Work Text:
His Majesty King Antony Rosemund was quite finished with feasting for the evening.
Well, he had been an hour past, but had forced himself to linger. Every man has a duty, his father had always said, from a pauper to a king. And a king’s duty at a feast, King Rosemund knew, was to look jolly and relaxed, so all the guests knew they could be festive, joyful, and unrestrained.
He wished he could feel such things. Instead, tonight, as he watched his daughter hold her husband’s hand tenderly, as he watched his son spin his newly betrothed in a flurry of dancing, as he watched the off-duty guardsmen embracing each other warmly around the shoulders, King Rosemund felt profoundly lonely.
It was five years now since his wife Annamaria had passed. Five years of an empty bed, an empty chair beside him at the feast table. Five years of evenings spent alone.
Well, almost alone.
King Rosemund looked over his shoulder at the tall, golden-haired figure of his Sworn Knight of Protection, Sir Leon Edrick. Like a second shadow, Sir Edrick stood behind him, as always. Just as he’d stood outside his bedchamber door or beside his reading chair on all those lonely evenings.
King Rosemund’s gaze wandered over Sir Edrick’s hand where it held the pommel of his sword, ever ready. Though his armor was his finest set—crafted more for appearances than for combat—his gloves were the same worn pair he’d had for years. The leather looked soft as velvet. And was likely warm now from his skin....
King Rosemund felt something stir inside him that was most certainly not loneliness. He turned back to the rest of the chamber, grateful that he could blame any blush on the free-flowing mead tonight. This quick movement twisted his ankle, causing a spasm of pain to flare up through his knee. Damn this impending storm. Always makes the cursed thing flare up. An old battle injury. Few knew it still pained him at all.
He heard the soft clinking of Sir Edrick’s armor before the man himself appeared in his periphery. The joints were kept lubricated with pleasantly scented oil, so as his knight knelt beside him, King Rosemund smelled lavender.
He’d look lovely with a sprig of lavender in his hair.
Where had that come from? King Rosemund blinked to clear his head. Surely he hadn’t drunk that much mead. But Sir Edrick was speaking—
“Your Grace? Your Grace, are you well?”
“Yes,” King Rosemund answered automatically. Then, he took a moment to actually assess. He was tired, full of rich food and drink, and anxious to continue reading his history book where he’d left off the previous evening. His ankle ached dully, and he was dreading walking on it. He’d have to hide the limp until he was out of the hall.
In short, he was well enough, for a lonely old man.
“Yes, all is well,” King Rosemund insisted when Sir Edrick did not move away from him. The scent of lavender clung to the back of the king’s throat, more intoxicating than the wine.
The knight nodded once. “You have...looked to me several times tonight, Sire. If there is something you need....”
Noticed that, had he? Blast, nothing gets by him. “I am only checking if, ah, you are still there, Sir Edrick. After all, I would not fault you for enjoying a bit of the festivities.”
Sir Edrick’s close-cut golden beard gleamed in the candlelight as his mouth settled into a reassuring smile. “I am here, Sire. As I always am.”
The king was grateful the knight stepped back to his post then, so he would not see the way those words stunned him like a blow to the head. I am too tired for this. I should give the toast so I can be done for the night.
Grasping his wine cup, he rose to his feet, bracing himself for the inevitable protest of his ankle. By the time he raised his head and his cup up to the chamber, the clammer of the guests had quieted, and his face wore his ready mask of benevolence.
“Beloved guests!” He still could find his loud enough to yell across a battlefield voice when he needed to. “I thank you for your presence here on this night of celebration, honoring my son’s engagement. The growth of our family is always a blessed thing.”
He placed a hand by instinct on the back of Annamaria’s chair.
“This kingdom is dust without its people, without all of you. You are its hope and its future.”
His son and his betrothed beamed up at him from the dancing floor. So young, the both of them.
