upset the king so much that you’d be all thrown back to the streets with the mercenaries’ chances to join the army ruined – something they would no doubt take their revenge for. On you.

“My lady,” King Rogers repeated as if he wished to drive you mad and making you wince despite his voice being but kind and coaxing, “please. Rise and speak freely.”

With no option but to obey, you did, heart thundering a storm in your chest, as you reluctantly lifted your gaze too.

Gods, he was even more stunning up close, towering over all three of you, menacing – and yet inviting as your gaze got lost in the bright blue of his irises.

“S-sir--- Your Highness-“

A hiss by your side and a twitch of a hand you could see from the corner of your eye as Henry seemed to want to grab the rope that had been binding your hands together – a leash to yank on as a punishment for speaking up and a warning.

“Your Majesty, you stup-“

“I take no offense, gentlemen, in how the lady addresses me,” the king snapped, his glare sharp as razors when it moved to Henry for but a moment. “However, I am quite offended by the fact you would not let her speak – and speak truthfully, I am sure... My lady?”

A ghost of the plush lips caressed the shell of your ear as he spoke the godsdamned words, so soft they might as well be a whisper.

The warmest of shivers rushed down your spine, heat coiling in your belly as an image of his body caging yours against the wall with his fingers tenderly laid over your throat as his lips brushed over your jaw was conjured in your mind without warning or without right, causing you to dig your nails into your palms to bring yourself to reality.

To the much colder reality where the only body that had trapped you, truly and without any intention to let you escape the cage should you wish to, was that of the very man who had tied your hands tight enough to make you bleed, and the very man who gripped your throat roughly just to make you watch your life burn.

You swallowed against the lump regrowing in your throat at the memories, a telltale burn of tears in the base of your nose at the image of your family home crumbling to ashes, the heat of the flames on your skin having contrasting heavily with the cold of the blade.   

“I… I was indeed given options, Your Majesty,” you spoke, truthfully indeed, weighing your next words as you felt both mercenaries release some of the tension from their shoulders.

But you cared little for them; not beyond fearing what they would do to you should you make the wrong move.

On the other hand, the man who stood in front of you, he stirred sensations and feelings beyond what was appropriate or even possible, considering you had just only just met him.

It was more than gratitude for him acknowledging your situation, driving your next actions; more than respect one should have for the king, more than your own respect for how he had behaved so far; it threaded deeper than that. As something glimmered in his eyes, prompting you to tell the truth, no matter what it would be, you did not only feel safe to do so. You felt compelled. For you wanted to please him, wished not to disappoint him – and wanted nothing but to show the honesty of the very heart beating in your chest, consequences be damned.

It did not seem to truly matter if the king had ordered you to speak the truth; it felt as if you were meant to do so from the moment your lungs had expanded with your first breath on this Earth.

No punishment will come to you, sweetling, his eyes coaxed you, softening further as you took your time to continue. Please, believe me. Speak up and the rest shall be taken care of. Allow me. Believe in me.

Your lips parted with a wavering breath before you obeyed his wordless request. “For one, I could meet my end by my own knife.”

Nothing less than fire flared up in his irises, his jaw tightening, broad shoulders turning more rigid.

You would swear your life that you could feel more than see the men by your side stiffen too, but you could not find yourself to regret it. And neither you nor the king paid them any mind.

You were safe.

There was utter insanity in such thought given your predicament and yet you’d swear it on the sacred memory of your mother.

Both Dimitri and Henry were seething and either of them could probably draw a blade and slit your throat faster than a lightning, but with Steven right there, you would swear it:

You were safe.

Yes, my sweetling. Yes, you are. These men – any men – will not lay a hand on you ever again, an echo of his fierce whisper resonated in your ear, but his lips had not moved beyond twitching at your admission. He gave the smallest of nods.

“I see. Would your family not protect you?”

A noise dangerously resembling an amused snort sounded on your left, a throat cleared on your right, both carrying the same meaning, even as one was mocking and the other simply stating a fact.

The flash of regret in King Rogers’s eye told you he understood the message easily: What family?

“Well, Your Majesty, her father, sadly, was a drunk and got killed in a brawl-“ Henry began, your heart skipping an angry beat at the atrocious fake compassion in his voice.

You were not allowed to react to it, however – you were not faster than His Majesty once more.

And where your outrage would have scorched the earth, Steve’s might as well leave the earth permanently frosted over.

“If you even remotely wish to join the Royal Army, I suggest you care how you speak – and that you let the lady speak in the first place.”

It was clear to you more than it should that Henry had tried not to wince upon the icy tone of authority. Yet he did.

With shame, you realised just how pleasant of a feeling settled in your lower belly to see the man squirm in front of the king who snapped at him on your behalf, the man’s head now slightly bowed even as you would swear his teeth were grinding in anger.

