Beloved Rose
Warnings: this fic contains violence, age gap, noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 14th’s fic! (It's late. Sorry)
Lloyd Hansen + “I just need you close to me.” (Medieval AU)
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Restlessness stirs your skirts. You pace around your chambers, from canopy to fireplace to window. You stop at the last and peer out onto the blooms trimmed in perfect geometric patterns. You sway back and forth as a swell of unease chases at your heels.
You spin and hurry to the door. You poke your head out and find your usual guard, as vigilant as ever. Sir Lloyd looks at you from the corner of his eye, his nose cut in a stoic profile over his tufted mustache. His light armour clinks with his movement as his hand tightens on his pommel.
“Princess,” he intones flatly.
“Ah, you’re here.” You reply.
“As ever.” He states as a fact.
“Mm,” you hum. Ever since your father put you at the guard’s charge, you’ve felt a twinge of guilt. He isn’t the sort to find glory in watching over a naive princess. “And I am as ever grateful for your protection.”
His cheek dimples and brow arches. His eyes drift back to the opposite wall. You cannot blame him his resent.
“You require your lady maid, princess?” He asks.
“No. Unless, do you think?” You step out fully and touch the net over your hair. “Would a duke prefer my hair loose, sir?”
Sir Lloyd keeps his eyes on the stone. “I’ve sworn all the attention I might pay to lady’s tresses to your father. I fear I’m not much versed in braids and curls.” He looks at you again, once more without turning his head. “The net becomes you, however.”
“Ah, sir, you are silly.” You clap your hands. “No, I didn’t need Mercia. I only… I hoped to sneak away to the gardens. I thought some roses might be nice to receive the Duke.”
His eyes narrow and his armour rises and falls with his chest. “Princess.”
“You wouldn’t have to come. I’ll be quick.”
“You know that I must, princess.” His thumb rubs the metal ornament at the top of his pommel.
You pout and nod. He is correct. You are to go nowhere without company, least of all, his. You pity him the task of acting as your shadow. You suppose your days seem as folly to a knight and royal guard.
“I suppose then you might call Mercia and I would send her.” You resign.
He sighs again and tilts his head. “We will go, princess.”
Your smile beams and you bounce on your toes. “I must bring a basket. I will be quick, sir.”
You turn and leave the door open. You snatch up the woven basket with the twisted handle and shuffle back to the corridor. As you emerge, Sir Lloyd reaches to pull shut the door. You swing the basket in triumph.
“At your delight, princess.” He gestures with his gloved hand.
You stand taller and set off down the corridor. He walks just a step back. You can hear his armour and the hard soles of his boots.
“What colour do you think, sir?”
“A flower is a flower,” he harrumphs.
“No, not just a flower.” You trill. “Red is for love and charity. A kind colour. White would be innocence, and I suppose, heavenly. The purple would be too royal, would it not? Too pretentious? Or pink for grace and romance…”
He’s silent as he skirts around you. He goes down the first step of the staircase and offers his hand. You brace his wrist as you descend and he assures your balance. He makes a slow descent.
“And what should they mean if your father denies the betrothal, princess?”
“They will be something pretty to cheer me.” You shrug. “Father said he didn’t mind the Duke.”
“Your father has never met a person he did not mind. He will find fault in a child at play.” He scoffs. “With respect, princess.”
“No, you wouldn’t be untrue. My father is…elusively temperamental.” You drone as you come to the flat stone. “Perhaps then the flowers would be for me. A measure to calm my nerves as I wait anon.”
“You…” he begins but stops himself, as if thinking better of his thought. He continues. “You are anxious for your suitor, princess?”
You look at him over your shoulder. Servants rush to open the doors as you approach. “I am. It is kind of you to ask though… there are many troubles bigger than mine own.”
“Whatever troubles the princess is my duty to ward off.” He assures. “That is as your father bid.”
“And to you, I apologise. I’m certain you’d rather be ahorse or at least, have reason to draw your sword, sir.”
“I shouldn’t long for it for it would mean you are in danger.” He says as he follows you out into the sunshine.