“To our future!” He toasted, and drank amid the echo of his words. He slammed his cup down with an air of joviality, and soon laughter and conversation and music filled the hall again.
When he didn’t return to his seat, Sir Edrick stepped forward. “I will retire, I think,” King Rosemund said quietly, heading for the side door. Sir Edrick, as always, followed close behind.
In the quiet of the passageway, the king let himself relax, shoulders slumping some under the voluminous plum and raspberry dyed robes. Some of the cape’s train whispered behind him along the stone floor, but Sir Edrick stepped around it with a well-practiced nimbleness.
“Did you see the drunkenness of Duke Grayhaven?” King Rosemund said as they passed by a window showing the last red bursts of sunset over the mountains. “I suppose I should no longer be shocked by it.”
Sir Edrick huffed and shook his head. “Someone ought to give him a rusty sword, with the way he drinks like an off-duty soldier.”
King Rosemund barked a laugh. Sir Edrick was so often the silent one in the room, so it was easy to forget he could be whip-quick with his wit. The knight grinned, pleased his jape had landed. Gods, what a lovely sight that is. He wanted to fall into that grin. Wanted to drink it down like a warm spiced wine. Wanted to press his own lips against it in a wild embrace—
This dangerous thought struck him just as he reached the base of the tower stairs, and he stopped in his tracks, mind reeling.
After a moment, Sir Edrick spoke. “Your ankle, Sire?”
“Am I that bad at hiding it these days?” King Rosemund grumbled, but with a smile. He did not want Sir Edrick to think him displeased with the man’s astute eye.
“No, Sire.” Sir Edrick returned his smile. King Rosemund noticed the way the scar across his upper lip went from rose to pale pink in the movement. “I think I am just...well-practiced at spotting it.”
“Well, all the horses are stabled for the night, so I will just have to bear it.”
Together they climbed. If Sir Edrick had any impatience at the king’s slower pace, he did not show it. King Rosemund knew full well the man could sprint up these stairs in heavy plate without breaking a sweat. Probably even with another man on his back if need be. What a schoolboy sight that would be, the king riding piggyback upon his Sworn Protector.
He tried to keep the image as only a silly joke, but the thought of Sir Edrick’s torso pressed between his thighs was intoxicating. His chest against his back, Sir Edrick’s leather-gloved hands beneath his hamstrings....
When they reached his chambers, he shook himself from these boyish fantasies long enough to nod to the two castle guard posted there. Sir Edrick saluted them, and they returned the gesture before departing down the stairs to take up the post at the base of the tower.
Inside, the crackling hearth was a welcome sight. King Rosemund picked up his nearby blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, not caring that the pattern clashed with his feast attire. He sat into his armchair by the fire with a long sigh and let his eyes shut for a moment, savoring the quiet. The only sounds were the snapping of the burning logs and the soft steps of Sir Edrick, as he moved to take his usual place standing beside—
But no—the steps suddenly were muffled as they stepped onto the fireplace rug. King Rosemund snapped his eyes open to see Sir Edrick sitting before him on the low stool meant for tending the fire. His gloved hands reached out towards the king’s right foot, stopping a hair’s breadth before contact.
“May I, Your Grace?” Sir Edrick asked. “I still remember a thing or two from Healer Barnum.”
Their army company’s healer in their war days. He’d tried to apprentice Sir Edrick—Lieutenant Edrick he was then, or really just “Edrick” to all of us, and me just “Rosemund”—but the young man had been too skilled a fighter to lose. And I would have lost him, too.... I talked him out of it. I pray he doesn't resent me for that....
Nervous that his reply might come out thick with memory, King Rosemund only nodded.
Sir Edrick made quick but gentle work of the king’s boot, undoing most of the laces, to make sure he could easily slide off the shoe without putting stress on the ankle. Carefully he removed his sock and rolled up the woolen leggings the king wore beneath his robe, exposing his bare calf. As the wool reached his knee, the king swore he saw Sir Edrick’s steady hands tremble. The air in the room, already thick with the coming storm, seemed to grow even heavier.
