King Dean and Beldaruit homoeroticism goes CRAZZYYY.
Not only do you get this scene with them juxtaposed on the bed together (OKAAAY) but after King Dean teases Beldaruit teases him about being a cat with his hair on end, King Dean ends the convo with "such cautions do little to tempter human desire. Forbid a man a treasure, and he only covets it more." ...
AND THEN HE GETS A SOLO PANEL WITH HIM LOOKING OVER HIS SHOULDER, STANDING CUNTILY IN THE DOORWAY WITH HIS HANDS ON THE FRAME, asking "isn't that right?"
So...how much of this is a medical condition and how much is due to him not being able to use his chair to stand and walk like he normally does, due to the castle being enchanted to render contraptions useless?
I found it interesting that the king lends a hand to heal an issue that might be only occuring because Bel is staying at his castle.
It'd add an uncomfortable layer to the power play in this chapter - on top of the political play between king and sage, witch and unknowing, someone who guards magic and someone who wants magic; we might have a doctor and a patient, but one who's ails are indirectly created by said doctor.
Beldaruit says himself it would be impossible for him to handle this situation with autonomy, as as a witch he or his entourage isn't allowed to touch medecine. He also made the decision of showing up to the castle even if that means not being able to walk in his chair, decision backed by his role in politics/diplomacy. The chapter where the Sages meet Dean already had this notion of who rules over who, an answer who is supposed to legally be "no one, witches are independent and factionless" - but in practice, witches control the unknowing by gatekeeping their magic already. How different is it for Dean to wish to control the witches and wield their power? :)
thank you ivanna for your time and your masterpiece. you are absolutely amazing.
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in which King Dean and his relatively new wife are just beginning to warm up to each other, yet a dark secret could be the wedge between life or death in his court.
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You sat quietly beside your King, eyeing the crowd of tables before you set in an arching alignment. You listened closely to the knight across the room cantering a story from his village. His goblet glistened in the soft candlelight illuminating the room as his eyes brightened at your slight laughter. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as Dean turned towards you as well, smirking faintly at your interest. The story reminded you of your childhood, the knight had been from your old kingdom and was welcomed into your kingdom as a stop on their journey. The knight spoke of the wild women that danced in the woods before the break of dawn, their hair a splendor of almost metallic shine, and their bodies shrouded in thin linens as they swayed to the music of the night and the crack of a fire. You knew of these women, possibly more than even your King knew. At one point in your life, you had been with them, giving your body to the Earth in sacred worship of spirit and cosmos.
You could almost feel the heat from the fire against your skin as you basked in its flickering glow, listening to the trees swaying in the night’s breeze to mix with the ecstasy and laughter melting from your bodies to coil with the sparks of the flames. The knight called them sirens; women who possessed a beauty that harnessed an unrecanting evil. As he spoke of their sinful flesh, his gaze seemed to lock onto you, almost as if he had experienced the ritual himself and had finally placed your identity. His tales of the red-eyed woman casting themselves into a man’s life to tarnish his bloodline made you want to snicker. You remained coy beneath his piercing sight, his eyes brightening as an almost warning. “It is only a dead man’s word that owns a drop of honesty when it comes to the fairies, mind you,” the knight wet his lips, turning his careful watch from you to the rest of the room. It was as if he were deciding to fear you or expel you. Your head tilted towards Dean, returning his smile before turning back to the knight. You’d die before allowing this man to get between the two of you if it came to it.
It was you assigned to protect the King. It was you who were destined to sit beside him on the straw thin lie that you had given yourself up to Dean’s protection. In reality, it was you; you were the one standing between him and the blade. If the knight were to be so bold as to bring you into the light, you were certain that your credibility would damn him instead. “The dead man’s word is almost as dangerous as the siren’s when you finally lend them your ear,” his riddle was light to the rest of the crowd, but a disguised warning to the King. Your brow quipped against his words as if to remind him of his place as a mortal against you. You laughed with the rest of the group, moving your hand to settle against Dean’s resting on the table. His boyish features beamed at the sign of affection from you.
