The crown prince, for reasons indiscernible to all the servants and any slave who dared to speak of their betters, did not immediately leave the castle the next morning, but instead seemed to have it stuck in his head that it was a reasonable thing to continue trying to sway the princess to his side of their familial dispute. The princess's mood was not improved by this. Lord Mori's mood, while less explosive, was also not improved by this. Stomme was on the rotation to clean up whatever room the three of them vacated, since there was always some degree of mess left behind.
Stomme was merely grateful that she was not called in to act as set piece again. She got to wear her good woolen pants and shirt and her sturdy boots and was permitted to limp off her bruises from the rod and dark red marks from the switch and not go anywhere near the royals in their anger. She was not permitted near the prince! She adhered to that instruction with no small measure of relief, glad to be away from him, his foul temper and incendiary comments.
But, of course, hovering over all this, was that ever hanging sword, just waiting to drop: the fact that the bell had rung.
She supposed she should be glad that the princess wasn't punishing her while already irate from her brother. Stomme could pray that by the time the princess remembered Stomme did in fact still need to be punished, it would be after her brother was gone and her head was cleared, and she might be feeling a little more lenient towards her disobedient slave.
It was hard enough completing her chores with the injuries she did have. If she was able to sit in one place to work, like over the laundry tub, then Stomme was efficient enough, but her damned limping made the rest of her work slow and arduous. She was out late the fourth night after the prince's arrival, and there'd been talk of him leaving the following morning. Good riddance. Not that. Not that Stomme, would ever be so bold, as to think good riddance about one of her betters. She was just, it was a slip of the tongue, not even, she hadn't said it out loud, she was just tired and sore, though limping thankfully less and less each day. It still put her out late, the almost-full moon hanging overhead, the stable quiet as she replaced horse blankets and gear and other odds and ends from the laundry, most of the horses laying down and fast asleep already.
"Oh, while you're here, could you throw down a few of the hay bales from the loft?" the night groom on duty asked, a smaller boy who didn't have Stomme's strength. More than that, he was a freeman, and Stomme was not, so she couldn't deny him the request even if she hadn't seen the reason in it. Climbing the ladder was hard on the red marks from the switch, now mottling an oranger color with a few day's healing but still plenty sore, and she had to take a moment at the top to just breathe and grip her leg beneath the injuries, fingers digging into brown wool and tight muscle, but then she got up and tossed hay down.
It occurred to her that there should probably be a second groom on duty, given the number of horses they now had here (two of them speed demons, which she didn't think she'd ever get over), but Stomme didn't actually know enough about stables or grooms or horses to dare question leaving one young lad in charge of the princess's stables all by his own. Whoever was in charge of this place knew more than her, and she would leave them to it. She took up her empty basket, her sore back and tired shoulders brimming with anticipation for when she'd finally get to lay down and sleep at long last; she just needed to get back inside the castle, put the basket away, and limp back to her room.
The main way back into the castle… hng. She was still on high alert for the crown prince. Realistically, she knew he'd be asleep in his guest quarters, preparing himself for a long day of riding the following morning, but what if he was drawn out to check on the steed he'd be riding? There was a side door down a narrow little alley around back of the castle, a servant's door that'd spit her out close enough to the laundry it wouldn't be a huge diversion, and Stomme didn't have to worry about getting pricker bushes on clean laundry or maneuvering around the low hanging branches of the crab apple tree that stubbornly dug its gnarled roots into the narrow path, untended by the gardeners who had more important focuses than the little side path that was so rarely used. There was enough moon to see by, at least to make sure she didn't trip, and Stomme didn't want to run into anything else when she was so close to being done for the day.
So, of course, quite naturally, it was on that very path she took to avoid her fate that she met it on.
An old chimney jutted out into the already-narrow path, about midway to the little side door, obstructing half of it and probably one of the main reasons so many people didn't bother maintaining or taking this way. As Stomme lifted the empty basket out sideways and turned to shimmy around it, one hand bracing her balance against the almost-too-hot-to-touch brick, she heard the incredibly distinct sound of a slap, and hissed words that sent her scrambling back, pressing her spine to the chimney and her free hand to her mouth.
