Archive of Our Own

Though one could argue a plethora of benefits to being prince, John doesn’t think there’s anything quite like the privilege of a position that allows him to get away with sneaking off to the dragons’ stable more than he ought to have any right to.

He really can’t help that it’s his favourite place to be—not when it’s so far removed from where his usual duties keep him tethered, and certainly not when the creatures kept there are so formidable. Having such intelligent, graceful, powerful beasts all within an arms’ reach to sate his curiosity and personal studies, John thinks it would be doing a disservice to waste any opportunity to get close, so he does as he must and seizes the chance any time it’s offered.

Even if it lands him in trouble with his father, more often than not.

Fortunately for John, however, the stable master has always had a soft spot for him—for years now, Price has helped mitigate the plentiful lectures from the king, crafting excuses and covering for John because he says he’d be damned if the kid ever lost his fascination for such misunderstood creatures. John knows Price has his heart in caring for the dragons, has nearly all his life since having taken over from his father, who had taken over from his grandfather and so forth, and he appreciates it dearly—Price is the reason John has learned so much, and he can only hope to one day repay that generosity and kindness and patience as a king who doesn’t regard the majesty of the dragons as something threatening, but instead beneficial.

All that’s to say, John is surprised when Price is inexplicably and unexpectedly absent one morning that he manages a visit. Where John usually finds him, in his place is a complete stranger.

John is immediately wary of the unfamiliar man, in part because of his intimidating stature, all tall and broad and standoffish, and in part because of the cloth that obscures the lower half of his face but doesn’t quite hide the thick scar creeping out from beneath it—but mostly due in part because John doesn’t think of Price as reckless with his trust, and yet there’s something about this man that seems… odd. Almost off.

Although, to give the stranger credit where it’s due, the season’s two still-unnamed hatchlings appear awfully content from where they sit perched on his wide shoulders as he tends to other creatures. 

“Are you going to continue staring all day, or can I help you with something, Your Royal Highness?”

The gruff timbre of his voice startles John. He hadn’t realized the man had noticed his presence—hadn’t realized he’d been staring—and upon catching his eye, a blush begins to warm John’s face.

“No! No, sorry, I—” John wets his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “I was just… looking for Price.”

The stranger regards him for a long, painfully silent moment, his dark eyes boring through John. The prince thinks he might be nervous in any other circumstance, but it’s difficult to succumb to an instinctual fear when one hatchling chirps quietly as it nuzzles his cheek, and the other nips playfully at the shell of his ear.

“Price has something urgent to attend to for a few days, at least,” the man finally answers. “I’ll be working in his stead for the time being.”

“Right.” It must have been really urgent, then, if John hadn’t been aware of anything up until this very moment; Price usually confides in him whenever he’ll be away. “And what am I to call you?”

The man bows his head, a sort of appeasement gesture rather than an acknowledgement of respect. Curiously enough, it’s a behaviour often done by dragons—and it brings John some peace, at least, figuring this stranger must be experienced with the beasts if he’s managed to adopt any of their habits. “You may call me Ghost.”

An unconventional name, most definitely, and surely not the truth, but John has been acquainted with many a bizarre individual before. Ghost isn’t anywhere high on the list for most outlandish introduction.

“Well then, Ghost, I’m sure Price told you—”

“—told me you would visit? Yes, he did.” Without breaking eye contact, Ghost reaches up to scratch at the scales of the hatchling attached to his cheek. “He made it very clear not to get you in trouble. Not that I would, unless you gave me reason to. I shouldn’t expect a prince to need my permission to be here.”

His straightforward nature throws John at first, though that isn’t to say he dislikes it; much like with Price, John is more grateful for blunt, honest words than the endlessly spouted rambles made in the hopes of saying something they think he wants to hear. Ghost, John suspects, would be the type to point out something stuck in his teeth before he ever gets the chance to ask.

“Aye, ‘course not,” John says. He shifts his weight between his feet, itching to question Ghost some—about his origins, his experience, how he knows Price—but he somehow doubts Ghost would be all that inclined to provide him with a satisfying answer. Perhaps he’d ask around instead. “You haven’t gotten ‘round to feeding Duchess yet, have you?”

Ghost shakes his head. Only a moment of trailing silence tells John he shouldn’t expect a verbal response, so he quietly excuses himself and starts past Ghost, towards where Duchess is kept in the grand stables—Duchess, of course, being a smaller-than-average wyvern that’s always been particularly fond of him, as much as she can be fond of a human. She’s one of the older dragons, one of only a handful to have watched John grow up, and these days it isn’t so uncommon for the shimmery, silvery-blue of her scales to find its way into John’s paintings.

But before John could get far, he’s struck with another question for Ghost—but with the man’s name on his lips, he turns to find he’s completely vanished, the hatchlings along with him. 

John doesn’t linger long on the thought, the question evaporating as suddenly as it had appeared; although, his mind still remarks on the peculiarity before it veers back to its prior path. He would definitely have to ask around about Ghost, then. So enshrouded in mystery, it’d be impossible for John to swallow his curiosity. 

For now, however, he has Duchess to attend to—until he’s inevitably caught, of course.

It’s by sheer luck that John is able to sneak away to the stables again as soon as the following day.

Typically, there’s always at least a few days unavoidably wedged between his windows of opportunity—be it a cause of travel, guests, or his father’s overly watchful eye—but he’s fortunate enough today that some invitation must have gotten lost in translation, and so his presence isn’t actually required as it was originally meant to be. The moment John receives the news, he slips away and heads directly for the barn. 

Ghost is, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found. Though, to be fair to him, it isn’t like John goes looking—he just keeps an eye out as he visits with the dragons, his journal securely in hand. 

He’s yet again in Duchess’ large stall, sitting in the dirt and propped up against her back while she’s curled up to sleep when Ghost just about startles John’s soul from his body.

“Back so soon, Your Royal Highness?”

The rasp of Ghost’s voice crashes through his thoughts, causing John to curse and jerk back hard enough to wake Duchess, who lifts a heavy head to peer between Ghost and the prince before laying back down with a huff. Only one hatchling joins Ghost today, weaving between his legs like a barn cat; John is none too pleased by the amused crinkle of Ghost’s eyes at his plight.

“Bastard,” John gasps, scrambling to his feet and dusting the dirt from his trousers. “Keep that up and you’ll be hanged for treason.”

Ghost cocks his head, undeterred. “Maybe as heir to the throne you should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says. “Don’t you have ambassadors to be entertaining?”

“Had they arrived today, yes.” John pauses. “How did you know that? It couldn’t have been Price that told you.”

Ominously—or cryptically, more like—Ghost merely shrugs, claiming he’s just a good observer. John snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. It’s a real wonder, he thinks, where Price might have found Ghost.

“Fine, keep your secrets.” A smile tugs at John’s face. “Not like I’m the prince or anything.”

Ghost levels him a flat look, pale eyebrows raised. “Your status means far less to me than you think it does.”

John furrows his brow, intrigued. His smile falls lopsided on his lips. “Aye, and why’s that? Not one for the monarchy? You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Not quite,” says Ghost plainly. “Respect still has to be earned, for a ruling family as young as yours.”

John’s eyebrows pinch closer, confusion morphing his expression into a proper frown. He takes a moment to observe Ghost, his whitish-blond hair, his honey-gold and hickory eyes, the strong, sturdy frame with which he carries himself. Beyond the tapered end of the scar and small, silvery nicks that cut through a wisp of freckles, there truly isn’t any sign of the age that he implies.

The prince squints at Ghost. “Young? My father’s been king for two decades, and my grandfather before that. Surely you’re not that old.”