You make your way to the gardens and delve into the hedges of intertwined thorns and petals. You see a blushing pink bloom and hurry forward to touch it. You feel along the stem and squeak as you pull your hand back.
Sir Lloyd approaches and opens his gloved hand. “Princess.”
You show him your pricked finger. The blood beads at the tip. He pinches, firm but gentle, and tuts.
“Do not touch. A duke would be appalled to see such fine fingers tortured.” He bids. “Point and I will cut whatever you like.”
“Oh, sir, thank you.”
You pull your hand from his and fix the basket over your other arm. “That pink one that bit me, sir.”
He gives you a look and you giggle. He slides a long dagger from his belt. You watch the metal and your eyes widen. You never paid much heed to the weapons he carried. They would never be used against you, thus you never worried.
He delicately slips his hand around the stem, careful not to disturb the petals, and he cuts through the thorns. He lays the rose in the basket as you hold it out.
“Pink, romance, you said, princess.”
“Or grace. Or heavenly perfection.” You muse. “But I only like the shade, sir. Don’t you?”
He turns to cut some more pink blooms. “I’ve not much of an eye for these things,” he holds up another rose, this one with white at the base of the petals and pink along the edges. He looks at you over it. “Though I can see beauty when it is in front of me.”
🌹
Compline rang out from the cathedral bells ages ago. It is late and you are just as restless as you’ve been much of the day. You are adrift somewhere between dusk and dawn. Alone.
The duke did not arrive. Not as they said he would. Has he turned back with doubt? Or has something worse befallen him? No, those things are only wives tales.
You sit against the headboard, still in your lilac gown, with the net still in your hair, and the chain around your neck bearing your mother’s bequeathed gem. Your slippers even remain on your feet as you wring your hands and wait. As the night wears on, so do you. Your head bobbles and dips.
A knock at the door gives you a start. The door opens and Mercia enters. The lantern flickers at your bedside. She gasps.
“Princess, you’ve not slept!” She decries.
You hush her. “Is there word of the duke?”
“Oh, Princess, you mustn’t worry so. You must be ready for when he does come. You will be dreary with fatigue–”
“Have you heard anything?” You plead with her.
“No, Princess. Nothing. I’ve only come as morning approaches.” She explains.
“Go then. I have no need of any but the duke.”
“Princess, perhaps some rose tea or–”
“Please, leave.”
She obeys. Your mind races with worry. Was it you? Or your father? He can be demanding and rather particular. Perhaps he saw the duke and turned him away…
Another knock comes before you can slump. You call for the visitor to enter. It is only Sir Lloyd. He does not enter often. Only with your father.
“Princess.” He greets. “The maid says you are unwell.”
“The maid lies.”
“You’ve not slept, princess.”
“So I’ve not,” you cross your arms. “And the duke has not come.”
Sir Lloyd stares at you. You shy away and look at your skirts. You huff.
“You should rest. It is my duty to see you safe and well. You will not be without sleep.”
“Sir. You needn’t worry so. Only keep the wretches out. That is your duty.”
He is quiet. He backs up and pulls the door with him. “So it is,” he utters before it closes entirely.
🌹
Your father enters without pretense. He is a king, he needs no welcome or permission. You sit at the window, in the same lilac gown as these last two days, with the same gnawing dread in your gut. Sir Lloyd stands at the door, hand on his pommel and shoulders straight.
“Daughter,” the king says in his cold tone. “We’ve news of your suitor. He will not be your husband.”
You gasp and stand. You nearly tip from exhaustion. “But why not? Where has he gone?”
“Slain. Dead in the dirt. Some bandits.” He says without compassion.
You put your hands to your cheek in horror. Sir Lloyd’s brow twitches slightly but otherwise, he is unbothered. Your father growls.
“Rather inconvenient. I tire of meeting these upstarts. All they do is recite their useless titles and praise a maiden they’ve never laid eyes on. I do not require love, I require money, lands. And now his shrew of a sister will hoard it for herself.” He throws his hands up. “Rats.”
He turns and stomps to the door. Sir Lloyd clears his throat. “And the bandits? Are they not a threat to other travellers? If they would assault a noble, what might keep them from the very same upon the royal person? The summer progress is not far away, your highness.”
