Chapter Text
He wakes and his head hurts. He’s in a bed, his body sitting deep within the mattress like he’s been there for a long while. His thoughts are shy things. They keep fading half-formed before he has to try again. Focusing on one thought only makes it run from him faster.
It takes him several tries to open his eyes. He’s in a room dimly lit with candles. His eyes don’t make out much in the relative dark, but he spots a thick curtain over a window and strange paintings along the walls.
There’s a sound in the room, deep and rhythmic. It makes him want to fall asleep again before he manages to gather his first fully formed thought. Enough of that now.
Following the sound leads to a man sleeping next to him. He’s in a chair by the bed. He’s not young, but he looks too young to have hair as white as he does. Old enough that the position he fell asleep in that chair is going to have him moving stiffly after he wakes up.
He moves to wake the man before he realizes they are already connected by their hands. His own hand, clasped in two of the man’s own. He hadn’t felt the weight of his hand being held until he saw it. He tests his movements and finds them slower, the trail between his mind and his hand delayed. He tries to curl his hand and pull it back only to find his fingers getting tangled in the other man’s and trapped.
He accepts the containment and watches their hands instead. They both have their share of scars. There’s a wicked one across the back of his hand and even though it must have hurt, there must have been a story, he cannot remember where it came from.
He has no idea who this man sitting at his bedside is either, despite his hand being held by him so gently.
A deep breath, his scents the air. His own scent he can recognize, at least, ripe within the room. Another sweeter scent mixes in an intimate way with his own. It’s coming from the man holding him in his sleep. They’ve mated, him and this man.
It’s the first and only thing he knows about himself. Not his name, not his age, but his mate.
His hand clenches tight. It squeezes his mate’s fingers tight and makes him jerk. Makes his eyes open.
Their eyes meet. His mate looks pale and frightened.
“Baelor,” he breathes. A name.
That’s me, he thinks. “Hello,” he says.
His voice is wrong. His tongue stays dry and sticks to the roof of his mouth. His lips, like his hand, don’t move the way he wants them to.
“Gods. We didn’t know if you would wake up,” the man says. His voice is choked. “Baelor, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“For?” The alarm is slow to sink in. The knowledge that he should know more about what’s going on than he does.
The man is stricken by the question. He pales further. “It was me. I struck you with my mace. Nearly killed you.”
Baelor chuckles. “You hit me with a mace? What did I do to deserve that?”
He tries to remember, tries to focus, and then grimaces when a stab of pain rocks his skull. Because his mate hit him with a mace, apparently.
“I was just trying to get to Aerion, that stupid boy,” the man says. They’re still holding hands and the man is using Baelor’s to work out his obvious stress, squeezing his palm and then letting go. It feels good. Makes Baelor aware of an ache there he hadn’t noticed before. “You have to know I would never…Never, Baelor. I mean, my own brother.”
Brother?
Baelor inhales. No, he wasn’t mistaken. This man definitely smells like his mate. Smells like they’ve mated before. “My head hurts,” he says.
They share a grimace. “I should fetch a maester,” the man says. He stands, groaning at the tension Baelor knew he would have, sleeping like he did. The urge to lecture him is strong. He gets the feeling that lectures might have been a thing between them, based on that instinct.
He hand spasms again and the man stills, caught just before he managed to pull away from Baelor completely. Baelor uses his moment of hesitation. He doesn’t want this maester to be the first to know.
“I don’t know your name,” he tells the man in front of him. He smiles an apology. “I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?”
“Maekar,” the man tells him after a long pause. He’s staring at Baelor in horror, and then in grief. It was his mate, after all. “Is…is it just me that you don’t know?”
“I know more about you than I know about myself,” Baelor admits. Words are taking more and more of his focus to form. “I’m very tired.”
It’s Maekar keeping their hands together this time as his hands go limp. “Don’t go back to sleep, Baelor.”
“Don’t think I can help it,” Baelor says. His eyes are closed.
“I have to get a master,” Maekar’s voice is louder than before, and more distant. “Don’t sleep, brother. Please try.”
“I’ll try,” Baelor says. He really does.
This time when he wakes there is a maester hovering over him. It’s strange, the things Baelor remembers and what he doesn’t. Why does he know what a maester is, but not his own name?
“You’re up,” the maester says. “Do you know who I am?”