Ghost hums. He crouches to meet the grey-brown hatchling still vying for his attention, his gaze never once leaving John as he lets her crawl up his arm and settle around his neck like a reptilian scarf. He stands, straightening slowly, yet full of grace. “You’d be surprised.”

Though his face reads as sincere, John can’t help but feel as if Ghost is messing with him. At the same time, however, having only been barely acquainted with the man for two days makes it hard to say for certain.

Ghost really is quite the enigma.

But watching how he interacts with the hatchling like he’s been the one coddling her for the past few months has John moving on quite easily, instead suddenly more intrigued by the apparent familiarity between them.

“I meant to ask,” John says, “how are you faring with everything? I can see you’ve made a few friends.”

Ghost’s soft, almost fond laughter surprises John. “Her and her brother are only friendly because they know I’ll be feeding them. They do the same with Price, I’m sure.”

John bites his tongue, because no, actually, they don’t. They’ll chase Price, and play with him as hatchlings do, but John has never seen them so attached to anyone like they are Ghost. He nods his head anyway. “And the rest of them?”

“‘Bout the same. But even well trained as they are, I have a lot of… experience,” Ghost admits. A vacant, pensive look briefly befalls Ghost’s eyes, his focus trailing off momentarily before it drifts back in one fell swoop with the sharp snap of his gaze to match John’s. “And you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” insists Ghost, the faintest edge of exasperation laced in his tone, “never met a royal that actually cared to know what’s kept in their stables before. What makes you different?”

Taken aback by the question, John merely shrugs helplessly. He’s never thought of his interest as something unconventional, just… not expected of him. It’s not a duty necessary for him to uphold as prince and eventual king, not unless a war is on the horizon, but nor has he ever seen harm in becoming familiar with as much as possible within the jurisdiction of the kingdom before his responsibilities prevent him from doing so. And while that rule of thumb is mostly applicable to business and citizens, John doesn’t see why the dragons couldn’t be included in that principle as well.

They’re intelligent life, only in a different form to he or any other person. Neglecting to acknowledge that, John thinks, is just unacceptable.

“I don’t think anything makes me different,” John finally answers, tentative. He mindlessly fingers the jagged edges of the pages of his journal, feeling scrutinized by Ghost’s watch. “They’re just… fascinating. And good company.”

“That so, Your Royal Highness?”

John chuckles. “Better company than most, anyway. And please,” he sighs, “just call me John.”

Ghost does that strangely draconic conciliation nod again. “If you insist.”

A stiff, sort of awkward silence blankets them. John ducks his head to stare intently at the leather binding of his journal, rubbing his thumb repeatedly over the surface as if that might mend things. He can feel Ghost staring at him, staring through him with that eternally intense, calculated gaze. It’s the kind of trait John would first attribute to a knight or even an assassin long before some temporary help to maintain stables; he wouldn’t necessarily deem it a bad thing, however, if only a bit unnerving. 

The quiet remains unbearable until Duchess swipes out her tail and causes John to stumble forward, closer to Ghost—almost into him, in fact. He manages a step back before they collide, but his skin is shortly set alight when Ghost reaches out, holding his arm to steady him. John’s heart is suddenly hammering in his chest, his thoughts tumbling over one another as they all barrel forward to catch up.

“Shite, sorry, I—I don’t know why she did that,” John breathes, subconsciously brandishing to memory the abnormal coolness of Ghost’s hand round his wrist, “bleedin’ overgrown lizard.”

A low growl of protest rumbles out of the wyvern’s throat. Ghost’s grip slips away, and for some incomprehensible reason John finds himself mourning the loss.

“Don’t think she takes too kindly to being called that,” Ghost quips.

“Aye, but I don’t much care if it’s the truth,” John mutters. He shoots a glare at Duchess, who has gone on to act oblivious to her actions, shielding her face with a spined wing as if it would achieve anything other than making it more obvious that she had tripped John on purpose. The prince rolls his eyes at the display—truly too smart for her own good, she is. 

“Right,” says Ghost wryly. Much to John’s dismay—or pleasure, he really doesn’t know—Ghost is still close enough for him to make out all the subtle details of the unobscured half of his face he could never discern from afar, like the fine wrinkles of the permanent draw of his brows, or the strangely, slightly oblong pupils centred in earthy-black irises. But within a blink of John’s revelations, Ghost has already turned and started in the other direction.

John’s feet pull him forward before he’s even fully aware of it. “Wait!” He calls. Ghost pauses; he glances over his shoulder, the cloth over his face dipping ever-so slightly as it snags on the hatchling’s rough scutes. For only a moment before he fixes it, the crook of Ghost’s nose becomes visible. “Do you need help with anything? Price usually has somethin’ for me to do, but I wasn’t sure if…”

The prince chews the inside of his cheek as Ghost appears to consider the offer. Eventually he nods, jerking his head in the direction he was headed to beckon John to follow. 

Dutifully, John obliges, picking up his pace to match Ghost’s long strides when the man doesn’t wait for him.

It’s nice that Ghost feels no need to treat him like prince.

The meagre days originally promised of Price’s absence end up becoming a week, then two, then a month. John begins to worry greatly both about and for him, but thankfully Price had the foresight to send letters whenever possible to quell those concerns, claiming everything is fine but completely settling the problem is taking longer than anticipated. Of course, that doesn’t totally assure John, but hearing from him one way or another is certainly relieving.

Either way, this means that John has been spending an awful lot of time getting to know Ghost.

And there’s a lot to learn about him, John would soon find.

Most notably about the worldliness of both his knowledge and experience: Ghost has travelled to more places than John could name, more than he even knew existed; he speaks a handful of languages fluently, or near-fluently, from all sorts of regions; and he takes both care and pride in honing a variety of skills, from sewing and weaving to herbalism, sword fighting to archery. It’s like he’s lived a thousand lives all in one, and John can only wonder how he’s managed to achieve it all at, presumably, a young enough age; of course, the prince still doesn’t believe Ghost’s claim of being much, much older than he looks.

But beyond the more factual aspects of Ghost, John also learns that, with time, he’s a pleasurable individual to share conversation with. Ultimately, he is still a man of few words unless specifically prompted—but upon more meaningful discussion, there’s an evident wisdom that John discovers at the foundation of all Ghost says. It’s subtle, not belittling or insulting the way John knows some people similar in knowledge to be, and about dragons especially, John could listen to him ramble on for ages—that is, if Ghost didn’t have the habit of stopping himself whenever he believed he’d been talking for too long.

John still has yet to puzzle together a way of preventing that.

He also learns about the mundane, insignificant things, like how Ghost’s favourite flower is a lily, he has a preference for the colour blue, and he doesn’t particularly like the stew that the kitchen often serves.

And now, after a month of frequent visitation, John would optimistically like to consider himself and Ghost to be friends—despite Ghost’s insistence that he doesn’t do friends, though John argues that he at least has some sort of allyship with Price to be here, which elicits an irritated huff and about an hour of silent treatment from Ghost. So friends, John thinks, is a fair assessment; Ghost is a fresh breath of air from daily life as the prince, unafraid to argue and tease and enable John in spite of the trouble it could land him in, if the wrong person were to overhear. 

It would take John far too long to realize that he might just be a little bit in love.

Approaching the stables today, John is going in with his usual lack of expectations. They’ve built a sturdy routine, and one they seldom stray from, even though routine is what typically drives John out to the stables anyway. It’s just… different with Ghost.

However, what greets him is not Ghost’s regular expression of indifference, or even the hatchlings that are slowly growing too big to continue using Ghost as their perch, and immediately John knows that something is wrong.