With considerably less shame, you caught yourself impressed and charmed by the fact King Rogers not only defended a man who was not present to defend himself – even as he’d have little to say, considering Henry’s words were true – but also seemed to see straight through Henry’s feigned politeness and emotion.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. We are here to serve you, of course and she is, after all, a gift to you. It is your utmost right to do with her as you please.”

“And I shall,” the king replied simply, the words causing your heart to stumble in sudden fright, the reminder that no matter his kindness, Henry and Dimitri were not wrong about His Majesty having been a mercenary, a man hardened by battle. Where he was showing you respect almost beyond comprehension here in the Royal Hall, it might be strikingly different behind the closed doors of whichever chambers in which he’d decide to take you, however he pleased indeed.

But when your gazes met once more, it was nearly impossible to believe he’d be anything but gentle, every inch of your soul whispering that you indeed were in the safest place this world offered.

How foolish it was for you to trust so easily. Especially when you had not even been safe in your own bed before.

“Do they speak the truth, my lady?”

“I… yes, Your Majesty. May my father rest in peace, his soul be lifted to heavens, it was not unusual of him to… drink heavily, so much he cared little whether we’d have food to put on our table the next day…. And my mother passed two summers ago,” you added softly, unable to resist.

It was true, perhaps, that women were not made to fight men’s battles; but when it came to family, you believed they would fight just as if not more fiercely. As insignificant as the fact of your mother’s passing might seem to the men beside you, it was crucial to you – and not only in the matters of protection.

Mostly in the matter of your own heart.

A wistful smile passed the king’s lips at your addition as if in silent agreement to your thoughts and he nodded.

“I see. You have my condolences, my lady… for all your sorrows.”

The sincerity of his voice sat like a lump in your throat, the sudden burn of tears in your nose making it harder to speak. You bowed your head a fraction, out of respect – and to hide the glassy gleam in your eyes.

“Thank you, good sir--- Your Majesty.”

“And I shall see to it that your dinner is to your utmost comfort. I’d be pleased if you’d join me for the meal.”

Heat flared up on every inch of your skin at the last remark – nothing less than a subtle order.

You might be everything but adept at the court etiquette, but the silent heh erupting from Henry was enough of a confirmation that that was exactly what it was – including all implications rushing through your head like a tidal wave of terror battling a little voice and the heat in your lower belly arguing it would not be such a bad thing. The fact it was Henry approving of the king’s words however silenced the voice quite effectively.

Stomach much heavier than before, much like your head, you could not bring yourself to look the king in the eye, cheeks burning while icy fingers slowly curled around your throat.

For all the tales you had heard about the king of Starkerbürg, for all you had witnessed in the past minutes, for all you would swear on your life you could see light around him, an aura of a protector, you also heard many, many a story of the cruelty of men hidden behind a handsome face and polite manners. Just because Henry was not good enough of an actor to play the king as much as he’d please, it did not mean the king was not much more apt at the game of deceit.

And just because fate seemed to deal you a much better hand in this round of gamble, there was no guarantee you could walk out of this game unscathed, let alone somehow win.

You bend at your knees as low as you could, staying there for several moments despite your knees aching and turning shaky. You replied just as you could hear the king draw in a breath.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most kind.”

Rising to your full height, you did not dare to look up still.

Not even when slight bewilderment coloured the king’s voice, a request and an order at once, however respectful.

“Natasha, please. If you could see to it that our guest is well-taken care of in one of the guest chambers, offered a bath, a little to eat and anything else she might need or request.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” a red-head woman who had been standing near his throne, not quite looking like a maid or someone who should be showing anyone to their room, let alone a low-born intruder like you, stepped out, gracing you with a light smile. “If you could follow me, my lady.”

You reciprocated her smile shakily, the brilliant green of her eyes glimmering with what almost seemed to be mirth.

“Of course… thank you.” You took a deep breath to gather courage, glancing up at the king for the briefest of moments, your heart pounding in your chest and nearly exploding when you were once again met with the absurd beauty of his face. “Thank you kindly for all your generosity, Your Majesty.”

You did not linger long enough to see his smile. You did not let the voice of your father warning you it was the Devil’s beauty that would lead you astray into the deepest pits of hell fill your head, no matter how hard the ghost of him tried.

You willed your mind to be as empty as humanly possible when you followed the woman out of the hall, the heavy door closing behind you with finality.

Not before His Majesty’s voice, strengthened by authority and ceremonial tone, reached your ears and filled your stomach with cold dread.

“Now… it is the time to reward you gentlemen for bringing me such an exquisite surprise of a gift. Please… tell me more of the trouble you went through to deliver me a gift and about what you’d wish for…”

Part 2

S.R. masterlist

Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did an have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕

This three-parter fullfils the following prompts/tropes: Abducted as a gift for someone (and consequentially, Receiving an unexpected gift) and Medieval AU from the original event. It's also three months late. It is also decidedly NOT below 5000 word limit 🤭