𝐌𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞.
𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬: nothing was ever meant to be yours, so why does this strange man insist he is?
masterlist | ao3 | mdni | take heed: könig x f!reader, afab reader, medieval au, ambiguous religion, size difference, extremely dubious consent, possessive behaviour, forced marriage, horrible courting, power imbalance, angst, stockholm syndrome, dark romance, stalking.
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢. | prev
The world does not simply stop for a soul—not even for a kind, innocuous one like yours. It is relentless and cruel in its own regard. The planets continue their orbit around Apollo while his golden chariot heaves sunlight across the cursed lands. Heralding a new dawn to break while your heart continues to do the same.
His celestial twin does nothing to soothe the ache in psyche. Though she has generously offered silence, pale white guiding light—you continue to flail around in the dark, unsure what to make of yourself when your home strips you of your duty and identity.
Two moons have passed since the unfortunate incident. Two moons for you to hypnotise yourself that nothing had transpired—that what had happened is not worth ruminating over. You are fine. You are whole. You are unscathed. There are no battle scars on your body; no traces you could testify for a full conviction against an audience.
It is almost an out of body experience—
Almost.
Because the unintelligible mantra you whisper to yourself when you desperately search for peace in the peak of witching hour—your mind solely remembers him. His macabre grip; his pervertedness—you replay endless scenarios of what you had done wrong. What actions you could have done to prevent his unwarranted attention.
This profound grief has manifested itself into anger.
You feel so terribly alone—so unbelievably afraid you target all your emotions to your elder sister who now lives on the far salty coast where it is always far too cold and windy to enjoy oneself.
Your hand is currently marred by obsidian ink. Parchment of baneful verses is sprawled incoherently across the table:
Sister, you promise you will visit at at every solstice–but you never do
Your letters are sparse and inconsiderate–you do not care at all how I’m faring at our estate that you selfishly left for me to maintain alone
You’re awful and rotten–I assume your husband is the reason as to why I barely recognise you anymore. He is just like you.
You scoff a sob as you bite down your lips.
This wouldn’t have happened if she stayed. If she had spurned the weasel-faced romantic away—maybe then, you two would still have each other. She could have held you as you weep and wail into her arms, or better she could have taken post at the castle with you. Then you would have never noticed him, for you two would be far too busy with one another to bother with your surroundings.
But for now, your wooden armchair will have to do.
The letters lay haphazardly by the floor—a testament to the past few nights where your mind unmoored itself to sorrow and unbridled anger.
The morning sobers your spirits again; there is a sense of calm glazed over your stormy eyes—but you fear a single inconvenience will shatter you again to a mindless stupor of sadness.
Like a creature of habit, you traverse your morning back to the castle—only this time you come as a shell of who you once were. There is a numbness to you. After hours of howling your hurt to the wooden creaks of your floor—you are convinced you will never feel as much as you did these past two nights. And so you declare yourself detached.
The pile of laundry does not phase you.
The blame shifted upon you after a senior cook had forgotten to serve a platter with the polished silver, does not move you.
And when you’ll see him again—you will be ready. You will shriek. You will fight. You will forget your place and you will die by his hand once he sees you are not for anyone to take.
The initial fears of you running into him has simmered down to a tolerable fire. You feel your sharp nails mark a crescent shape into your palms from anticipation. You imagine scoring them against his flesh if he even dares to cast his shadow upon your being.
However—oddly so—it seems as if you are not the only one actively evading a perilous denouement.
It has been a quiet three days—in which you are grateful for whatever reprieve the universe has given you—but it has been far too peaceful to your liking.
You have bravely ventured to the fields to help with the laundry, you have assisted in the oil polishing of the barbaric weapons freshly smithed to smite—and so, you are beginning to wonder if this was all orchestrated by the works of man, and not by divine providence.
Time is like wood that feeds your fire. You are restless for you find yourself beginning to wish an early confrontation of your arrest; some type of evil vengeance—or at the very least some vile curses upon you.