He goes looking for Ghost, calling out his name and peering into every stall, asking the two stablehands he comes across if they’ve seen him. He tries not to appear rushed or desperate as he searches, thinking that perhaps he’s overreacting, but just when he’s about to give up John stumbles across a flicker of candlelight out of the corner of his eye. He cautiously investigates, and discovers Ghost to be tucked away in a hidden corner of the great barn, nestled amongst a small stack of crates with a piece of parchment pinched tight between his fingers. A candle burns away at his side, and while the shadows continue to conceal his face, John realizes that his face covering is gone.

“Ghost?”

Startled, Ghost’s head shoots up, and sure enough his face is completely bare—though he realizes this just as well, and quickly scrambles to cover himself before John can observe no more than a measly glimpse. It’s enough, however, for John to see just how far that one scar extends, cutting down Ghost’s cheek and bisecting his lips, a grisly sight in such dim lighting. John has never seen Ghost move so erratically.

“Is there a problem?” John asks. He glances at the paper still clutched tight in Ghost’s hands, its edges rumpled from the pressure. His hands are usually much gentler.

“It’s…” Ghost sighs, gaze falling. He hangs his head again. “...complicated. Nothing for you to worry about, Johnny.”

Under other circumstances, John thinks that nickname, said in that low, rumbling voice, might have caused his brain to stop working. Under other circumstances, John thinks he might have contemplated how it made him feel, that nickname somehow sounding so different from the diminutive way anyone else has ever used it when it tumbles from Ghost’s lips. But as it is, it’s a difficult thing to get caught up on when John is more concerned that he can tell Ghost is lying.

John edges closer to Ghost. “You can tell me,” he says. “Promise. Maybe I can help.”

Ghost shakes his head, eyes transfixed on whatever is scrawled across the parchment. He heaves a deep breath and folds it neatly in half. “Won’t make a difference.”

John continues to inch forward, almost close enough to be able to reach out and touch Ghost. When he isn’t met with protest, he ventures to eliminate the gap entirely and seat himself beside Ghost on the crates. “Well, maybe as prince, I—”

Ghost scowls irritably. “Johnny.”

“—ask my father if—“

“John.”

“—anything you need—“

“Your Royal Highness.”

John snaps his mouth shut. He turns wide-eyed to face Ghost, who suddenly looks so tired beyond his years in the stark contrast of pitch-darkness and the warmth of candle flame. 

A strange urge to smooth the tension from his face bubbles up in the back of John’s mind.

“It’s not your burden to bear,” Ghost says, quiet. Somber. “And I wish it didn’t have to be mine, either. But family is unavoidable, I suppose.”

John is somewhat surprised by this, if only because Ghost had never once mentioned family before, and because, truthfully, John has never considered that he might even have one. And only hearing that they exist now, when they’re involved in something that’s clearly causing Ghost distress, it only serves to further worry John about the contents of that letter.

However, as much as he wants to prod, he doesn’t want to upset Ghost any more. John bumps his shoulder against him in the hopes of being reassuring, only under the guise of merely adjusting his position where he sits. “Will you have to go somewhere?”

Ghost nods. “Likely. I’ll know in a few days.” He stares ahead now, distant. His jaw ticks beneath the black cloth. There’s something steely, dangerous in the void of his irises. “Won’t be gone long, though. Not if I have any say.”

His voice is low, something gravelly and vicious in his throat. It sends a shiver down John’s spine; while he’s never known Ghost to necessarily be warm and friendly, there’s something about the coldness that infects his words that’s downright unsettling. Scary, even.

A silence envelops them, sudden, lingering, untouched, the only sound their unmatched, echoing breaths.

Surprisingly, it’s Ghost who breaks it. “So what did you sneak away from today, then?”

This startles a laugh from John, equally exasperated as it is amused. “Why do you assume I shouldn’t be here?”

Ghost snorts. “Yes, because Sir Garrick coming to retrieve you most times doesn’t mean anything.” He shoots the prince a teasing look, mirth glittering in his eyes where something much darker had just stormed.

John squawks indignantly, playfully shoving Ghost’s arm—and though layers of garments keep them from truly touching, the contact, John finds, is positively electric. “Och, be quiet. I should have you thrown in prison.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, challenging. John can tell his lips are upturned, albeit hidden, and distantly he finds himself wishing he could one day be witness to that mischievous grin. “Do that and I’ll let the whole kingdom know about that time you tripped and fell in—”

“Fine! Fine,” huffs John. He snickers, shaking his head with far more fondness than he should surely be permitted as he stands, arms raised in surrender. “I suppose you can remain a free man. For now.”

“How generous,” Ghost deadpans. “I’m honoured by your benevolence, really.”

John rolls his eyes. “Careful. I can still change my mind.”

“And I can send you back to the castle myself,” Ghost counters, the traitor. He stares at John, unwavering, smug, and though the prince does his best to reciprocate, he can only hold off from smiling for so long. John bites his cheek but to no avail, his own face betraying him.

Though it’s clear Ghost fares no better, if the soft squint of his eyes is anything to judge.

“Right, then.” Finally, John offers out a hand. “Truce?”

He hadn’t really anticipated Ghost would accept his outstretched hand, but Ghost surprises John yet again that day, not only by taking it, but by using John to haul himself to his feet as well. His palm is still oddly chilled, though John can’t quite find it in himself to care.

Standing like this, so close, John feels like Ghost dwarfs him—even when he truly isn’t that much bigger.

“Truce,” Ghost agrees. He squeezes John’s hand once before letting go, pausing as if he has something else to say; ultimately, however, Ghost merely nods to John before moving past him, whether or not he actually expects the prince to follow.

John doesn’t, not this time. Despite the easy banter, he figures Ghost probably needs to be alone, at least for a little while.

So instead of waiting around, John decides to save Kyle the headache and returns to his duties sooner than he’d originally planned. At least that way John could be in someone’s good graces for the day.

He tries not to think too hard about the letter.

In all honesty, John forgets about the correspondence by the week’s end. With no mention of it from Ghost, and with no disappearance on his part, John can only assume a resolution had been met, or it was no longer something that required Ghost’s attention. Another week passes, and his conclusion solidifies itself.

Or perhaps he had already gone and come back—since their talk, John had only a single chance to visit the stables, otherwise too caught up in inescapable dinners and diplomats; lessons in how to be civil and strategic, as if those aren’t concepts he’s been made to study ever since he could walk. But as a cause, John is exhausted and, admittedly, missing Ghost, but he has no idea the next chance he’ll have to see him. The uncertainty only has him more miserable about it, to the point that the days begin to drag on, and his nights become restless.

Tonight is no different for his sleeplessness, unaided by having had to endure hours of his least favourite kind of princely concern: courting a lady, upon his father’s insistence, despite the fact that he’s never had any success in meeting his son’s interests. John is thankful he’s lenient enough now about his rejections, but John knows that eventually, inevitably, that luck will run out.

It’s that thought that keeps him awake this time, that has him standing out on his balcony breathing in the cool night air in the hopes that maybe, possibly, it’ll clear his head enough to allow him to sleep.

The sky is cloudless, stars twinkling brightly in the inky expanse. The field his room overlooks is painted in silver moonlight, everything peaceful, calm, ethereal with how the grass sparkles with dew and a gentle wind sways the trees, a whole other world that seems so inaccessible even when all he’d have to do is venture out of the castle.

John sits and observes for what must be hours, leaning on the balustrade and revelling in the serenity he feels he so rarely gets to experience. He can see the dragons’ barn from here—so distant—and he yearns to just go, but he knows there's hardly a point when Ghost is probably asleep in the small house hidden from view just beyond the stables, where Price would be residing if he weren’t still away.

Then all of a sudden, a giant, shapeless shadow falls over the field, temporarily blotting out the light of the moon as something huge passes overhead. 