"You show remarkable temerity for a man in your position," spat the crown prince himself, and Stomme clutched the empty basket to her chest by the handle, heart rabbit-quick in her throat.
"Yeah, that's always been the problem," came Sora's voice. Why was Sora in a dark, secluded place low traveled with the prince!? He was one of the ones the princess had ordered away from the man, did he—surely not. Surely not Sora?
"Listen here and listen well," the crown prince hissed, audibly furious but keeping his voice low, unable to overhear unless you were right there, right where Stomme was. "I will not take disobedience from a mere groom. I am your crown prince and your benefactor and you will do as I say."
Benefactor? The crown prince was Sora's—oh that. That was not good. And it was not good that Stomme was overhearing this. She wanted to flee, but every nerve in her body screamed that if she moved the merest inch, she would be overheard, be caught. Be still. Be silent. Be silent.
"What you're saying I should do is pointless!" Sora hissed in turn, and Stomme's belly swooped. What was he doing?!? Benefactor or not, this was the crown prince, Sora could be whipped for his tone alone, much less the insult.
Another slap, thrice as loud as their voices, and then another, and then another, and then another, the sound of bushes rustling as Sora undoubtedly buckled under the onslaught, the prince's heavy breathing.
"Where you grew such a tongue," the prince heaved between pants, "I perish to ever discover."
Sora spat, a wet and unpleasant sound. "Let me know if you find out." There was a strain to his voice now, words grit out around the pain fettering his throat.
Another sound of impact, maybe a boot? And Sora gasp-groaned like he'd been struck in the belly or his stones.
"Fuck, lay off," Sora moaned, and Stomme became abruptly convinced that this would be it, for him. She was going to stand here, frozen as a statue, and listen to Sora die. "What would I even tell you that your actual spies didn't tell you before they got ousted for, oh yeah, being a spy in her house?" he gasped with such exasperation that Stomme could never imagine saying to anyone, much less the crown prince. "That she hates you? That she hates the capital? That she hates your whole fucking family and the scheming that nobles do and will come back for your coronation, only your coronation, and then never again after? That she's stupid in love with Lord Mori and wants to get married so she can officially leave your family as soon as possible? That she likes the monster slaying and the eastern hills and rides a speed demon on the hunt? You know all of that already! I can't tell you a single damn thing—" Another blow, making him choke briefly, but he continued on his tirade, "—that you don't already know!"
Another blow, loudest out of all of them, and for a long moment the only sound was Stomme's heart in her ears and the two men's breathing, labored, one tight with pain.
Sora spat again. "I'm grateful to you," he said, no longer whispering, but quiet all the same, a little mumbly. "You got me out of a bad situation, and I am, I am so grateful. But there's a difference between gratitude and loyalty. I'm not going to betray the princess, not even for you."
"I could see you hung for this," the crown prince reminded darkly.
"Says the man attempting to suborn a member of the princess's household!" Sora hissed in return. "If the princess hears of any of this it's the end for both of us, and you're smart enough to know I'd have no problem with taking you down with me!"
Another blow, meatier, a fist on flesh, and another, and another, and another, and another, Stomme's hand trembling over her mouth, her eyes squeezed desperately shut, begging herself to be silent, silent, silent! The prince's rage did not subside quickly, and Sora was wheezing by the end of it, wet and tight, though it seemed a small miracle that, at least, he was still breathing at all.
The rustling of plantlife and heavy, angry footfalls informed Stomme that the prince was not reentering the castle through the little side door that had once, impossibly long ago, been Stomme's destination, but was in fact coming this way. She did not even breathe as he drew near, praying to whichever god looked after slaves and the unworthy that the chimney's shadow be dark enough, that she be still and silent enough, that the prince's anger blinding enough, that he please, please, please not see her there.
She felt him on that little narrow path next to her like the veiled figure of death itself breathing ice along her right side.
And then he passed.
She did not dare let herself breathe until he was at the end of the little path. Didn't move for a long, long minute after, ears straining to hear if she could tell when he went through the main door or not. Every single muscle of her body had been clenched so tight she nearly collapsed when she tried to move, staggering as she rebalanced, hand catching herself on the chimney.