However, your twisted prayers have shortly been answered for the moment of reckoning has come. Upon the peak hour of the sun, you suspect to meet your judgement by the west wing tower.
You recognise König’s heavy steps like a tune. Cognizant of the great shadow he encompasses and the terrible, monstrous build he possesses. So when he passes you by without a vestige of acknowledgement of your presence, your steps falter slightly.
Turning your head promptly behind your back to watch his retreating form blazing a trail down to the main grounds; you breathe out an air you didn’t know you’ve been holding in disbelief.
It is the most peculiar plight.
Where there should be elatedness at the sudden dismissal—you are troubled by his sudden coldness.
Perhaps it is closure that you seek? An explanation as to why he chose you to terrorise—or if he now found another to seek comfort in, one that does not recoil at his attention—
Before you carry yourself away from the dilemma in your head, you are reminded that you simply do not care for him. You should be desperately grateful his temper has carried on like the winds. Though you are indignant with whatever reasonings that you feel like you are owed—you are, simultaneously, not desperate to beg for one.
They say that men are akin to dogs, you have always seen the connotation to the allegory—though at this very moment, you have never felt such words ring so true.
The days bleed so easily; as if time itself wasn’t of value to you. You care not for each sunset that signalled the relief of your duty. The sparse moments for you to spend free at your will. Instead, you find yourself rehearsing the same rhythm of the life you used to live before. It is perfectly ordinary and you are perfectly content.
There is light at the end of the tunnel after all. At the end of each full moon’s cycle it has become a ritual for you and the friends you made in the castle to indulge in each other’s companionship by sipping mead at the local tavern. You suppose this trip will be costly, for you have too many reasons to justify your own hedonistic pursuits.
Though as you sit in the corner booth with your pewter full and your coin purse no lighter than when you came; you find yourself rescinding your intentions. The hurl of drunken insults and jabs at your way is harder to swallow than your distilled ale.
“Come on, lass. You’d hike up your skirt for the Creature in there but not for me?”
Your friends shrink at the attention despite it being you they’ve strung up for late night entertainment.
“To consort with a monster like that,” another faceless bully hawks a vile spit into his empty cup as if to cast the stench of the word from his mouth. “–no doubt she’s into animals too.”
“You think she’ll give me a chance?!”
A roar of laughter erupts as the notorious old drunk joins in on the social provocation to the latest outcast of the realm.
“Maybe if you wash your cock for once she’ll let you.”
“Got something to say, girl? Or has he taken your voice too–” A hand comes from your side and you pre-emptly strike it with the back of yours in a fit of innate courage.
You stand from your table. Laying your sights to the destitute audience you have unknowingly gathered by your mere presence at the halls.
“Shame on you all. You congregate to vilify and denigrate innocents like some kind of rightful judge. To satisfy your own ego, you bully others with sick justification which in truth is just fallacy,” your breath shakes and your hands tremble; but your eyes fiercely searches those upon you.
“Have you all not had your fill yet? Or are you not satisfied cursing my being up and down based on a tale-bearer’s words?”
The men grumbles and averts your piercing gaze. Some continue to nurse their ale while others suspiciously considers your words in quiet scepticism.
“He is an anomaly—a freak! I’ve never even heard him utter even two single words together.” Tarnee, a grim man who stations one of the castle’s entrances, approaches as he narrows his eyes unto you. “And yet he is often around you.. on the grounds–always watching from his post.”
“If you are disputing that you’re not intimate with the King’s dog, then answer why you seem to be so familiar with him?”
Suddenly, all eyes are on you at the very moment; curious as to what you will refute at Tarnee’s persecution. You release a sharp exhale before scanning the halls as if in utter disbelief of what you just heard. The barbed coil within your throat tightens, the muscle in your legs seems to atrophy at every second you are given the utmost attention—and yet—you persevere.
“Does the idea of friendship truly elude you, ser?” You question with political condescension. “I forget how unfamiliar kindness must be to you—to all of you.”