John glances up, and for a moment is convinced he’s gone mad when he sees a dragon, one that he certainly isn’t familiar with—but then he realizes it’s crashing toward the ground, toward the stables, and before he knows it he’s stealthily making his way through the castle, breaking into a sprint the second his path is clear.

But his arrival has him… puzzled. Lungs burning as he slows his pace, John knows he heard the heavy whoosh of a dragon’s wing flap and the muted thud of its landing, and yet circling in and around the stables, he finds nothing.

Until, that is, he stumbles across the dark and frankly disturbing trail of blood that leads up to Price’s—currently Ghost’s—homestead.

Cautiously walking toward the house, John notices the spill is uneven—from mere drops on the ground in some places, splatters on stones and grass and dirt, to near pools of it in the grooves of bare footprints. It has John’s skin crawling with nerves, making him almost afraid to knock on the door once he reaches it, though past the thin curtains he can see the lively glow of the hearth.

That fear swiftly subsides, however, when he hears the pained hiss on the other side. Now panicked, John forgoes knocking entirely and lets himself in, desperate to make sure that Ghost—or whoever it may be inside—is alright.

An initial glance doesn’t help John discern what he’s looking at in any capacity; more blood, of course, now also in the form of handprints across various surfaces; a rifled-through trunk and cupboards, all sorts of things strewn about; and in the middle of it all is Ghost, hunched over himself, a piece of leather clenched tight between his teeth and a half-empty bottle of brandy at his feet.

Angled just so away from John, the prince can see the entire plane of his pale back, bare, littered with scars. The sheer strength he possesses is evident in every slight shift of muscle as he works through muttered curses and sharp breaths, and if it weren’t for the steady plap, plap, plap of drops of blood hitting the wooden floor, then John thinks he might go on drinking in the sight of Ghost forever.

Alas, John has greater priorities.

He takes a tentative step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath him. He watches Ghost tense, lift his head, though he doesn’t turn around. Ghost’s breathing is laboured, loud. His shoulders rise and fall with effort.

“Ghost?” John murmurs, his voice inexplicably hoarse. “What… what happened? Why is there blood everywhere? Are you hurt?”

It’s a stupid question—John is well aware of that—but he’s unable to conjure any rational thought when Ghost soon pivots in the chair he occupies, revealing a large gash in his abdomen and partially, messily done stitches. He’s so frozen in place by the sight of it, in fact, by the crimson that stains Ghost’s fingers and trousers, that he doesn’t even have to keep himself from looking up at Ghost’s face.

But, contrary to what John thinks, what grips him isn’t really shock nor fear so much as it’s an all-encompassing want—no, need to help Ghost, to mend his wounds and see to it he lives another day. Even if his hands tremble, and the angry tear of flesh makes him just a bit nauseous. 

“Johnny.” Unceremoniously, Ghost drops the strip of leather from his mouth with a wince. His eyes are blown wide, near frantic—he isn’t at all composed as usual. “What are you doing here?” 

John swallows thickly, vaguely gesturing to outside. “I just… thought I saw a dragon, out in the…” 

He trails off, unable to find the words as Ghost watches him with those big, stupid doe eyes of his, even wild and unfocused as they are. John is nearly caught in the trap of memorizing his visage—all sharp angles and soft curves and perfect imperfections, an otherworldly kind of beauty—but he forces himself to still his hands and approach Ghost first, to kneel before him in spite of the blood that soaks through his trousers and gently pry the needle and thread from him, to finish what Ghost had started but with cleaner stitches. John has never been more grateful that Price had painstakingly taught him so many years ago. 

They’re both silent while John works. It doesn’t take long but it still feels like forever, though the repetitive motions help distract from the neverending flood of questions that infiltrate his mind. But once he’s finished, after tying the thread and dressing the wound, the dam of concentration breaks and he’s barraged by all that sits unsaid on his tongue: had he really seen a dragon, or had his exhaustion merely caught up to him? And if he had seen it, where could it possibly have gone, and unnoticed? Not to mention, how and why was Ghost injured like that? John doesn’t know where to begin, nor if Ghost would even have—or want to give—answers.

At least now he can safely ponder without worrying Ghost might bleed to death—and get a proper look at his face all the while.

Ghost’s eyes dart about John’s own, albeit far less frenzied now that he’s been patched up, no longer made skittish by the haze of his adrenaline. His breathing is still unnatural, clipped wheezes adjoining every inhale, his lips parted ever so slightly. The gnarled scar pins the skin of his upper lip enough for John to make out a rather sharp canine.

Almost like fangs.

“Ask me something,” Ghost rasps, crackly as the fire burning only a few feet away. “Anything. I know you have questions.”

John sighs, sitting back on his knees. He feels like a child in prayer, reverent, bloodied hands clasped in his lap. “I just want to know you’re safe.”

Simon offers a half-hearted, jerky sort of nod, like he hadn’t anticipated John’s concern. “I am. Now, at least. My family, too.”

“Your…?” John frowns, brows twitching together—until he recalls the letter from a fortnight prior, Ghost having mentioned something about family and burden. He blinks up at Ghost, dismayed. “What was that letter about, Ghost?”

John watches Ghost’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hesitation, some internal deliberation rattling around his skull that the prince could never come close to understanding. Ghost paces his breathing, though not without effort, jaw flexing as he grasps for an answer to both satisfy warranted curiosity and keep under wraps this thing unknown that he seems to so desperately want kept secret.

The prince wonders how devastating him knowing might be, if at all. It’s obviously important, life-impacting—but there comes a point, when something sits knowingly out of reach, where the consequence of sharing must be inferior to that of keeping quiet. And John fears that this may be one of those kinds of secrets, if the laceration in Ghost’s stomach is the aftermath of its confrontation.

“I can’t explain everything to you now,” Ghost finally says. “I don’t know if I ever can. But know I did what I had to.”

John nods. He can’t think of a reason he couldn’t understand that.

Ghost doesn’t speak again, not immediately. John stills as he reaches out, tracing careful fingers along the prince’s cheek, coating the skin in sticky, drying ichor. He’s still half-delirious then, John thinks, but can’t deny he leans into the touch nevertheless.

His arm falls away. “My brother sent it. The work I—we—do, before Price sent for me, at least, is… risky, at best. It caught up with him. His son, specifically. My nephew.”

Just barely, John resists the urge to touch, to comfort, to take Ghost’s hands in his the way his mother used to when John was but a boy. All he instead offers is a simple, solemn, “I’m sorry, Ghost.” 

Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t be. You had nothing to do with it.” He shrugs listlessly, more to himself than anything as his eyes remain intently to the floor. Bright orange flame licks at the walls of the fireplace, its reflection dancing in Ghost’s irises. “I took care of it.”

John arches an eyebrow. “But not before you were cut,” he says.

Ghost grunts his affirmative.

John sighs his disapproval. He can’t say he’s entirely content with the lack of detail, but he had gotten the information that he wanted—that Ghost is safe—and that was all he truly needed, at least for the time being. Perhaps he could question Ghost at a later date, but a voice in the back of his head nags at him, that he shouldn’t keep the man much longer, not in the state he’s in. John starts to get to his feet, stiff joints cracking beneath him as he frees his limbs from their awkward position.

He’ll help Ghost wash what he can, if Ghost will allow it, make sure his bandages are properly in place and coax him into getting some rest before leaving. Then John will—

“Wait.” John looks down, sees Ghost has caught his wrist. The prince’s eyes follow the line of Ghost’s arm, shoulder, neck, face. He shifts uncomfortably beneath the intensity of Ghost’s gaze. “Don’t you want to ask about the dragon?”