The feeling of the warmth of his body remained foreign to you, despite the handful of weeks you had spent together. He was your husband, a word that held almost the same weight as the crown upon your head. Your sisters had married men of titles as well by the assistance of the elders, mainly lords of various far off kingdoms that had whisked them away across the sea to serve as quiet child bearers. By this point in their own marriages, many had already been with child which sent a variety of messages from your elders into your kingdom, the script too encrypted for spies and nosy messengers to learn of your secret. “For lending an ear is lending a body, perhaps leading to the lending of a soul,” he graced, raising his glass to you. You rolled your eyes subtly as the noise in the room began to pick up again.
Dean leaned towards you, the ghost of his wine-stained breath hinting against your skin as he barely invaded your barrier yet dipped his head to keep the conversation intimate. “Did you know him?” He whispered.
You inhaled sharply wanting to send daggers into the knight. “He looks like the thousand other knights,” you traced the back of his hand with your thumb mildly. “No need to worry, my King,” you added, relieving the slight furrow in his brow. He sank back into the deep greens of his cloak as a man approached the two of you to refill his cup, bowing slightly as Dean gave him a small smile in gratitude. The sickeningly sweet smell of the liquid perked your attention as you sat up straighter. Dean lifted the cup as your mind searched for where you had recognized the scent from. He stopped short as the knight from before approached your table, greeting the two of you with a courteous nod. He began to chat with the King, pledging his allegiance and the men below him to the King, continuing to dart his eyes between you and him. You focused on the cup resting in Dean’s grasp, and your mind clicked into place.
Belladonna.
Dean hadn’t noticed the off-putting aroma because it was poison. Dean laughed at something the knight said, formalities out of the way, he went to drink again and you settled your hand on his arm. “Don’t drink that,” you muttered, your eyes looking through the almost childlike sparkle in Dean’s eyes. The knight shifted his weight and Dean’s brows furrowed.
“What?” Dean’s mouth curled into a faint smile as if he were suspecting you of jousting with him. You had been a trickster in the past and, despite knowing you for only a short time, Dean was fully aware of your mischievous side.
You let your voice dip into a whisper again. “It’s poison, Dean. Put it down,” you attempted with an almost stern gaze.
Dean wrote off your expression. “Very funny. Did you poison my drink, darling?” He joked, the knight before you chuckling deeply. Dean went to smell the wine and shook his head at you.
You sighed in frustration, ready to just chuck the chalice from his grip and hunt down the wine bearer. You regretted creating a mood between you and the king that made him question whether or not you were just crying wolf. He began to take another sip and you reacted. “I’m serious,” you groaned, snapping your hand to clamp over the top of his cup and bring it back into the table. Dean’s tilted expression was cut short as the knight guffawed once again.
“Nonsense, my Queen. Here,” he pulled the cup from your mess of hands and raised it to you in one swift motion. You stood quickly, slipping out of your royal colors before the knight downed the liquid with a doubting expression and smacked his lips dramatically. Your breathing shallowed, waiting for the toxin to seep into his body. Dean sank back in his chair as the men looked at each other triumphantly. You moved from your chair, coming around the long table just in time to catch the man’s shoulders as he began to cough dryly as if unable to catch his breath. He shrugged you off, attempting not to worry the King yet as the veins around his eyes began to bulge, he sank back into you. His heavy body slid into your arms as you knelt carefully, resting his convulsing form against the cold stoned floor. Your mind fixated on turning the man, the room moving in slow motion as you weighed using some of your valued theriac to save the man who had no name to you when it could be used on Dean at a later date. A chorus of voices drained from your ears as the crowd of people erupted in shock.
You purse your lips, glaring into the knights piercing eyes, his lips and face flushed with exertion. The dosage must have been relatively grand for it to be killing him this quickly. “Go ahead, let me die. See what your gods think of that,” he gritted and in vain you looped your finger around the long chain of your necklace, holding the small vial of the golden liquid in your hand before jamming your thumb beneath the cork’s edge and forcing his rigid jaw open. Despite his protest, you faintly murmured a string of sentences to activate what piece of your ability you could give him before pouring the substance into his mouth and grimacing at the man. You felt your hands getting stronger as you waited for the antidote to spread, your mild powers surplusing as your heart hammered in your chest from the adrenaline. His body settled and he breathed deeply as if a great relief were cascading through him. “I know what you are,” he groused, voice coarse and labored.