“He is an unfeeling, killing mach–”
“I tire of your dramatics,” you exasperate. “He is human. It is no doubt you all are quick to condemn when you have never even spoken a word to this man.”
Your words now not only address Tarnee, but to all who previously reveled in the mockery of your character.
“No—I believe it is easier for you all to make him feel less-than. Just because he is of foreign land you all eagerly cast your stones without proper jurisdiction. No one here will give him grace, and so it shall be me alone that will–and if that makes me the villain in your books then so be it, but do not think I will go quietly while you slander my honour–”
“Grace? You believe I should give that monster grace?” a hooded figure prompts from the side.
He is bigger—but because of the dim lights he tucks himself away in, he is one easy to miss. The man pulls back his hood to reveal a severe depression in his skull that runs down to his cheekbones. He hovers his hand above his face as you maintain your composure so as to not gasp at the ghastly sight.
“He did this to me.”
It is only once he spoke that you notice he is completely paralysed from one side of his countenance, making his speech slightly slurred.
“Tell me,” he says. “Did he show me grace when I beseeched him to yield? When I had cried surrender? When my skull was shattering beneath his fist?!” He bellows with a resurgence of vehement anger overcoming him.
You can see in his eyes there was hatred; pure, unbridled hate, anger and sadness. The sadness you see so often with the militia who came from war, from the crown’s campaign.
“I do not mean to invalidate your experience, Ser—truly, I..” your words come forth whisper-like; you are unable to take your sights off of him. “Please believe me it is not my intention.”
He snorts in mild derision before taking a seat back at his perch and pulling his hood back over his head.
“You should do well not to preach upon those who have justified means of perception against that rare oddity.” A patronising sneer came from the crowd.
You could no longer snake the words to your own defense—nor do you find the want to. His injuries, it is the reminder of his brutal strength; the physical manifestation of the affliction he has scarred you with as well.
“Have you no empathy for the countless victims he sets his teeth on? Why is it that you insist he should be the first to have? Or for all that is foul, you enjoy such savage bloodlust?–”
“I merely showed him kindness.”
“And you show it to him by riding him like the devil’s horse!” A roar of taunting mirth fills the tavern once again, shifting the atmosphere to what it was once before; an assembly of vindicated, drunken cruelty.
You take what little you have with you and proceed to the exit with celerity. The remnants of your pride you keep desperately. Preventing your head to cast down in guilt—lest they know their words have gotten underneath your skin.
As you retreat from the establishment, leaving behind the theatre of your social demise. Your closest companions closely follow from behind, their steps matching your hasteful gait.
“What are you doing?” Katherine—or to you—Kitty, asks in perturbed.
You have no answer for her, because truly—you do not know yourself. What had possessed you to defiantly fight for not only your character, but his as well? The same man who you call a villain—the one who has caused you so much grief and anguish over the past few weeks.
The very thing you feared gravely has now been realised. In association with him you have made yourself a spectacle—though you had exacerbated the flames by defending his cause, selfishly and feigned; a hollow attempt to salvage your own fragile honour.
You cosplay a valiant samaritan, when you yourself detest the very man they all campaign their hate against—what did you gain from your little charade? They either see you now as a foolish, naïve girl or a corrupt woman with violent interests.
You must admit you have gone too far.
Like a simple girl you are, you harped on your self-righteous tirade only for the rug to be pulled right beneath your feet. There is no saving you now. You have publicly walked yourself to social guillotine and with that, you will burden the infamy they will decide how long you will endure.
“Please stop!” You hear your name being pleaded from behind. “You have denied us your truth for too long, you sequester yourself at work and hardly ever stop by anymore—and just—for goodness sake just tell us what is going on if we are still your friends.”
Margaret—Maise—steps forward, “we can’t help you if we do not know what ails you so. Why have they connotated you to the sentinel? Why are they saying such vile things?”