John hesitates, lips parting in mild surprise. The whole reason he’d been led here had slipped his mind in the midst of everything, but now standing here, presented with the possibility of knowing—he can’t help but to lean on an excuse to delay it. He does want to ask, yes, of course. But part of him believes the time isn’t right.

Like he’d thought before—he doesn’t suppose Ghost is entirely present, not with how much blood he’d lost. He isn’t in his right mind, John is sure of it, and he shouldn’t take advantage of that.

So the prince shakes his head. “Not tonight.” He gently pulls himself free from Ghost’s grasp. Impulsively, he bends down to press a chaste kiss to Ghost’s temple. “Go lay down, I’ll be back with water and a cloth. We’ll see what else can be done in the morning, yeah?”

Ghost nods, slumping back in his chair. His eyelids have begun to droop, and John is honestly surprised Ghost hadn’t fallen asleep on him sooner. 

John smiles softly at Ghost before he turns and leaves to do as promised. He’d bet his future crown the man would be sound asleep by the time he returns.

Life goes on the way it seems to have become.

John and Ghost fall back into their usual routine, once some of John’s busy schedule has subsided. The prince stops by when he can, they talk about dragons and life around the kingdom, exchange stories about Price—and for the first few weeks following that incident, John would crowd Ghost into a corner or the small house beyond the stables to make sure he was healing well.

The morning after, John had managed to get ahold of some medicinal herbs, even found an old notebook and spare ingredients of Price’s in case of emergencies—the man was always damn prepared, and John has never been more thankful. He thinks to mention his gratitude in the next letter he’d inevitably send in response—but then John receives word from Price that he’d finally be coming home in a month’s time. Whatever problem it was had been resolved; now, he was merely spending time with old friends.

Besides, Ghost is plenty happy to stay as long as Price needs him, or so he says, anyway. John isn’t completely oblivious to the way Ghost sometimes looks… melancholy, for the lack of a better word, if ever John asks about or alludes to his family, or an existence beyond his current confines.

But… it also saddens John, the idea of him soon being gone. Price is a good friend, and the prince misses him, he does—but there’s something about Ghost, something between him and Ghost that he wishes so terribly to name. To make tangible, real. But their time is running thin, and as the days pass John worries nothing will ever come from it.

That is, until Duchess—ever the unbearable lizard—decides she wants something done about it.

Even if it means nearly killing John in the process.

Being that John has taken a liking to Ghost, so has Duchess by association—though the prince is inclined to believe that’s also due to Ghost being the one to care for her most days as of late. Regardless, with that liking comes mutual trust, cooperation, and with that comes Ghost with ideas that Price, let alone the king, would most definitely not approve of—activities of which John thinks uncharacteristic of Ghost to suggest as far as he’s perceived the man, but all the same excursions John wouldn’t say no to, if it means spending time with him.

Such as sneaking Duchess out into that field one night to let her stretch her wings without any of the restrictions that daytime imposes—and to possibly saddle her as well at some point, as Ghost promises he has experience with flying dragons, recalling John once having mentioned how he dreamt to one day take to the skies.

So here they are.

The night is cloudless again, though darker than it had been the night John patched Ghost’s wound. Sneaking out took far more effort than the prince is happy with, and he’s more than certain Kyle is suspicious that he’s recently been up to something, but John eventually makes it outside to greet Ghost and Duchess, who are both lazing in the grass while they wait.

And when his footsteps are within earshot, they perk up simultaneously.

John laughs, hurrying his last few steps. He really can’t help but make comparisons—sometimes Ghost acts so dragon-like it’s hard to ignore, often curious as it is endearing.

“Don’t let me interrupt your nap,” John teases.

“Not napping,” Ghost grouses. John bites back a retort, seeing Ghost still sitting in the long grass, swiping a patch of dirt from his cheek—though his quip is soon forgotten anyway, when he sees the large leather saddle resting on the ground a few feet away. 

“Well, shite,” breathes John, a smile growing excitedly on his face as he wanders over. “Don’t suppose you’ve tried fitting that on her already?”

Ghost shakes his head, finally climbing to his feet. “Not for a lack of trying,” he grumbles, turning to scowl at Duchess. “Nearly lost my fingers.”

“You’ll live,” John replies distractedly. He crouches to scoop the saddle into his arms, stumbling with the heft of it as he whirls around, grinning ear to ear. “Tell me what to do, then. I know she likes me better.”

With a roll of his eyes, Ghost obliges with little protest—though the same can’t be said of Duchess.

Ghost claims she’s more cooperative than when he’d made an earlier attempt, but John finds it hard to believe with the amount the wyvern struggles, constantly wriggling and shifting and nipping at the leather, but after some muffled laughter, a litany of swears, and some coercion with leftover food, they finally manage to get the saddle snug in place.

“Saints help us,” John hears Ghost mutter under his breath. 

John snorts. “Such drama queens, the both of you.” He gives a firm, friendly pat to Duchess’ flank. The wyvern huffs; she’s got herself pressed flat on the ground, saddle straps hidden beneath her to keep any further adjustments from being made. “You’d think we were torturing her.”

“Most stubborn creature I’ve ever met,” Ghost concurs. He’s still glowering, the expression etched into his face, but for once John doesn’t have to be oblivious to the way Ghost’s face lightens when he looks at the prince. “Well, c’mon then. Didn’t do all that for nothing.”

Ghost offers out his palm as one would when inviting another for a dance, helping John to mount the dragon after the prince accepts. John turns to make a joke about receiving a farewell kiss to go along with this send-off, but is sooner shocked silent when Ghost climbs on as well, settling comfortably behind him, solid against John’s back.

“What?” Ghost says, much too close to John’s ear. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t be joining you for your first flight, did you?”

“I–“ John swallows, willing himself not to focus on Ghost’s presence against him. “No, no. Right. ‘Course not. I wasn’t—“

John’s body vibrates with the rich rumble of Ghost’s laugh, and suddenly he is overly conscious of how every inch of his skin stretches taut over his frame.

Ghost practically drapes himself over the prince to retrieve the reins and pass them to John. John grips them, white-knuckled, feet planted firmly in the stirrups. It becomes increasingly difficult not to concentrate on the lack of space between them when one of Ghost’s arms is wrapped loosely around his stomach to keep him in place.

“You ready?”

John takes a deep breath and nods. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Now keep your mouth shut unless you want to be pickin’ midges from your teeth.”

A two-note whistle and a lurch forward cuts John off from reply, his heart jumping to his throat before they’ve hardly left the ground. John screws his eyes shut, not so much out of fear as of instinct, wholly unprepared for the rush of air no matter how he might have braced himself. But after the initial swoop of his stomach, he ventures cautiously to blink open his eyes, and is immediately struck by awe of the view.

Pinpricks of tears still form in the corners of his eyes from the wind, but John doesn’t care. He peers out over either side of Duchess in wonder, watching the kingdom pass by all at once, shrunken down below them as the wyvern gains both height and speed. Without meaning to, or even realizing it, John is pressing back into Ghost’s hold all the while, subconsciously drawn to the sense of security he provides in just existing alongside John, there, in that moment.

John does heed Ghost’s advice about closing his mouth, as much as he wants to shout, cry out, cheer. His blood flows loud as the wind in his ears, his limbs and lungs and soul vibrating with a sensation he’s never felt before and doesn’t think he could recreate anywhere else—he doesn’t immediately recognize it, but then revelation hits him as if they’ve crashed into a wall: this must be what true freedom feels like.

Flying.

The stars do not dote nor dole out responsibilities, and the vast stretch of sky before them does not uphold any expectations. He and Ghost are not prince and stablehand, rather they just are, everything and nothing confined to their respective motes of the universe. 