“You’re crazy,” you bit, moving to stand up, but his tight grip on your arm pulled him back to you.
His graying face angled to yours. “Demon,” he stated, spitting at you. You tore your arm away from him, eyes blazing, mind locked on eliminating the bastard. You lurched back into the wall of a chest belonging to one of the several guards as his arm tapped your back against him, forcing you to snap out of your trance. The crowd was still filing out, some of the knight’s men moving to help him as they thanked you. Dean stood looking at the man, hands clenched into fists as his face failed to hide his fearful expression. This was the first death threat since you had been his wife, but you knew deep down, it would be one of many to come.
Your sheets were cold as you stared at the wood twisting together to conjoin your bedposts. You turned to look at the empty spot beside you and chewed the inside of your cheek. It had been days since the event and Dean had yet to settle from it. It wasn’t helping that the new campaign against the neighboring kingdom had begun and Dean would have to be on the field with his men. You pursed your lips, contemplating leaving Dean to his own devices for the third night in a row. You sighed, climbing out of bed and throwing a robe over your nightgown to head down the hall.
The castle felt isolated and quiet in the darkness of the night, the torches on the walls barely gleaming bright enough for you to see your hand in front of your face. You turned down another corridor until you finally reached one of the grand balconies overlooking the countryside. Sure enough, there was Dean, his white shirt lazily hanging around his shoulders and barely tucked into his pants as he leaned over the edge of the balcony. You watched him for a moment as he stood up straighter, crossing his arms to look at the stars. Your mind flashed to his terrified expression as he watched you force a man to live at his feet; a man dying because of him. You shook the thought from your head and stepped into the place beside him.
The cool breeze drifted around the two of you, Dean turning to you slightly. Your arms brushed faintly—the most physical contact you had experienced from your husband since that night. You missed his warmth despite the distance the two of you were usually at, this isolation was proving to be the hardest. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he was the first to break the silence, his voice almost shy in your presence. You wished he wasn’t so scared of you. “I could have died because I brushed you off. I’m sorry,” he stated once again, his sight narrowing as he looked deeper into the distance.
“Dean…” you sighed quietly, searching for words to express what you were feeling. You looked up at him fully, his skin washed in the glow of the moonlight began to shape to the shadows cast by his features. He looked so young as his eyes avoided yours. You reached out for him, your hands hesitant to settle against him. Your fingers brushed across his shoulder and moved to rest against his neck, turning him to look at you finally. As your palm settled near his face, he leaned his cheek into your touch, relaxing into the softness of your small embrace. He shut his eyes as if he would cry. The hardships the two of you had been through together seemed to resurface as you stood in solidarity. Despite being the one who was supposed to have their head on their shoulders, you were terrified of what was to come next, just as unaware as your young King.
You pulled him into your chest, his nose digging into your hair as his arms locked around your waist. You felt the tension expelling from his body at just your touch. You were glad to provide him stability and a feeling of comfort, attempting to show him that it was a desire of yours to be the one he turned to with turmoil rather than bottling it up and letting it eat away at him. The soft fabric of his shirt ruffled under your touch as he sighed against your neck. An encounter such as this made you think of your wedding night, the awkward fumbling around in embarrassment as members of the high court forced the intimate moment on the two of you. Maybe the reason Dean kept to himself rather than confide in you was because of that night. An irreversible boundary had been crossed that you were both healing from in your own ways, Dean just seemed to be more distant about it. You had wanted to hold him, tell him that you were there for him, but respected his process enough to not. Your loyalty to the boy in your arms was unwavering even when he showed weaknesses that would make any one of your sisters vanish from a man’s life. “I’m sorry, my darling,” he mumbled once more into the night air, his grip tightening. You could tell it was an apology heavier than just the matter at hand.