Your breaths come in short plumes as you greedily suck in the cold, night air. You look at your two friends with blurred vision, brows tightened in confusion layered with frustration.
“You do not have to articulate it all right now.” Kitty composes your trembling form with steady hands upon your shoulders.
“It is not true, Kitty..” you shake your head in defeat, feeling tears spill down your cheeks.
“My darling..” soothing hands envelop you, and you feel it enclosing your wavering spirit—holding it tight and firm.
For the first time, the emotions you have tried so desperately to bury and ignore come pouring out all at once. You suffer the pain once again—subjecting yourself to the trauma, to the hysterical fear—however, this time, you feel yourself being healed in the process.
At every solar turning, the autumn equinox is one of the seasonal changes that you have always looked forward to. It is the memories you have tied during such a time—memories tied to your home and your family; the liminal space before the cold. It evokes such tranquility when the earth almost falls to silence.
This season marks a bountiful harvest that is produced into an annual festive celebration for the masses; funded generously by the crown in recognition of the realm’s labour.
It is also an event full of prospects; merchants sees it as a major economic opportunity for a final trading push before winter, the kingdom regales its subjects to reinforce favour and loyalty, and young men are able to procure work by displaying their worth in the combative games as an aspiring royal sentinel.
However, to those of simple desires, it is the most auspicious event to inspire courtship.
You have been meaning to plan your whole year around this—that is until your reputation has been tarnished and reduced to the most vile name that they can call a woman.
“Perhaps, I shouldn’t go,” You say in passing.
Kitty and Maise pause amid busying themselves with their vanity and looks to you. Maise tilts her head and shares you a knowing smile before taking your finest slippers and forcing it into your hands. .
“You will not let those lost, drunkards dictate your life.” She firmly grasps at your wrists. “You have been recounting how excited you are for this festival—do not let them take away that joy from you.”
“Yes—but the point is…” You hesitate before continuing your sentence. Ashamed of how desperate you may be perceived.
“Are you worried about what the other working girls would say?”
“Not exactly..” your breath is caught, then released with a soft sigh; brows furrowing in frustration of how to frame your narrative without seeming ridiculously superficial. When the words don’t come easily, you admit to the ever patient Kitty and Maise to hear you out on your troubled thoughts.
“I was hoping—this event—would bring forth..” your eyes drift before you finish your statement in a shameful whisper, “prospects.”
“—It is just—I have been praying earnestly for it and I would think that this would be the best chance for me to meet someone—like my sister did! and this–this whole utter ruin had to happen and I’m afraid—” your soliloquy is interrupted by a Kitty who apprehends you with a coo of your name followed by a lighthearted laugh.
“You hopeless romantic.” She scolds playfully. “Men who are aware of such rumours and believe in them are fools who have nothing better to occupy their days with—they are not fit to be your suitors. You will find another kind, gentle spirit like yourself..—now please, finish your hair or we’re all going to be late.” Kitty pulls you to your feet and hands you the bristle, hairbrush.
You let out a breath of a laugh, “I’m beginning to wonder if they even exist.”
“And how fares Ser Eaton?”
“I can only hope the plebeians’ gossip never reaches his ears.”
On that late afternoon you feel as if you’re walking on air. The wind blows softly as you and your companions share laughters while walking through the fields with interlinked arms. It is a wonder why you felt the need to seclude yourself in shame when really, you have such a trusted support system with you.
The town centre is transformed into brilliant hues of red and gold; the crowd—yeoman farmers, self-made gentry, novice squires—so overwhelmingly present, it relieves you for it makes your own presence seem so insignificant.
“Seems like every soul in the realm and beyond is gathered here tonight—I do not even recognise any of these faces.” Kitty exclaims above the tuneful music and chatter.
“I might still be redeemable after all,” you humour in self-depreciation.
“I promise you if by the end of the evening you do not catch at least one man’s attention I will personally throw myself into the stream—clothes and all.” Maise says half-heartedly in passing while perusing the sights before her.