It could be seconds, minutes, hours that they remain suspended in the night air; all John knows is that he’d gladly stay here forever.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end eventually. So long as the sun still rises and sets.

Another sharp whistle from Ghost brings them gradually back to the ground, descending to the field in a smooth glide—it seems the flight had also put Duchess in a better mood, as she doesn’t fuss about Ghost removing her saddle the same way she had while getting it on. John pets Duchess’s head while Ghost loosens the straps, babbling nonsense to the dragon as if she’s one of the family dogs and not a great, powerful beast with teeth the size of his forearm.

Of course, her purring betrays any dissatisfaction she tries to make known of her situation. 

Ghost slips the saddle off Duchess, tossing it to the ground where it lands with a heavy thump.

“You hated it, then?” Ghost hums, waggish smile toying on his lips.

John bites his lip, keeping his gaze fixed on Duchess as he scratches her chin. “Absolutely abhorred it,” he says. “But just to be sure, I think we’ll have to do this once more before you leave.”

“Maybe.” Ghost begins wandering over to John, his steps silent if not for the brush of grass with every pace. “Though if I talk to Price—”

“No!” Exclaims John. He turns to Ghost, however surprised by his own outburst. “No,” he repeats, calmer, “it wouldn’t be the same without you, anyway.”

The next sequence of events happen much too quickly for John to process them as they occur; before Ghost can open his mouth to respond, Duchess has the collar of John’s tunic between her teeth and is whisking him away, higher and higher into the sky with no sign of stopping. Each flap of her wings matches the thundering beat of his pulse, and despite all his flailing and cursing and colourful, incomprehensible threats—she never lets up. It’s out of character for the wyvern, but John is helpless to do anything but accept his fate as they continue to rise.

And then she drops him.

Fear grips him like a vice as he falls, consuming him so completely that he’s paralyzed to do anything but pray, at the very least finding solace in the fact that there wouldn’t have to be a search for his corpse, left to the flies until morning, not with Ghost still on the ground and surely horrified by what he’s just witnessed.

But instead of everything ending with a sickening crack of bones with the prince’s body colliding with the earth, the breath is further stolen from his lungs as he’s caught by something midair, saved from impending doom by an indiscernible mass that moves impossibly fast and holds John secure in its taloned clutch.

They eventually land, where he’s laid carefully in the dirt. For a while John remains dazed, staring blankly up at the abyss above. He honestly thinks he may have stayed like that forever, if it weren’t for the low growl that startles him from his stupor. 

John attempts to sit up, but only gets so far as propping himself up on his elbows with the way his head spins—but even dizzy as he is, there’s no mistaking the second dragon currently baring its teeth at Duchess as she also returns to the ground.

The same dragon—John is most certain—as the one he’d seen that night before he found Ghost’s trail of blood.

Duchess appears indifferent to the snarling, happily turning her back on the other dragon in favour of laying down with an irritable grumble.

Only once the unfamiliar dragon turns around does John notice that Ghost is nowhere to be found.

As it stalks toward him, John uses those fleeting seconds to get a proper look at the creature; it’s large, larger than any dragon they keep, larger than any dragon John has ever seen. Its scales are a flat, pitch black, the beast itself almost nothing more than a shadow in the dark, despite its imposing size—and despite the skull-like ridges and alabaster pattern that marks its face. The detail is striking, and John supposes that normally the skeletal appearance must invoke terror in the dragon’s enemies, but strangely, even after everything that has just happened, he does not feel such a way.

Not when it looms over him, not when it nudges its muzzle against his chest. It’s a creature too… magnificent, regal to believe it would do something as cruel as saving the prince’s life only to end it moments later.

Then John looks into its eyes—really looks. Seeks past the cunning, reptilian amber and counts the flecks of brown in a gaze that’s awfully familiar.

John frowns, an odd thought crossing his mind.

But in a blink, just as he begins to piece things together, Ghost appears before him in a bizarre sort of shift, cradling the prince’s face a moment before he starts methodically checking for injuries, brow furrowed in a purposeful concentration. John can only observe at first, too stunned and puzzled and—and—

“You…” John remarks weakly, voice wavering with his lack of conviction. “You’re a—“

“Shush,” Ghost interjects, not unkindly. “You’re not hurt?”

John shakes his head.

“Good,” Ghost says, resigned, though he continues to inspect for damage anyhow. “Stupid wyvern risked your life just to—”

“But she knew you would catch me,” John says, more confident, matter-of-factly. He sits up, heart fluttering in his chest for reasons that have nothing to do with the fall, and everything to do with Ghost’s face now being mere inches from his own. “She knew you would. And you did.”

“I did,” Ghost agrees with a sigh. He scrubs wearily at the side of his face with his palm, eyes averted from the prince. “But… I never wanted you to find out what I am. Safer that way.”

John’s shoulders slump, ruminating in the silence that follows. It’s not really an answer—although John had hardly posed a question to begin with—and all his admittance achieves is fostering John’s need for further inquiry, for the binding of every stray piece of information to make one single, comprehensible conception of Ghost. 

He just wants to understand.

“I thought dragon shifters were extinct,” says John.

“Close to, but—” Ghost shakes his head, casting a sidelong glance to the open field, tranquil, still. Soon to be threatened by the sunrise. “—not quite. What my brother and I do, we… try to prevent our kind from dying out. And what caught up, when I got that letter, poachers had taken my nephew. Two weeks is what it took to track his captors.”

Emboldened, this time John does reach out. Does touch. He covers Ghost’s hand with his own, the one that has remained on the prince’s leg and mindlessly plays with the fabric of his trousers. Ghost startles minutely, only obvious to John in the slight twitch of his fingers, irises still faintly flush with gold when his eyes finally snap to the prince. Unmet with protest, John dares to rub small circles on the back of cool, rough skin.

“They didn’t hurt him too, did they?” 

“Only me.” Ghost grits his teeth, unintentionally digging his nails into the meat of John’s calf. “Not proud of what I did to be sure of that, Johnny. But I won’t say I regret any of it.”

John squeezes Ghost’s hand as reassuringly as he can muster. “I’m not asking you to, Ghost.” And he means that, honest and true. He could not stand to fault Ghost for acting in a blind panic for his family—for a dying species.

Much less when he’d nearly gotten himself killed in the process. 

“Simon,” Ghost says quietly.

John pauses his circles. “What?”

“Simon,” Ghost repeats, now insistent. “My name.”

A smile these days, or so it seems to John, oftentimes feels inevitable whenever he’s with Ghost—with Simon. It creeps up on him, lips curling upward and twisting into something cheeky, borderline flirtatious. He’ll blame a loose tongue on the oxygen still yet to return to his brain. “Pretty name for a pretty face.”

Ghost—Simon huffs a laugh, purposefully pinching John’s leg. “Rein it in, Your Royal Highness,” he says dryly—but though it’s dark, the dusting of a blush across his cheeks is evident. “Bet you say that to anyone worth your time of day.”

A beat, a breath, and so little space between them. John suddenly feels as if the ground has been swept out from underneath him for a second time, stomach swooping with a jittery, good kind of nerves.

 “You’d bet wrong,” he murmurs. John laces their fingers together. “But I’m serious, Simon. ‘M not looking at you any different for what you might’ve done.”

Simon bristles, growling a low, curt rumble not dissimilar to Duchess’ own form of voicing complaints. It’s merely disagreement, impossible to be at all understood as threatening by anyone who has spent a significant amount of time around dragons; if anything, John finds it kind of endearing. 

“You shouldn’t say that, Johnny, ” the shifter chides.

John shrugs. “Aye, well, it’s too late. My mind’s already been made.” His eyes flit to Simon’s scarred lips, and his heart jumps in his chest. His next words fall from his tongue faster than he can bite them down, breathy and distracted and almost embarrassingly sultry. “Don’t think much could change that.”