“Shh. It’s all right,” you cooed, closing your eyes to bask in the feeling of him in your embrace. That night, as Dean finally slipped into a deep slumber, you snuck out of bed. You pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead as a promise that you’d be back as your hands tightened around his sword quietly. You ran as fast as your feet could carry you through the castle until finally reaching the horse stable and riding into the nearby village.
…
You walked quietly beside Dean as numerous members of his council blurted anything and everything into the air. Dean chewed the inside of his cheek as he listened, eyes cast forward to the castle halls quickly passing by the group of you. The enemy was close enough that more men needed to be employed, and Dean needed to be thrown in with them in hopes of halting the opposing king’s campaign. You nearly reached out for Dean’s hand as one of his advisors mumbled a casualty count. The doors were thrown open for the King; a horse and several guards ready to join him on the journey over the hill and to the front. The talks of war departed with his advisors, leaving the two of you alone in the foyer. Dean’s eyes searched your face as if they were scavenging for something.
You took a step forward and rested one of your hands on his arm, propped up by his sword. “Keep your head on your shoulders, will you?” You attempted to joke, making the corner of his mouth turn up in a slight grin.
He took your hands in his own, bringing them to his lips as he sealed the space with a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Only if you promise to as well,” he jeered light-heartedly, a fragment of his anxiety flushing away. His gaze gave you something to look forward to upon his return, your care for him strengthening as he dropped your hands and mounted his horse.
“Come back to me, my darling,” you whispered so softly it felt like it had merely been a thought to you. Dean leaned down to you, pressing his lips to yours softly, a connection you had yearned for for so many nights. You had wanted to make the voyage across the space between the two of you each time his brow furrowed in worry as he thought about the future or each time you knew he was fretting over an external expectation. With his simple touch, it seemed that while soothing your worries, he was creating a new beginning for the two of you, a promise he now has to fulfill when he got back.
As you watched his dancing eyes disappear into the horizon line, you allowed yourself to relish in the buzzing of your skin from his touch. The kiss was far from any heated exertion your sisters had gabbed about yet intimate and cunning in its own way.
You stood at the threshold of the old cottage, your hands trembling as they grasped the heavy sword tighter to your chest. Your nose picked up on the slight smell of sage and a fire; someone was closeby, more specifically, the exact person you were looking for. You knew he was hiding, all sorcerers did. The ivy scrolling through the stone and mortar provided the perfect cover of abandonment to a passerby or a girl from a village nearby asking for a love potion. You, on the other hand, knew better. You stepped into the cottage, your gaze set upward to notice the cracks running in odd patterns across the ceiling before your ears settled on the light sound of breathing behind you. “Come out, George. I know you’re in here,” you affirmed, not bothering to look over your shoulder just yet. After no signs of change, you swiftly dug into your pocket, your fingers dipping into the ash in a small pouch you carried for good luck. Your fingers chalked in the substance. “George, it’s going to get very ugly between you and I if you continue to ignore me, brother,” you called once again.
No response.
You sighed, briefly, frustrated in the childish game he was playing. You swiftly turned on your heel, dowsing the spot of ivy you knew he was disgusted in. The plant withered away and a disassociated figure immerged finally, glaring at you though darkly lined eyes. He seemed to sweep across the room to a different corner, moving like a spirit and kicking up dust in his wake. His auburn hair was freshly chopped back to frame his intimidating glare. He stood with his shoulders broad, ready to attack you at the slightest movement. “What is it that you want?” He challenged, giving you a harshening once over.
“I need your help. The King is going into battle tomorrow and I-”
He cut you off, stepping in front of you. “How rich. A great and powerful völva asking for help from a,” he paused, “what did you say—a vagrant Màyoç?”
You pursed your lips, wanting nothing more than to return to the castle. “Please set aside our differences just this once. Lives are at stake.” George had been an old friend in what felt like a past life. He was the one that you usually had gone to when even you didn’t know exactly what to do to get out of a problem. His wisdom stretched over a more modern sense of magic that you had yet to grasp. Needless to say, he had his purposes, but when he wasn’t in use, he became the most pompous ass you had know to date.