She rounded it, and there was just barely enough moonlight that she could make out the shape of Sora on the ground, the brown wool indistinct in the night's shadows but his skin and hair pale enough to catch the moonlight and give her the vague impression of his form.
"Sora," she whispered, kneeling down.
"I—fuck, Stomme?" he gasped out brokenly, voice raw and cracking.
"Yeah," she breathed, stretching out a hand to see if she could get a better feel for where exactly he was, "Is anything broken?"
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, how much of that did you hear?"
Uh. "I think, most of it? He was mad that a groom was disobeying him, when I first heard, I think." More or less. Beneath her hand, she felt him curl on himself, trembling with the strain of it.
"Fuck," he whined, high pitched, more vulnerable than even when the prince had been actively beating him. "Stomme, please," his hand shot out blindly, gripped her by the tunic, pulled, "please, fuck, please, the princess can't know about this, please, the princess can't know, I'll do whatever you want just please don't tell her!"
"I—" Stomme stuttered, taken aback and bewildered by this hard pivot in their conversation. That a freeman was begging—that Stomme—that—she didn't—
"I can't lose this job," he pleaded, "I, shit, I can't go back there, I can't, I won't, I can't lose this job, Stomme, please, the princess is the only one who'd put up with my stupid tongue, I don't have any other skills, please."
"I, I don't think—"
"I'll do whatever you want," he cut her off, pulling at her tunic, the moonlight catching along the ridge of his knuckles as his other hand clawed at the overgrown path, his head down on the ground, not looking at her. Stomme didn't know what to do with this position, she'd never in her life—Stomme was the one who should've had her forehead to the dirt, that was her position, she was the slave, she couldn't understand why Sora was begging her for clemency when he surely knew he could've just ordered her silence, maybe smacked her around a little just to make the point stick, and she was certain he had more than enough reason to want to be the one getting to hit someone else, after that display from the prince. "I'll do anything you want, just, please Stomme, I can't—"
"I, I'm not going to tell the princess," she whispered, rushed, quiet with her daring to speak such words.
"Please," he begged again like he hadn't heard her.
"I would—it would be bad, for me too, right?" she tried, using Sora's own logic against him. "I w-was ordered not to go near him as well, so, if I told the princess I overheard him trying to—" what was the word he'd used? "—suborn you, that, that would be telling on myself, as well."
For a long moment, Sora just breathed heavily, fist trembling in the fabric of her tunic, and then he slowly let her go, dark blond curls catching moonlight as he nodded, slowly lifting himself up onto his elbows, then to his palms.
"A-and, and you told him no," Stomme pointed out, trying to be reassuring. "So, even if she did know. That, that would prove to her that you are loyal, right?"
He shook his head.
"I owe him," he whispered, like he was confessing to some grave sin. "Telling him no just means she won't string me up for a betrayal. If she learns that I'm indebted to him, she'll still dismiss me out of caution, and I can't—" his voice cracked again, head bobbing as his shoulders dipped, elbows threatening to capsize under his weight. "I don't have anywhere else to go," he whispered.
"…" Stomme opened her mouth, but nothing came out right away. Bending forward, Stomme covered one of his hands with her own.
"I. Don't either," she said haltingly, not sure if this was too presumptuous of her, if now he'd remember just how beneath him she was and take out that trembling rage and fear on her skin. "I, I don't want to be sold off again, either," she said, pushing her luck. And it was true. Even with as terrifying as the princess was, those long summer months of peace were a precious memory she wouldn't trade for the world, Overseer Yan's gentle indulgence and steady hands, Dandelion's cheerful conversation, little Julia's whimsical prattling, hell, even Noe was pretty okay to her lately.
Sora laughed, a hollow, breathy sound, and Stomme figured that meant he was probably composed enough for her to try again, and also still not going to hurt her.
"Is anything broken?"
Sora swallowed audibly, and after a moment's deliberation he shook his head. "I don't think so."
"If I get an arm under you, can you walk?"
He nodded, taking two rapid, still-wheezing breaths. "Bet."
She helped him stand, her own legs protesting the extra weight, and stepped on the hem of the empty basket so it'd flip up into her grip once they were both upright. She bore most of his weight, having to stoop so he could get his arm up over her shoulders, and held the laundry basket with the hand overlapping his on her far shoulder.