You shake your head and giggle at her profound promise. In the midst of your curious glances around the crowd, it is by some unfortunate circumstance that you happen to catch the one who you least expect to see partaking in such recreation. You gasp and turn the other way with an immediate effort before his unmistakable cerulean eyes drift to yours—hoping he is not aware that he still produces much effect on you.
“Does that also include unwarranted attention?”
The event is in full swing. Every corner you visit is filled with entertainment; fire-breathing performers, troubadours, merchants fervently selling trinkets you do not need, music, pageantry—it is almost like the city has come alive for the day. The three of you wander through the throngs with palpable excitement, tightly interlocking hands together as to not lose one another in the sea of bodies.
There is much to do and see. At some point in time, you watch from the sidelines in pensive concentration as a street performer attempts to swallow a third blade into his throat, making you wince and hold your own neck slightly when he accomplishes so before hesitantly applauding along with the audience.
“Can you believe they are selling tokens of favours for twenty coppers?” Kitty bristles as she rejoins you emptyhanded. “The nerve of these tradesmen.”
A familiar group of women you recognise huddle just in your line of sight with wreaths of wildflowers and ribbons in their hands.
“I’ll give you five, Kitty.” You propose, digging into your pouch of humble savings.
“Please there is no need,” she closes the clasp for you. “I’ve just made irreparable damage with the owner of the stall—I doubt he will even take my money now.” Kitty sends glares to her back and just before you can enquire of the heated exchange, the women in group of four suddenly appears before you.
“Excuse us, we have an excess of tokens on our hands; if you would be kind enough to take one from our hands, it would be much appreciated.” A girl of your age, her name eludes you—but she is often seen to delight in recounting others’ wrongdoings, kindly gestures to an ostentatious wreath. The blooms are much more precious and the ribbons, rich in colour.
“If you would not mind Katherine, I hope to give this to your friend—since she is so.. noble.” she sighs the last word out that you suspect is an unctuous platitude. The said wreath is more or less, handed to you in insistence.
“That is very considerate of you but I really do not need–”
“Oh but you would be doing me a favour, it is presumptuous to have so many favours on our persons.” There is an unwavering charisma from her that makes it hard for you to challenge, and so you relinquish easily.
“Thank you..”
“The pleasure is all mine.” There is a sense of self-satisfaction within her smile that you cannot decipher. As they turn to leave, a repressed, hushed laughter follows.
“I do not understand,” Maise lifts your gifted token of favour for further inspection. “Have they tampered with it?”
“Doesn’t seem so.”
“You can have it,” you insist but Kitty shakes her head defiantly.
“She specifically says it is not for me so—I shall not take it,” she grumbles, much to her chagrin.
The blare of the royal horn strikes the air, startling you all to sudden attention. Its’ calls heralds the starting of the annual autumn games in which the best of men from the King’s fleet fights for gold, glory, and the reverendable honour of being crowned the Victor of the Realm until the next sun’s circuit.
You look to your wreath and carefully tuck it between your hands.
Every maiden has the chance to bestow blessings of favours to the knights of their own choosing; it is a lovely gesture and most poetic. This would be the first time you would hand your favour to one of the men—and though the laurel of blessings they receive each year are bountiful enough to not make the gesture seem more than what it is supposed to be—it still feels personal to you.
Following the masses that leads to an open field, Maise and Kitty pushes you excitedly towards the frontline. You stand with the maidens who have purchased or made elaborate tokens of favours to briefly bless their chosen knight, in the hopes to be crowned as the next valiant champion.
You think of Ser Eaton, wondering if he is part of the assembly before you. Scanning the men in heavy, gleaming armour, you see Ser König to the far left. Your breath hitches just slightly. Locking your vision to the front; you pretend not to take notice of his imposing presence among the line of men.
That said, as the ladies proclaim their favours one by one, it is unmistakable that Ser König’s blade remains painfully empty.