The silence that traps them is only brief, a temporary suffering—but the tension it exudes is dreadfully palpable. 

Simon is the first to succumb to its weight, and closes the gap between them.

John gasps into the kiss, though he has no right to be surprised. He accepts Simon, openly and utterly, and gives back just as much.

The shifter moves his free hand to cradle John’s head as he gently urges the prince to lay back in the grass, then abandoning their interlocked fingers to hold his cheek. In a swift, graceful movement Simon is straddling John, kissing the prince senseless as if his life depends on it. John’s hands scrabble for purchase on Simon’s waist meanwhile, desperate for any sort of anchor as they meld together. Simon tastes of smoke and something sweet, and John knows then that there’s no one else he’d rather have beside him at the throne when his time eventually comes.

Even if that isn’t all too feasible a possibility.

It’s John who separates them after some time, lips swollen and lungs burning, clearly not having the same capacity as Simon to hold his breath. Simon sits back a little, though ultimately remains hovering above John, and crowned by the silver moonlight the prince thinks he’s never seen a sight more beautiful.

A sad thought encroaches, then, and it must show in his face if Simon’s tender caressing of his temple, cheek, jaw are to mean anything.

“Something wrong?” Simon asks.

John is inclined to shake his head, but he supposes there isn't any use in lying. He just sighs, holding steady on Simon’s hips. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Simon’s face is apologetic as he dips down to press a chaste kiss to John’s forehead, before climbing off the prince and joining him on the ground. They both observe the stars growing fainter, the sky gradually purpling as dawn prepares to break through the horizon and destroy the illusion they’ve deluded themselves to in so little time. 

“Part of me wishes I could stay,” Simon starts slowly, cautiously, as if treading on unfamiliar territory, “but I can’t afford to abandon everything. Not so soon.”

John rolls onto his side, sitting up on his elbow. “I know. I know it’s important,” he says. Simon peers languidly up at him through pale lashes, lifting an arm to thumb at the scar on John’s chin; unprompted, the prince parts his lips. “You’ll at least visit, though?”

Simon smiles softly. “Of course.”

“You promise?”

A nod. “Promise.”

John tilts his head and kisses the pad of Simon’s thumb. “I’ll be holding you to that,” he vows.

The prince ducks down to meet Simon’s lips yet again, a mere reversal of positions, but is interrupted by Duchess’ noisily getting up and shaking herself from sleep, and the rhythmic pad of her footsteps retreating to the stables with little more than a glance back at the two of them, a silent reminder that they should soon endeavour to return to where they’ll be expected as the castle wakes, lest they be found out.

Simon and John help each other to their feet, bidding a bitter farewell before going their separate ways. It would be easier for Simon to make excuses if anyone were to see him, but John has to be careful as he traverses the castle grounds, slipping in and out of servants’ passageways and taking the most convoluted route possible just to return to his bedroom—yet even so, he doesn’t regret the outing in the slightest, and the collective thrill of the night’s events has him almost dangerously desperate for more.

Including the falling, so long as he knows Simon will be there to catch him.

But as he redresses to climb back into bed for as short a time as he’s allowed himself, his earlier melancholy reappears in the forefront of his mind in cruel whispers reminding him that he cannot have more. That he cannot wish to spend the rest of his nights in Simon’s company, because they both have responsibilities, and lives that were never meant to entangle as they have. 

It isn’t fair, John thinks. None of it; it isn’t fair that fate would lead them to one another as a taunt, isn’t fair that the world should be so unkind that Simon cannot ever know rest for himself and others like him. It isn’t fair that John had to find love in the one man he can’t have, isn’t fair that he can’t abandon all he’s ever known to help.

He doesn’t end up getting any rest, already wide awake by the time he’s fetched from his bed. He wants to exist solely in the good memories of that night, but it’s difficult when downcast by the knowledge it was all something he likely can’t experience more than once or twice again before Simon is off and within the world, the kingdom at his back for an indeterminate amount of time, no matter his swear to return, to come back to John.

At least, John decides, against his father’s wishes, he’ll endeavour to see Simon as often as possible until Price has resumed his position, even if it means bribes and begging Kyle to permit him to linger in the stables just a little bit longer. 

It’ll be fine, John assures himself. It will be. He cannot so readily lose hope, even if his heart already feels broken in two.

It’s damn near miraculous that he does it, but John manages to sneak off to see Simon most days before he leaves. And for his efforts, John is handsomely rewarded with stolen kisses and enough whispered promises to tide him over until their next rendez-vous, and, optimistically, until their paths cross again in a distant future.

Unfortunately, as much as John wills time to stretch on forever, those moments become fleeting and soon enough Price has returned to his post—mercifully, however, Simon allows himself to spare one more day beyond under the guise of finalizing travel preparations, though John knows it’s meant to be little more than time to say goodbye.

The prince is made suspicious when that day arrives, and no one interrupts his visit for nearly its entire duration, but he tries not to think twice about it. He wouldn’t take that peace for granted, as off-putting as the happenstance is, if only because it simply meant getting to better savour that last bit of time having Simon within reach.

Part of him wonders if Price has something to do with it. Another part of him figures Simon had most definitely mentioned something to the stable master.

None of it helps with the empty feeling John is left with following Simon’s departure, though. Simon’s scant but well-meaning offer to write letters within the indefinite periods of weeks, months, years in between visits does little to quell the prince’s woes—it just isn’t the same. But nor is there anything to be done, not so long as he pledges to keep Simon’s best interests in mind.

Not that Simon would let John stop him.

Price sees Simon off as well, standing with the prince with arms folded over his chest wearing the ever-stoic expression carved in the lines of his face. It’s really no surprise that he and Simon are friends, not with their shared tendency of constantly acting grumpier than they really are. John has half a mind to suppress a snicker at the thought, only as far as it serves as temporary reprieve from his distress.

Price claps John hardily on the shoulder once Simon has disappeared over the horizon on his horse—a measure only meant for a minor leg of the journey, until it would be safe enough for Simon to shift and fly the remaining distance. “Don’t fret too much, John. Dragons have a good memory. And his kind are keen on keeping their promises.”

John frowns, whirling to face Price. “You know?”

Price snorts. “‘Course. He’s a good friend,” he says. 

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

The stable master quirks an eyebrow, the corner of his moustache twitching upward. “Was I supposed to?”

“Well—” John huffs indignantly, shrugging helplessly like a petulant child. “—no. But it’d have been appreciated to know.”

Price chuckles, shaking his head in exasperation. He waves a dismissive, I-can’t-win hand at John before he’s heading back to the stables like he has more important things to do than entertain the prince’s complaints. John considers trailing after him to pester for what else Price knows and could tell him about Simon and dragon shifters but ultimately decides against it. John doubts he’d get an answer all at once anyway. He’ll just have to weave in questions whenever—

“John?”

The prince throws a glance Price’s way, brows drawn in confusion.

“You know about dragon hoarding behaviours, yeah?” John nods. Price acknowledges in kind. “Then he’ll be back before you know it.”

John’s pleas for clarification all fall on deaf ears, leaving him unable to do any more than ponder what relevance dragon hoarding has to his and Simon’s tentatively-labelled relationship as he stands uselessly at the barn entrance—but, at the very least, his still-heavy heart is content with the assurance that some of their promises weren’t for naught.

He would see Simon again, and John supposes that’s all that should ever matter.

Ten years pass, and though John’s body is still young, he can’t help but feel as if he’s aged twice as long.

He hadn’t seen Simon once in that decade—maybe, he reasons with himself, time passes differently for dragons, and so many years mean nothing to Simon’s perception—and the letters have been so few and far between albeit cherished dearly, and John has never felt so lonely. So stranded.