“Yes, your husband. Not just the king.” He perked an eyebrow in your direction, smirking at you wickedly. “What do you have to offer me?” You rolled your eyes, digging into another pocket and tossing a small sack of coins on a table beside George. He glanced at the pouch and then at you, lacing his fingers together. “And what do you have in mind?” You placed the sword in your hands more predominantly, sliding the sheath down the blade slightly to reveal the metal to George. His eyes danced to yours. “You’re wanting to inlay silver aren’t you?”
You nodded. “I only need the equipment. You don’t have to do much of anything else.”
“Nonsense. Lives are at stake,” he mocked, taking the blade from you and completely unsheathing it, rolling his wrists to fully examine the weapon. The twist of his smile broke into your cold exterior, a hint of feeling as if your old friend were beside you once again filled your chest. The two of you went to work, melting the silver you had brought from old rings and necklaces, the cottage filling with small murmurs of protection spells from the two of you. “No dark magic,” you snapped before taking the molten element and aligning it with the dip in the blade.
“He’s not worth it anyway,” George charged back. You shook your head, setting both the sliver and the sword in the middle of the stave etched in chalk on the center of the floor. George sat opposite of you, gripping onto a bottle of pig’s blood before mixing some into the silver. Despite the near different species the two of you were, his irises flushed red as he began to focus on the silver and the blade before him, just as yours probably were as well. As you began to chant in old skaldic, the silver burned a brighter pink like color, the blood activating as well before you slowly poured the mixture into the blade, letting it take its form like it were a breed of infection spreading into the intricate detail of the weapon. The swirling fluid of color began to settle into the patterns, becoming only slightly detectable beneath a trained eye. You licked the pad of your index finger, continuing to murmur the ancient ritual into the air in chorus with George’s dark accent. You dipped your finger into the hot metal, etching the faint design of the stave into the blade and biting your tongue against the burning of your flesh. It was your form of sacrifice: more conventional than George’s idea of slaughtering a chicken outback.
The candles around the two of you died into smoke, leaving the darkness to surround you once again, the blade glowing as a satisfied grin painted your expression. “Long may he reign,” George mumbled, his eyes reflecting in the metal of the weapon.
Summary: Long ago, in a kingdom written now in just knightly tales this story begins. Knights, quests, duty, honor, and magic all threaded together in this holiday ficlet. On Christmas Eve in the Kingdom of Camelot, King Gabriel is hosting the annual feast when an unexpected visitor appears. With a challenge issued Sir Castiel rises up, and his fate is forever changed. He'll venture to find the Green Chapel and the mysterious Green Knight in order to keep his word. A quest that has inspired generation after generation of storytelling.
Exert from Chapter 2:
“Perhaps I am still befuddled from my travels Lord…” Castiel said, drawing out the last word in hope’s the King would…
“Forgive me, Sir Castiel, for not introducing myself sooner,” the king spoke, throwing a smirk while clearly picking up on the knight’s intentions. “Lord Winchester. But seeing as you are my guest, please call me Dean.”
Lifting his eyes to stare into the two pools of liquid spring, Castiel breathed the name like he was blowing air on a spark to start a fire. “Dean,” the next words fanned the spark into flames spreading warmth from his chest to the tips of his ears, “what a lovely name.”
The cheeky smile Dean gave was infectious with Castiel returning one of his own. Stepping a hair closer, the King threw an arm across the knight’s shoulders. “Come,” he guided Castiel towards the table, “meet the rest of my family and let us feast while you entertain us with stories of your travels.”
Imagine You confronting Dean of having double life as a peasant and a prince of royalty from different kingdom.
"Is Dean Winchester your real name? Not Dean Smith."
Dean looks guilty, "I can expla-"
You interrupt him. "You are engaged with a freaking princess for crying outloud. How could you explain that? I am techinally your mistress. I am the side chick."
You are trying to hope back your tears.
"You are not a side chick. You are the fucking one that I love." Dean confesses.
You breathe heavily through your nose, before taking the silver ring off from your finger. "If that was true, you would have told me in the start of our relationship. I had to find out from my best friend who found your face on freaking magazine." You slam the ring on the counter.