Your father snorts. “Always my cleverest knight, Hansen.” He smacks his knuckles on the guard’s arm. “Go on then. Deal with the rabble. Make an example as you do.”
“Happily,” Sir Lloyd bows his head. “I will have Nikolai take my place here until I return.”
“If he isn’t sober, let me suggest Geralt.” Your father retorts before he strides out.
You stand, stunned. You back up and sit on the window seat. You hang your head.
“Dead?” You whisper.
“Princess,” Sir Lloyd says. “I will avenge your suitor. In your honour.”
“Death and more death,” you turn onto your side and crumple up. “I thought… I hoped…”
You close your eyes and hug yourself. You hear the guard come close, sense him even. Almost as if his fingers hover right above your cheek. He exhales.
“I will have Mercia bring you some lemon water and milk. You must calm. Sleep, princess. I will not be long in my justice.”
🌹
You languish in bed, defeated by fate. How many times must this charade be played out. The first lord your father chose was too short and squat. The second made a bad jape and nearly got the axe. The third complimented and earl your father despised. The fourth and the fifth annoyed him for no particular reason. Now the sixth has perished to some forest-infesting scoundrels.
Mercia brings you meals you do not touch and says words you do not hear. You are a princess. You are meant to marry a fine man; to love him; to be cherished. You long as any does to be wanted. For once in your life…
It is night. The window lets in a night breeze to soothe the stagnant air. There are voices in the hall. You perk up at the familiarity of the latter tone. Footsteps trod away.
A gentle tap comes at the door. You do not move. Slowly, the hinges groan.
“Princess,” Sir Lloyd’s shadow stands at the wall.
“Good knight, you’ve returned.” You say without rising.
“So I have. Victorious. The beast that slew the young duke have been dealt with.”
You sit up as your fatigue slakes away. “You…”
“By my hand. In your name.” He assures.
“I… but the duke is dead, still.”
He exhales loudly. He closes the door, from the inside. You turn your legs over the side of the bed and fumble to strike flint to light the lantern. He nears and takes it from you, doing it himself. He smells like iron.
“Sir?”
“I’ve ridden all night to be sure I could be here. That I could protect you from heels such as those I’ve seen off to their fates.” He sneers as he backs up.
You look up at him. There is a dent in his shoulder armour and a reddened patch on his cheekbone. You rise and lift the lantern. You follow him as he strides to the window.
“Sir, you’ve been injured?”
“I’ve had worse.” He stares out at the night.
You bring the lantern closer to see him better and he turns away. There’s something amiss. He has changed. He moves in a prowl as he considers the room. He pauses to touch the wilting flowers in the pot on the table. The ones he cut for you. He bends to smell them.
He stands and snickers. “The very purse I filled are now on my own belt.”
You stare at him and set the lantern down on the other side of the pot. “What do you mean, sir?”
“It is ironic to think, men as me, are paid to wield death upon others and it is called honour. Others are paid for the same and deemed criminals.” He scoffs. “I suppose it is all in who is felled and who is paying.”
You frown. Your chest flutters and your mind swims. You don’t understand.
“Sir, your words confound me.”
He bends forward and flattens his palms on the table. He hangs his head and lingers like that as you listen to his breath. He inhales deeply and stands at full height. You never noticed before how fearsome and gargantuan he is. There is blood upon his armour still, it catches the flame’s flicker.
“Your father bid me protect you and it is what I’ve done.” He says.
“Sir?”
He walks around the table and you turn to him. He stands before you. He looks down at his hands and brings them up next to your arms. He shudders.
“The duke was better dying on the road. It would not be right to slay him on his wedding night.” He drawls as he closes his hands around your arms and drags them up. You shiver.
“What…. You don’t mean? You…”
“I did my duty. I protected you. I kept you from some spoiled duke who would not care for you as I do.”
“Sir? You cannot– you jape. You play with my wits.”
“Darling princess, I am sworn to do all and anything for you. To my spirit.” He brings his hands up to the sides of your neck. “My only desire is to have you safe.” He leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. You quiver as your eyes crest with hot tears. “I just need you close to me… and he would’ve taken you away.”