John had been left the throne only a short few years following Simon’s departure, his father having unforeseeably fallen ill. Being crowned king so unexpectedly was an affair John is happy to never have to relive, and the time since his coronation hasn’t been any better, though certainly less exciting than that procession. About the only improvement is now being free to visit the dragons’ stables whenever he pleases—John, in all his newly acquired power, had even gone so far as to assure himself the time most days, with the exception of the busy periods because he isn’t so flippant as he sometimes wishes he could be.

But his routine is still lacking. An empty piece is still missing, a cavernous hole in his heart that perhaps he should have filled sooner than after a decade’s passing. That perhaps he should have pushed back in his memory to the point of forgetting, that perhaps he should have left behind as time went on and his love left with no place to exist. 

Yet John never does let go of Simon, continuing to reign without any promise of finding himself someone to marry. His friends, remaining family and subjects have all come to expect King John to remain unbound for life. John finds he doesn’t particularly mind, or care, for that matter. Simon is not so easily forgettable, and he will always have more important things to concern himself with now, as king.

At the moment, however, John is once again spending time with Duchess, who seems to have become less pesky over the years. She lets the king cling to her, cling to those distant memories, and sometimes John gets the sense that the wyvern has been saddened by the loss of Simon, too. He knows Price has certainly noticed, and is about the only person who realizes the cause of it, but so long as Price doesn’t mention it, the king will go on pretending that he hasn’t been moping for essentially his entire rule.

Today Duchess has taken to curling protectively around the king, rather than having John at her back; she keeps him caged in with her tail as a watchful eye peers over the edge of his journal at his sketching, huffing and grumbling her opinion whenever John tilts the book in her direction and asks what she thinks.

He’s distracted, but not so distracted he doesn’t hear the stall gate open—however he ignores it, fully anticipating it to be Price come to pester him about his sulking or something he should attend to. Yet after the latch is shut no footsteps follow, and certainly nothing else telling of gait or presence. John tenses, going still as a statue, hoping Duchess is enough to conceal him.

“Thought I might find you here, Your Majesty.”

John’s heart skips a beat, eyes going wide the moment he realizes the significance of that soothing timbre, that calm inflection. He scrambles to his feet, journal instantly forgotten as it falls on the packed dirt floor. 

“Bleedin’—” John whips around and, lo and behold, there stands that damned dragon shifter, finally, again, like it hasn’t been ten years since he’s last stood in these stables. “Simon?”

Simon at least has the decency to look sheepish as he waits for John to circle around Duchess, before the king all but crashes into him, trapping Simon in a tight hug with the intention of never letting go. After the initial impact and the punched-out grunt from Simon, arms are tentatively snaked around John, drawing him ever closer.

“You absolute dafty.” John grits his teeth, burying his face in Simon’s chest, breathing him in. “Was startin’ to think I’d never see you again.”

Simon’s fingers are splayed on John’s back, the pressure of his palms a grounding force. “Sorry,” he murmurs in the king’s ear. “Would’ve come back sooner if I could. Hope you know I’d always eventually find a way home.” 

John’s breath hitches, the word home like a bolt of lightning through his body. He squeezes Simon impossibly tighter, almost afraid he might never have Simon within his grasp again were he to slip away from their hug.

Though, they do inevitably pull apart after some time, but never completely; Simon brings his hands up to cup John’s face, still just as cool and rough as John remembers. His thumbs brush over and admire young wrinkles, a development the shifter has not suffered so noticeably.

Softly, Simon asks, “You haven’t changed too much on me, have you?”

John shrugs, a quaint smile toying on his lips. He seizes one of Simon’s wrists, leaning into the touch like a man starved for contact. There’s an unabashed, vibrantly hopeful flash of that draconic gold in Simon’s irises at the action, a flicker that grows more intense with John’s next words: “Why don’t you find out yourself?”

A slow grin spreads across Simon’s face—bare, no cloth in sight, not even tucked under his chin as he often left it in John’s presence—before he ducks down to connect their lips for the first time in a decade.

But despite it having been so long ago that they last shared a moment like this, it feels as if no time sits between them, as if no differences have occurred in their lives—as if they’re back to prince and stand-in stable master keeping to hidden corners and quiet shadows where none would be privy to their love.

Because that’s what it is. Still is, always has been, even after all this time.

Love.

Simon kisses him breathless again, that same passion, that same taste. That same interruption in the form of an unhappy wyvern.

They break the kiss soon enough, growing too preoccupied with hushed laughter to go on any longer. Their foreheads knock together as shoulders shake and smiles strain their cheeks, and it’s everything John has been wanting at least this one more time since the day Simon left.

“Maybe we should take this elsewhere,” John suggests, the edge of humour more than evident before he’s suddenly overcome with a sort of soberness, lifting his head to meet Simon’s eyes, “Though maybe I should ask how long you’re here for first.”

The corners of Simon’s mouth gradually tilt upwards, his expression transforming into a more sincere happiness than John has ever been witness to in those months they spent so close. “For as long as you’ll have me, Johnny,” says Simon, and John doesn’t think he’s ever heard greater words.

“You mean that?” John asks.

Simon nods. “Promise.”

That word, that sentiment fills John with a tingling warmth, the feeling of that missing piece of him, his heart, finally being set back in its proper place. He has a million and one questions still, of course, but the reassurance and weight of promise and time soothes the itch just so, enough that John is willing to put them all aside for a moment longer, to relish in that simple profession.

“Dangerous,” John teases anyhow, cocking his head to the side. “Sure you want to set that in stone?”

Simon frowns, bemused. “How’s that?”

“Well, you know,” John says with an exaggerated, wistful sigh, undermined by his involuntary grin, “Price once told me your kind makes a habit of keeping your promises.”

The dragon shifter rolls his eyes, shoulders suddenly dropping every hint of prior hesitance. “Did he now?”

“Mhm,” John hums, looping his arms around Simon’s neck. “Also said something about hoards, and—”

“Alright, enough of that.” It’s something to behold, the way Simon’s cheeks rapidly blossom a delicious pink for reasons unknown to John, though they have him oh-so curious. He sheds John’s arms in favour of slinging one of his own across the king’s shoulders to finally guide them out of the spacious pen, however unsuccessful in averting John’s attention.

John playfully nudges Simon with an elbow, letting himself be pulled along. “Something you need to tell me, Simon?”

Simon huffs, and from the corner of John’s eye he swears a wisp of smoke follows. “Not particularly, Your Majesty.”

“Och, keeping secrets from the king now, then? Could definitely be grounds for treason.”

“To the gallows for me, is it?”

“Hm.” John shrugs a shoulder, pausing deliberately as if taking proper consideration of an idea he wouldn’t even inflict on most of his enemies. Distantly, he wonders what a sight they must make, a king and an old memory resurfaced; a quiet, graceful, terribly loveable and wonderfully unusual man pinned to a yearning royal’s side as they stroll through the castle’s dragon stables exactly as they would the gardens. “Not yet,” John pretends to decide, “I reckon we still have unfinished business.”

Simon looks to John, face scrunched with mirth. “Do we?”

“Aye. We do,” John says, matter-of-factly. Without shifting their pace, he turns and pecks Simon’s jaw before leaning his head on the shifter’s shoulder. “Lots of unfinished business.”

“In that case…” Simon’s arm falls, only to curl instead around John’s waist. He pinches the king’s side, garnering a surprised yelp followed by a light shove from John all in spite of the nice moment they’d been sharing. Nothing really has changed, then, and John is all the more glad for it. “...I suppose we’d better not waste any more time.”

And simple as that, they wouldn’t. 

Not ever again.