“No,” Baelor says. “Should I?”
“I’d say so,” the maester says. “We’ve known each other many years, though I am closer to your brother these days. My name is Melaquin.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with me , Maester?”
He’s in the same room. His eyes scan for Maekar, but it’s just him and Melaquin here now.
“I think I’ll need to ask a few questions before I’m sure. But first, I’m aware I’m addressing you with disrespect. You might not be aware of it, but if you do in the future I want you to know I’m doing it now in hopes to avoid sending you into a state of shock. Do you understand?”
“I don’t feel disrespected, Maester,” Baelor says. The man’s eyes were wise and kind. He looked like he could be trusted.
“I suppose you wouldn’t,” Melaquin says. “But I’d still like you to address me as simply Melaquin while I call you Baelor. It’ll keep us on even ground.”
“Melaquin,” Baelor says. “Alright.”
They go through what Baelor knows, and what he doesn’t through a series of questions that leave his head aching, before Melaquin sits back. “Your semantic memory seems unharmed, but anything personal is lost to you.”
“Could be worse,” Baelor says. “Could be dead.”
Melaquin chuckles. “Glad you see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“And physically? My movements are slow.”
“I can show you some exercises, but your main job right now is to rest. There’s a chance that your personal memories will come back, but it’s going to take time and rest,” Melaquin says.
“Has it been done before?” He’s already restless, wanting to move out of this bed and frustrated by how easily he could fall back asleep if he closed his eyes for more than a couple seconds.
“There’s been stories. I remember learning of a fisherman during my studies in a similar situation, but I’ll be honest with you, it’s rare. The body can heal from a lot of things, but sometimes it’s not in the way we want it to.”
“This room is a Lord’s room. The food was not simple, neither was my brother’s outfit. I’m someone significant, aren’t I?”
“I’d say so,” Melaquin says, and smiles at him.
Baelor sighs. “Am I allowed to know of family beyond Maekar? Do I have a wife or children?”
“You have two sons with your late wife,” Melaquin tells him. “Understand I’m not trying to keep a secret from you. Overdoing yourself by working your mind too hard will only set you back.”
His late wife. Does that mean he and Maekar got together after her death? He doesn’t want to think of himself as being unfaithful.
“Your son actually wants a visit with you. I told him to give you a day or two to wake up, if that’s alright with you.”
Baelor nods, if only to give himself time to process the fact that he has a son. “Maekar can come back, if he wishes.”
“Oh I doubt we’re going to be able to keep him away for long,” Melaquin chuckles. “You should have seen the look he gave me when I told him I wanted to meet with you alone. Are you comfortable with him being here? He did tell you what happened.”
“He told me it was an accident. I believe him.”
Melaquin nods. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
He naps after Melaquin leaves and when he wakes up, Maekar is in the room with him again. He’s in the same chair, his chin in one hand and a small book in another. He looks immensely irritated by something.
His irritation suits the lines on his face. It must be an emotion he feels often.
“Do I irritate you?”
“All the time.” Maekar closes the book with a snap. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
They eat together. The food is again not simple, neither is the wine. Baelor watches Maekar in between bites. His brother even chews like he’s irritated with something.
“You’re staring,” Maekar says as he’s busy cutting himself another bite.
“Can’t I?” Baelor says. “Maybe I don’t want to forget your face again.”
Maekar grimaces. “It was my mace that caused this for you. Don’t forget that.”
“I already did.” Baelor grins at him. “I’ve yet to remember that happening, or why we were fighting at all.”
Maekar pauses. He’s staring at the bite speared on his fork. Baelor wishes he’d look up at him. “The Maester said to be careful with the information I give you.”
“Tell me things carefully, then.”
“We were involved in a seven on seven battle. You fought, needlessly I might add, on the opposite side as me. You were fighting with a hedge knight in the name of honor and protecting innocents and whatever the fuck else.”
Baelor nods. “Sounds right.”
Maekar looks at him finally, glaring at him. “I was defending my sons.”
“That sounds right too.”
The fight in Maekar wanes and his fork clinks as it hits his plate. “It does?”
“Sure,” Baelor says. “How many children do you have?”
“Six.”
Are they mine? “Are you married?”
“Yes,” Maekar says quietly. “For a time. She’s passed though.”
“Two widows, then?” Baelor says. “I assume we keep each other company, then?”