There is a slight pity for him—even if he, himself, is not deserving of it—yet in spite of this, you try to remain true, for the last man who deserves your blessing is the one who has cursed you to social damnation.
That is when you see the women who have given you their most costly wreath watch in smug anticipation, ostensibly to see who you will grace your blessings to.
Ah..
The pieces now fall into place.
You have unknowingly walked right into their mischief; there is no doubt to you now what their intention is by handing you one. The sermon you gave not too long ago would require a testament—in short, they want to see if you’re full of shit—in which you can only admit in a house full of none, that you undoubtedly are.
Your heart begins to race as you look to your companions in apprehension, and yet they are puzzled by the conundrum that runs through your head.
If you were to give him your token of favour, you would reinforce the reputation that they have beheld for you to the whole realm. If you bestow it to another, they would cry hypocrisy; labelling you false and a charlatan. There is no winning in this game they have cruelly intended.
To act is to be condemned; to abstain, no less so.
Ser Eaton’s blade is filled with intricate laurels. More come forward to give their good fortune. He gallantly offers his arm and a smile to a young lady who is unsure as to where to place her wreath. She walks away, fluttered by the brief exchange.
There is at least one token of favour that adorns the knights’ blade. Everyone has received a maiden’s grace and luck—all but one.
König still stands formidable, like a mountain; nothing moves him. Not the lack of favour nor the festivities. He is seemingly hollow and passive to the event. Yet you suffer his humiliation as if they were yours to bear.
‘How awful’, you think. Standing among the ranks of your men in front of such an ovation—just to be publicly acknowledged as an outcast, to know that no one favours him in this vast realm.
In that mere moment you had forgotten what he had done to you—his perverse afflictions—it escapes you when you are inclined to your innate nature to yield with compassion. Surely, one will step forward and save you from what you fear to be inevitable.
You await for one far more courteous than you are; one whose heart is actually pure and good.
Standing with apprehension, you barely notice the rosemary stems on the ground from your absentminded picking. Most of the girls are now without their gifts and none has ever come close to his direction.
You know that it is not binding. Your words. Their expectations.
However, there is a terrible weight in your chest. The cause of it—it eludes you. Whether it is genuine sympathy or the need to keep up your faux moral image; you know all too well what must be done knowing it will cost you greatly in return.
The steps you take are stuttered and light. It is as if you are unsure of your own resolve. Though when his challenging gaze follows when you step into his reach, it gives you the ultimate encouragement to follow through.
In the end, you stand before him—with not quite enough courage to meet his burning eyes. “May your blade strike true, Ser König.” The words that you whisper could be easily mistaken as a mere reverie for how hollow you mean it.
König searches you behind his onyx hood. There is a quiet doubt in his sharp observation. You only know when you steal a glimpse up from beneath your lashes. He is seemingly unmoved by your kind gesture, and you cannot fault him for that—yet he genuflects when your smaller frame fails to reach the sharpest point of his blade.
The token slides through the base easily as he stands back to his full height. König leaves the impression that he has nothing to say to you. You accept it with deference.
The walk back is heavy and measured. Your companions look over to you as if you had just committed the ultimate blasphemy. You only shake your head in response. There are no words right now that you can conjure to articulate the need for you to perform false virtue.
Looking over to the side, you see the same women stifle their giggles before disappearing into the crowd. The same eyes that held no regard for you moments before all fall to you in critical contemplation. You feel like a pinned moth, subject to the study of a cruel entomologist—and there is nothing you can do to escape their scrutiny.
You know you had fallen out of favour from the one who sought madly after you—so madly that he even appeared in your dreams. After your assault, you doubt he welcomes such affections. For all you know, he might even spit at your blessing when you turned your back to him. However, the fate of the wreath is not of concern to you.
It is unclear you have avoided persecution when you circumvented contradiction. You feel as though you are at an impasse. The only silver lining you see in the storm is how your reputation can sink no lower.
If the realm must whisper of your weakness—then let it be known for kindness.