Then Sir Edrick made his last fold, and his hands pulled away. King Rosemund still felt the warm ghostly touch of the knight’s gloved fingertips on his knee, even as the man reached over to a side table to grab a small pot salve the king often applied for the pain. With a soft clink that rang loudly through the quiet room, Sir Edrick set the salve on the hearth to warm. As the king himself typically did. He’s watched my every move all these years....
Gently, slowly, Sir Edrick lifted the king’s foot into his lap, over a small blanket, to keep the king’s skin from the bare metal of his armor.
With the same razor-sharp focus he’d once given to battle strategy, King Rosemund watched Sir Edrick remove his gloves and tuck them into his belt.
Despite the chill in the stone castle, King Rosemund felt molten heat building in his stomach. When Sir Edrick dampened his fingers with salve and began to massage his calf, he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from gasping aloud. This process, though immensely helpful, was always somewhat painful when he did it himself.
He’d never thought it could also be pleasurable, when ministrated by another.
The rough pads of Sir Edrick’s fingers glided across his skin, smoothed by the salve. Soft rasping noises, the texture of dampened callous on thick-haired skin, rose up between them. King Rosemund watched, half-dazed. At first he watched Sir Edrick’s hands as they worked over his calf, his shin, the back of his ankle, kneading angry muscle into obedient soreness.
Once he was mostly sure Sir Edrick was absorbed in his work, he watched the man. So many soldiers were dominated by their plate armor. Sir Edrick was enhanced by his. The scrollwork of vines on the pauldrons complimented his broad shoulders. The well made cuisses complimented his muscled thighs. A lock of his wheat-blond hair hung over his brow, and the firelight behind him outlined every strand in a red-golden blaze.
“You look as if you have a halo of fire,” King Rosemund heard himself say.
You sentimental fool. You’ve been reading too much poetry.
But Sir Edrick only smirked, thumbs stroking down either side of the king’s shin. “I hope that does not oblige me to be angelic, Sire.”
“Well, I would hardly call you devilish, Sir Edrick,” the king quipped back.
“I thank you, Sire.” Sir Edrick dipped his fingers back into the salve. When his hands returned to King Rosemund’s calf, the king barely held down a groan of pleasure at the warmth and pressure. “Of course,” the knight continued, “I am hardly free of sin. I’m sure General Mountmark would not agree with your assessment, based on our early days.”
Our early days. The months on the war campaign together, before King Rosemund became the heir. The months when he was...still a prince, yes, but mostly just another soldier, fighting next to so many good men.
Many had never come home.
But this one at his feet had. This one had never left his side, even as their days changed from bloody, sweaty battle to solemn meetings. Their nights changed from raucous campfires to quiet hearths like this, with King Rosemund stealing a few moments to himself for reading, occasionally sharing aloud what he found most interesting with his loyal shadow in the corner.
Did Sir Edrick long for the days of the past? When we were younger, we both seemed young. But now the years between us are more evident, with my hair going gray and my damn leg paining me, while he stands as strong as ever.... What did Sir Edrick see when he looked at him? Did he notice the wrinkles framing King Rosemund’s eyes and the bluish veins in his once-fierce hands? Surely he did, with those sharp eyes of his.
“I believe it is the duty of young men to be devilish from time to time,” King Rosemund replied. “Speaking of, you yourself are free to return to the feast if you wish. You could send up the castle guard. I’ll only be sitting here reading. You’ve surely earned some hours of levity.”
“Not necessary, Sire,” Sir Edrick said, with a polite bow of his head. “I am quite content.” With the knuckle of his thumb, he massaged King Rosemund’s heel. His opposite hand gently pressed his foot downward to deepen the pressure.
“I s-see,” King Rosemund replied, his words quivering from the touch of Sir Edrick’s strong hands.