“You assume,” Maekar says dryly. Red is spotted on his cheeks. “We get along alright. Better than we do with our other brothers. Ah, fuck. You have more siblings than just me, by the way.”
“Good to know,” Baelor says. He’s still stuck on them getting along. Does Maekar think he doesn’t recognize their blended scents? That he doesn’t remember it?
“What do I look like?” Baelor asks.
Maekar looks surprised. “You, ah. I should find a mirror.”
“No,” Baelor says. “Just tell me. What do I look like?”
“Ugly,” Maekar grumps.
“No,” Baelor says. “You’re handsome, and I can’t be that far off.”
More red, brighter this time. Maekar still looks angry even when he’s embarrassed. It must have been something Baelor knew about him before, but he’s glad to learn it again.
“Tell me. You look at me and what’s the first thing you see?”
Maekar is looking at him more than his food now. “Your eyes are different colors. Brown and violet.”
He’s not expecting that. He wonders if his violet matches Maekar’s. “What else?”
“Your hair's darker than most people in our family,” Maekar says. “It’s getting some grey in it.”
“Mhm.”
“You have nice hands,” Maekar says, and then he’s looking at his plate again.
Baelor lifts his hand. The scars are the same, unmoved from when he first woke up. His nails are well groomed and he has lighter patches of skin across his fingers where he must normally wear rings.
“Your beard is a fucking mess,” Maekar says. He’s eating again in quick, choppy bites. “Now that you’re up you need a proper shave.”
“Ah,” Baelor says. “It’s a bit difficult. I might not be able to do it myself.”
His hands still aren’t moving the way he wants them to. He imagines if he picks up his knife he’d be a bigger risk of cutting himself than his hair.
“Come here then,” Maekar says.
As he moves their plates out of the way and brings shaving materials over, Baelor wonders at how easily Maekar settled on the decision to help him shave. And wonders at how easily Baelor fell for his bait.
He allows Maekar to come at him with a blade, allows him to move his head back and forth as he inspects each of his slices.
“Are you going to make me match you?” Baelor asks. Their faces are very close. Up close and personal, Maekar’s scent settles him.
“No,” Maekar says. “This look is mine. You wear yours in a very common way. You’ve never been one to try to set a trend.”
Baelor chuckles. “Is that so? You like to set trends.”
“I don’t like to,” Maekar says. “People tend to copy our styles whether we like it or not.”
He pulls back and inspects his work. His expression is no longer irritated. He keeps his finger under Baelor’s chin to keep his head tilted up. It feels almost like Maekar is going to lean down and kiss him. “That’s better. You look almost like yourself,” Maekar says. “Now you just need your memories back so you know to lecture me.”
“What would I lecture you over?”
“My attitude mostly,” Maekar says. “It’s strange to miss it. It pisses me off like nothing else.”
“I can find ways to lecture you if you want,” Baelor says quietly.
He feels Maekar’s breath across his cheeks. He presses into Maekar’s touch just to give the hint of moving closer. He thinks, kiss me.
And Maekar pulls back, the moment broken. Baelor sighs and lets it go.
“So if you decided to shave your entire head all male omegas around would follow?”
Maekar holds a hand up as if to ward off his words. “Do not talk to me about shaved heads.”
Baelors laughs. “What?”
“Wait,” Maekar stills.“How did you know I was an omega?”
He looks so scared. Was it a secret? Baelor shares a stricken look with him. “Your scent, of course.”
“I don’t have one right now. I’m wearing an oil that blocks it.”
“I can smell it.”
“Melaquin told you.”
“No,” Baelor says, and repeats. “I can smell you. Right now. Every time I breathe.”
His words scare Maekar from the room, Baelor stares after him wondering what must have spooked him so. Maekar must have forgotten to put the oil on when he visited Baelor.
Unless-
Baelor closes his eyes, there’s pain in his skull as only half of his memory begins to work. Scent suppressant oils are tried and true. There are few circumstances where they wouldn’t work when applied properly.
The first is when a heat or rut is triggered, the scent is too strong for the oil hide it. The second is when an omega falls pregnant. The oil still works on everyone else around, but it isn’t made to block the scent from its alpha father.
Either one is just as likely to have sent Maekar running from the room, and Baelor is in no state to get out of bed and hunt him down for answers.