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One of the Long-Lost Precious Arts - S.R.

Part 1 - The Lonely Soul And The Last Ashes

Type: medieval-ish fairy-tale-fantasy-ish three-shot, angst with fluff and a bit of hurt and comfort

Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 8800

Summary: Stolen by a couple of mercenaries to become a gift to a king of a neighbouring kingdom, you’re helpless to but watch even the pitiful remnants of your life burn down – and with it, your hopes. For freedom. For a good life. For love.

There are all kinds of tales told about King Steve Rogers I.; and only time will tell which of them are true and which are mere rumours. You can only hope – but hope is a fickle, whimsical thing.

And so is fate.

Series masterlist

Warnings: 18+ just in case, brief mention of an attempted sexual assault (interrupted or fought off), alcoholism in a parent, shitty parenting (father), mixing of two faiths and several mentions of religion/praying, very brief mention of suicidal thoughts, minor injuries (bruises, scrapings), kidnapping and arson, losing one's home, misogyny (hello), but also Steve being the King we all deserve in all senses of the word and first hints of fluff

A/N: divider by @thecutestgrotto, header is mine; technically, this was supposed to be a submission to @stargazingfangirl18 's Hoelidays event, but as usual (prompts under the fic), it got out of hand an it took me forever. Ah well. Happy reading!💕

Your feet were cold.

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

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

Two long years since you mother had passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could it not?

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

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

His death, gods help you, brought fresh struggles.

How could it not?

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

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

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

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

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

Like fresh hell.

They could try.

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

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

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

A new trial of survival.

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

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

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

Loving. Warm. A promise.

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

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

The world swung, tilting off its natural axis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or in your case, not thieves. Mercenaries.

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

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

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

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

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

And with it, your life and your freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they would have been killed.

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be naïve to believe all tales.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ashes.

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

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

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

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

Simpler that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And by now, you had no tears left anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To nowhere.

For you no longer had a home to return to.

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

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

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

The vanity. The foolishness. The madness.

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

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

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

“Yes. Indeed, Your Majesty.”

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

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

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

Or at least that King Rogers would not care.

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

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

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

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

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

Some options those were!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“S-sir--- Your Highness-“

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

“Your Majesty, you stup-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were safe.

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

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

You were safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do they speak the truth, my lady?”

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

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

Mostly in the matter of your own heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For all the tales you had heard about the king of Starkerbürg, for all you had witnessed in the past minutes, for all you would swear on your life you could see light around him, an aura of a protector, you also heard many, many a story of the cruelty of men hidden behind a handsome face and polite manners. Just because Henry was not good enough of an actor to play the king as much as he’d please, it did not mean the king was not much more apt at the game of deceit.

And just because fate seemed to deal you a much better hand in this round of gamble, there was no guarantee you could walk out of this game unscathed, let alone somehow win.

You bend at your knees as low as you could, staying there for several moments despite your knees aching and turning shaky. You replied just as you could hear the king draw in a breath.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most kind.”

Rising to your full height, you did not dare to look up still.

Not even when slight bewilderment coloured the king’s voice, a request and an order at once, however respectful.

“Natasha, please. If you could see to it that our guest is well-taken care of in one of the guest chambers, offered a bath, a little to eat and anything else she might need or request.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” a red-head woman who had been standing near his throne, not quite looking like a maid or someone who should be showing anyone to their room, let alone a low-born intruder like you, stepped out, gracing you with a light smile. “If you could follow me, my lady.”

You reciprocated her smile shakily, the brilliant green of her eyes glimmering with what almost seemed to be mirth.

“Of course… thank you.” You took a deep breath to gather courage, glancing up at the king for the briefest of moments, your heart pounding in your chest and nearly exploding when you were once again met with the absurd beauty of his face. “Thank you kindly for all your generosity, Your Majesty.”

You did not linger long enough to see his smile. You did not let the voice of your father warning you it was the Devil’s beauty that would lead you astray into the deepest pits of hell fill your head, no matter how hard the ghost of him tried.

You willed your mind to be as empty as humanly possible when you followed the woman out of the hall, the heavy door closing behind you with finality.

Not before His Majesty’s voice, strengthened by authority and ceremonial tone, reached your ears and filled your stomach with cold dread.

“Now… it is the time to reward you gentlemen for bringing me such an exquisite surprise of a gift. Please… tell me more of the trouble you went through to deliver me a gift and about what you’d wish for…”

Part 2

S.R. masterlist

Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did an have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕

This three-parter fullfils the following prompts/tropes: Abducted as a gift for someone (and consequentially, Receiving an unexpected gift) and Medieval AU from the original event. It's also three months late. It is also decidedly NOT below 5000 word limit 🤭

I hope March has been kind to you and is not looking to stab you in the back (or anywhere else). Sending love 💕

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