“Too much, Sire?”
“No,” King Rosemund said, perhaps too defensively.
Sir Edrick dipped his head, but King Rosemund still caught a glimpse of his grin, alight with some of that old smugness he had so admired in the young fellow soldier.
But suddenly the knight paused his hands and looked up at King Rosemund, a serious look on his face. “Your Grace.... When you spoke of my returning to the feast—did you wish me to leave? If you wish to be alone....”
“Stay, Sir Edrick," King Rosemund said, masking the pounding anxiety of his heart with a commanding tone. Please don’t leave. Please keep touching me. “I was only giving you...the choice.”
A rumble of thunder rattled the shutters, followed by the soft patters of rain beginning to fall against the stone keep.
“I choose to stay,” Sir Edrick said, so softly that even if the guards had still been at the door, King Rosemund didn’t think they would have heard. The knight’s hands poised, unmoving, on the king’s shin. King Rosemund wanted his touch to stay, but he could tell more massage would push his muscle past a limit. He wanted....
He wanted....
He wanted Sir Edrick’s touch higher. He wanted his broad, strong hands to slide up his thighs, beneath his robe, to grasp his waist. He wanted to be touched everywhere by this man.
How did one ask for such a thing? Even if one was a king?
“I ought to let the muscle rest now,” Sir Edrick said, breaking his reverie. He gently rubbed the last of the salve from his fingers into the sides of King Rosemund’s knee, where the tendons often pained him, before donning his gloves again. He rolled the leggings back down the king’s considerably less painful leg and slipped on his boot. But he didn’t rise from the stool once his re-dressing of his king was complete. A moment seemed to hang between them, fragile and glistening like spider silk.
Into this heavy silence, the king spoke. “Thank you, Sir Edrick. It’s...much better.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I would be happy to, ah, repeat it another time. Old injuries can be pesky bedfellows.”
King Rosemund’s heart, slightly saddened by the end of Sir Edrick’s touch, soared at the offer of another time, in the same moment that his body shivered at the knight’s use of bedfellows. Lightning-flash images of tangled bare limbs filled his mind, of golden hair running through his fingers, of a deep voice sighing sounds of delight—
“Something is on your mind, Sire.”
King Rosemund jumped, for a heartbeat terrified that Sir Edrick had suddenly gained the power to read minds. He steadied himself. You have been acting oddly all evening. He’s only speaking the truth.
“And now I know I am right,” Sir Edrick said ruefully, noting the king’s reaction. “You need not tell me, Sire. But if a listening ear could be a comfort.... I hope I have demonstrated my willingness to provide such, at any time.”
A moment before he stood up from his chair, King Rosemund could see himself doing so, could see the risky leap he was about to take—and found himself unable, or unwilling, to stop himself.
As soon as he was on his feet, Sir Edrick was there as well, close enough for King Rosemund to see the golden hairs tickling the knight’s brow dance in his exhaled breath.
His voice as he spoke next was far from kingly. “I wish—I wish happiness for you, Sir Edrick.”
“Have I given the impression I am unhappy, Sire?” Sir Edrick’s voice had taken on a cold edge, not unlike the steel of his blade. “Because I can heartily assure you, I am a happy man. I would not lie to you, Your Grace. Many in my position would. They would fall to flattery, to softened words. But you have never been such a fool, to not be able to stand the truth. The truth is this: these years serving you have been the finest of my life. You—you are the best master this dressed-up soldier-slave could ever ask for.”
“You are more than that,” King Rosemund insisted, emboldened by Sir Edrick’s impassioned speech. “Much more. My friend.... You have always been my dearest friend, Sir Edrick. I would be lost these past years without—your loyalty.” Lost without you.
Sir Edrick stared hard into his eyes, having to look ever so slightly upward. Oh, how I used to tease him mercilessly for being the shorter of us.... “There are still words you aren’t speaking, Sire. I worry—” He swallowed hard. “Frankly, Your Grace, I worry you are about to dismiss me from your service.”