"You didn't need to do all this," he muttered as they shambled down the narrow path. "You could've just left me there."
"Oh." The thought… hadn't actually crossed Stomme's mind. She hadn't even considered that possibility.
He laughed ruefully, which gave way to a brief spat of coughing.
"Fuck…" he breathed.
Yes that seemed like a fairly decent assessment of the situation.
Once inside the castle, warm torchlight sparse but plenty enough to see by after the darkness of the path, Stomme got a better look at him. He had blood down his chin from both his mouth and his nose, the whole right side of his face swollen and bright red, that eye puffy and shut. He clutched his stomach with the arm not on her shoulders, like that part was what was hurting him the worst, and his left leg was the one limping, bearing almost none of his weight.
Two drops of blood splattered against the floor, one two, little bright spots that would dry to something indistinguishable until the next time someone was in here on their hands and knees scrubbing the stones. He swallowed again, thankfully not spitting any more blood out onto the floor to join the little splatters.
It made Stomme feel a little silly for how much her own, comparatively minor, injuries were bothering her. It reminded her of what life had been like, before she'd been gifted to the princess. Here the two of them were, staggering to the servants' hall, each placed here by the crown prince in the service of a princess they were loyal to. Stomme, because no matter the marks on her legs, life here was still so, so much better than she had ever imagined it could be, Sora, for his own reasons.
She wondered if she'd ever be brave enough to shoulder a beating, like Sora had, in her princess's name. It seemed so far beyond her, and yet, she could understand the shape of it, how the princess could breed such loyalty in even the embittered heart of a man like this one.
She deposited him on his bed, his room small but solitary, and Sora rolled on his left side, legs curled in towards his chest.
"Thank you," he said, facing away from her, as she turned to leave.
Oh. She. Hadn't expected that either. Again, it seemed so strange for someone to regard her as—as a person. As being worth worrying or fearing or thanking.
"You're welcome," she said, and prayed the prince did, indeed, leave the next morning. She resolved to return the laundry basket later, and hobbled back to her own room to end the night.
“I can hear you think,” Viktor says in front of him.
“Apologies, Your Highness.”
“Don’t apologise, there’s nothing wrong with thinking. Just don’t tear anything.”
Jayce gapes, stepping over a root to get closer. “Did you just make a joke?”
Viktor’s glare would cause the plants around them to wither. “I can be very funny if I care to be,” he informs Jayce. “Now close your mouth and hand me the satchel. We’re here.”
‘Here’ turns out to be a clearing. The moon shines down on them, dipping everything into an eery glow. It’s a cold light that seems to bounce off the plants and trees in a strange way. The whole spot seems otherworldly. Then he sees the flowers.
Their purple-blue petals seem to radiate on their own, attracting the attention of the bugs and small forest life. The whole ground is covered in them, and they look ethereal, seeming very familiar indeed.
“Have you lost your mind?” Jayce hisses, turning to stare at Viktor, an incredulous expression in his face. “If it gets out that you’ve been collecting Arcane conduits, they’ll kill you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Viktor replies calmly. “Nobody will find out.” He shoots Jayce a sharp look. “I’ve read your file. I know you won’t tell anyone.”
Ice grips Jayce’s heart. “This is really, really dangerous, Your Highness. We should go at once.”
“You’re free to leave, Sir Talis. I’m not keeping you here.”
Jayce curses, wars with himself, and stays. Of course he stays. He’s technically working for the king, but he’s charged with protecting the prince. He can’t do that if he’s somewhere else.
Finally keeping my promise to show more wip snippets! This is from my fic The Marks Of Your Devotion, Imprinted On His Skin, which you can read the prologue of here, or if you'd rather check out the post I made about it, you can find that one here
Despite being from a fallen house - House Talis, Jayce receives an invitation to the Royal Ball where the Crown Prince will be selecting a husband or wife, and he cannot afford to decline the invitation.
Jayce finds himself captivated by the man he meets in one of the back rooms, and then dances with in front of all the court - only to find out he is the Crown Prince himself, and runs away.