“What?” King Rosemund gaped. “Never—I could never .” His tongue wanted to freeze, wanted to stop the next words, but he pushed on. Sir Edrick’s accurate accusation mocked him: “There are still words you aren’t speaking....” “I could never lose you. I do not ever want to live a day without you. Without your presence beside me...I feel like half a man.”
Heart pounding in his chest, King Rosemund lifted his hand to cup Sir Edrick’s face, thumb skimming across the silky roughness of his beard. He felt the knight’s shuddering exhale against his own lips. When had he stepped closer?
“I would have you a whole man, Sire,” Sir Edrick breathed.
“Then stay,” King Rosemund replied, running his fingers down Sir Edrick’s handsome jaw. “Stay with me tonight.” He let his lips shape around this precious word that he knew but had never spoken: “Leon....”
Sir Edrick trembled, and King Rosemund felt the rumble of his protector’s body between his hands, heard the creak of his armor protesting such emotional displays.
“Sire,” Sir Edrick breathed, more exhale than spoken word. King Rosemund could smell a whiff of mead on his breath. So he had enjoyed himself a little, good. He found himself suddenly, desperately thirsty for the taste of honeyed wine. And hungry. Hungry for....
“Use my name,” King Rosemund said, pressing his thumb gently against Sir Edrick’s lower lip, so he could feel as well as hear his wish if it came true. He tried not to sound commanding. He tried to sound like a man might to his lover, not as a king to his sworn subject.
Sir Edrick’s eyes widened. His pupils were wide and dark. King Rosemund could see the gems of his crown twinkling in their depths like stars. Should I have removed it...?
“Sire, surely I—surely I should not....” Sir Edrick murmured. “Propriety....”
As if such a thing hadn’t already been tossed out the tower window, to shatter on the rocks below, amid the last of the summer rain.
“It need only be once,” the king said gently, heartbeat in his throat. “I would like...I would like to hear it.”
Sir Edrick swallowed. Gods, they were so close that King Rosemund could hear the sound of it. Thinking about the other man’s throat—its muscle, its movement, its warmth—made him perplexingly dizzy.
He made to pull away—perhaps this was all too much too quickly—but Sir Edrick’s touch stopped him, as the knight’s hand reached up between them to grasp King Rosemund’s wrist. The leather is even softer than I thought.
“Antony.”
The sound of his given name in Sir Edrick’s deep and quiet voice made King Rosemund feel as if he’d just drunk a barrel of firewhiskey in one gulp. Heat flushed his face, danced down his chest, and swelled in his groin.
“My Leon,” King Rosemund murmured, too warm to care about his bold use of such a possessive word. “I would kiss you.”
Sir Edrick’s gloved hand gripped tighter, and King Rosemund nearly fell into the other man’s lips. With all the cockiness of a much younger man, the knight replied: “Then do.”
All the pomp and celebration of all the feasts he’d ever held, all the thrill of every battle, all of it paled in comparison to the fire that rushed through his body as he kissed Sir Edrick’s plush, warm mouth. Sensations flooded him, washing away worry and fear. What was worry against the feel of his knight’s hand gripping the back of his neck? What was fear against the sound of Sir Edrick’s whimper as he pressed his teeth ever so lightly into his bottom lip?
What was a king in the arms of his lover, but a man, and nothing more?
Antony plunged his hands into Leon’s golden hair, luxuriating through touch in all that he had previously only admired through sight. Leon’s breastplate was pressed hard against his chest. A moment ago he may have heard it tear some of the embroidery on his robe, but he couldn’t find a single care for the garment. Let him tear it all away. Let him strip me bare. Reluctantly he released his hands from Leon’s neck to fumble at the ties of his robe.
“Let me,” Leon said, half a growl, his hands pushing Antony’s away. “I want to see you.” Antony shivered at this novelty of being commanded, and let that shiver race downward, hardening his cock.
In a flurry of buttons and laces, Leon freed him from his robe, the sleeves slipping off his shoulders. “Gods,” Leon sighed. “You’re beautiful, Sire.” His gloved hands traced across every inch of skin he had just revealed, over every scar and freckle and silver hair. “I would give you every pleasure. Please let me serve you.”
But Antony knew, more than anything, what he wanted. “You have served enough. Allow me.”
Slowly—his knees were not those of a young man, even if his cock throbbed like that of one—he lowered himself to kneel before Leon. The waterfall of fabric spilled out behind him onto the floor as he gazed up at his knight, his friend, his lover, whose eyes were wide with want and shock and delight.
“At last I am the shorter of the two of us,” Antony teased, gripping Leon’s hips in his hands.
Leon laughed a breathless chuckle. “Oh, my Antony,” he whispered, cupping Antony’s cheek. “Here, the fauld unfastens here....”
“I am not so aged as to not know how to remove armor, young man,” Antony said, helping catch the metal Leon set free and place it to the side.
“You,” Leon said, tearing off his gloves to hold Antony’s face in his hands, “are scarcely older than me, Sire.” The bare touch of his skin was as electric as the flashes of lightning that creeped in past the shutters. He caressed a lock of Antony’s silver and coal colored hair in his fingers. “Besides, it looks good on you.”
The compliment filled Antony’s veins with delight. He would thank his knight properly for such devotion. He would show this man how much he adored him, how much he wanted him over any other by his side.
Eyes fixed upward into Leon’s enraptured gaze, Antony undid the laces of Leon’s trousers. He could scarcely tell which panting breath was his and which belonged to his knight. How odd, he thought distantly. I can’t recall the last time I’ve heard him out of breath.
As gently as Leon had handled his ankle before, Antony slipped Leon’s cock out of his smallclothes, marveling at the weight of it in his hand. Like the rest of the man, his cock was warm and well-shaped. Antony felt his mouth watering at the mere sight.
“I hope I can please you, Sir,” Antony murmured, nose nuzzling into the base of Leon’s cock, letting the musky scent of him mix with the lavender oil of his armor. He wanted to drown in that scent.
“You will. You are. You can’t not. Ah. Oh.”
Never could Antony recall Sir Leon Edrick ever sounding flustered, and the sound of it set his very bones ablaze with desire. Rabidly he began to lick over Leon’s cock: long, savoring licks up his shaft, and quick, teasing ones to the head, chasing anything and everything that made his knight twitch and whimper. His crown began to slip off his head, and without a second thought he tore it off and tossed it aside with a clang. The ghosts of his forefathers could not reach him here.
All the while, Leon’s hands tangled in his hair, holding him close. Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay, his hands said, and Antony obeyed. He forgot, for a time, all unimportant things: his aching joints, the stack of decrees needing his signature tomorrow, his crown, his title, his name. He was only a man, relishing in the taste of his lover’s cock filling his mouth.
Leon’s hips began to stutter forward, pressing his cock even deeper towards Antony’s throat. He let it happen, giving himself over to the choking pressure that made his eyes prickle with tears. For a single panting breath, he pulled his mouth free of Leon’s cock, his hand still stroking, wet with his eager spit. “Come apart for me, my Leon,” he rasped, voice hoarse, before diving into lavender musk again.
A harder stutter of hips. A groan from Leon. And then—
“Your Grace!” Leon cried out, as the thunder crackled across the unseen darkened sky. Hot spend spilled across Antony’s tongue, his lips, his chin, anointing him. “Antony! Oh—Antony....”
King Rosemund knew, with perfect clarity, that for the rest of his life, whenever he heard the title Your Grace, he would remember this moment. He saw this future with near-premonition: like shining a bullet lantern down a dark road, the light casting not one shadow, but two, walking side by side.