Viktor, having found the heir of the Talis house - long thought dead, will not be letting him go without a fight.
A ficlet from my Swan Lake/Omegaverse/Crossdressing AU
For @yoiroyaltyweek, Day 1: Balls and Masquerades
Summary:
Yuuri recognizes him instantly.
Lights shimmer on silver hair, the warmth in his eyes dancing bright and blue behind a feathered mask. He’s dressed in full regalia—black and pink with gold trimmings and dark fur lining his shoulders—looking every inch the prince he claims to be. Whispers of who is that and oh how handsome ripple through the crowd, the men turning to him with an edge to their stares, the women smiling coyly behind their fans.
A hush falls over the ballroom as he strides up to Yuuri. Falls to one knee and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s hand.
“My runaway prince,” Viktor whispers.
Yuuri breathes. “But how…"
“I couldn’t bear the thought of you dancing with another.”
Yuuri’s heart skips. He wants to leap into Viktor’s arms, bury his nose in Viktor’s comforting scent as he always does, but the watchful gaze of the King and Queen restrains him. Around them, his alpha suitors start to complain—something about unwanted guests and the lack of palace security—and Yuuri wonders if he should assure them that his time was theirs, or some such nonsense. But the light in Viktor’s baby blues is so warm, the curve of his mouth so soft and sweet, that Yuuri lets himself be whisked onto the dance floor without protest.
Viktor’s hand settles on his waist, while Yuuri, boldly, smooths his own up Viktor’s chest to his shoulders. Relishes in the shudder that runs under his palm. “You never fail to surprise me,” Viktor murmurs as their feet start to move in time with the music, slow and languid.
“Says the one who shows up unannounced and uninvited,” Yuuri teases.
“Touché,” Viktor says.
They turn, slowly, gliding across the ballroom with each step. They make quite the pair, Yuuri realizes, his royal colors of white and blue a stark contrast to Viktor’s black and pink. “Will you tell me now, how you’ve changed back without a full moon?” he asks.
Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s hand. “There is a witch,” he says.
“Never a good start,” Yuuri notes to Viktor’s chuckle.
“She’s good of heart, or so they say.” Viktor lifts his arm and Yuuri follows, spinning. “But even Leroy’s curse is too powerful for her.” He tugs Yuuri back, flush against his chest. “This change is temporary.”
Yuuri looks up through his lashes, sadness touching his smile. “How long do we have?”
“Until midnight.” Viktor’s voice goes low and hushed, his fingers reaching up to tip Yuuri’s chin, thumb sweeping, lightly, across Yuuri’s bottom lip. “But I will always be yours. Today, tomorrow, the rest of forever.”
Yuuri can’t think. He can see Viktor’s face alight with love behind the mask, feel Viktor’s heat everywhere they touch, and suddenly, everything holding him back—family and duty and royal obligations—everything falls away, leaving only a surge of affection that swells and swells, too big for his heart to bear.
So before his parent and suitors, before the entire royal court, he kisses Viktor, hands curling into dark fur.
Viktor sighs. Brushes his tongue against Yuuri’s, and Yuuri parts his lips, lets Viktor in. A royal omega, initiating a kiss in the open with some masked stranger. Yuuri's certain he's broken several protocols, maybe even a few laws, but he can't bring himself to care. He likes the way Viktor feels against him: the way silver lashes caress his cheeks, the way hands rest on his hips, soft but firm. The way they fit so perfectly together, black and white, two halves of a whole.
When they part, Viktor pulls away just enough to press his forehead against Yuuri’s, his laugh gone breathless. “To think I was holding back.”
Yuuri wants to kiss Viktor again, so he does. (They've gone far beyond prudence by now.) “We've stopped dancing, ” he murmurs.
“Mmhm.” Viktor’s mouth presses against Yuuri's cheek, then the other, feathers from his mask tickling Yuuri’s nose. “So we have.”
From the corner of his eyes, Yuuri sees his family marching over. And only his sister looks amused. “I hope you’re ready to meet my parents."
Viktor cocks his head to one side, winks. “Parents adore me.”
Yuuri laughs, light and soft. If nothing else, Viktor’s boundless confidence marks him, undeniably, as an alpha prince.
