A/N: A little something a friend and I cooked up. I hope you enjoy. If you have any questions, do ask!
Save The King;
Chapter one:
The opulence of the palace was unmatched. It was reputably one of the most ostentatious in all the Kingdoms, befitting of a King with a taste for fine things and a big personality. The castle was large, made of white stone and marble, tall, strong columns threaded with gold and a red carpet that spanned the length of the floor and up the steps that elevated the throne, upon which the King sat, a beautiful creature sat at his feet, scantly clad. Large windows bathed the throne room with light, although the curtains on either side of the throne shaded the king from the worst of it. The King was at his worst during the summer, when the sun was brightest and hotter than ever, and the days longer.
That however, was not on the minds of anyone present in the throne room that evening. Music played, entertaining the nobles as they chatted amongst themselves. The King had gathered them there to welcome home a soldier – an army, and no doubt to announce the end of a victorious war. The castle would be open for celebrations for three days, and the King would take no petitions from the peasants during that time, and had dismissed the rest hours earlier. The evening would be filled with feasting and merriment and there would no doubt be revelry in the streets for the common soldiers and mayhem for the City Guard.
There were a great many nobles present, Dukes, Duchesses, Countesses and Earls. That said, not all were present, but that did not matter, but it had not gone unnoticed. This King took refusal to attend to Royal summons as a snub, and he did not take well to slight. Although there was music, it was to fill the silence, as it was not the time for dance. The King had received a letter from the approaching army, stating that they would arrive by two hours past noon at the earliest. They were not far away, but it was almost that time of day, and still, the soldiers had not made an appearance.
Slipping his hand beneath the back of the veil obscuring the face of the boy at his feet, the King tugged softly at the soft white hair beneath.
Panic blossomed inside the boy's heart in response to the touch. The volatile King was most definitely in one of his darker moods, annoyed by the heat, irritated by the fact that his 'honoured guests' had not yet shown themselves, testy because the wine he'd been served a few minutes prior had not been quite up to his expectations. The boy panicked because his reaction needed to be perfectly aligned with what the King wanted from him at that particular moment, or his irritation might very well be directed at him and that...that he did not want.
For a few seconds, he remained as still as a statue (as he had been this whole time, still enough that the myriad jewels-all of them the most perfect of diamonds-either glued to his skin or dangling from his scant clothing or cascading down the dip of his spine-did not stir the light).
He turned to the King, ever so slightly, enough to give the monarch a subtle nod of the head in acknowledgement. A 'yes, my lord,' a 'what can I do for you, sire?,' a pet's well-trained and silently fearful response.
For a moment, the King's gaze fell upon the window, the skies were beginning to darken with the onset of rain and judging the speed the clouds seemed to be moving, the sun would not be out in force for much longer. And, as if to confirm his suspicions, the sound of thunder clapped in the distance, and the King couldn't help the smile that followed – the rain would be the only thing that had pleased the King even slightly that day. Turning to his little pet, he retracted his hand, fingers instead trailing over the curve of a fine, pale shoulder. "I'm of a mind to give you more jewels." He said and the thunder rumbled again and rain began to fall. "Would you like that?"
Mother Nature was out in force that day, it seemed.
"If it pleases your Majesty," the boy answered quickly, knowing the King did not like delays between his questions and the return of an answer to them.
This particular veil was inlaid with lace and jewels (and he had many), and it obscured his eyes and nose but left his lips open for view; puffy and perfect. A single diamond adorned each corner of his mouth. He'd been longingly watching the clouds through the windows, wishing for that freedom just beyond his fingertips but so far away, but with the King's attention on him so squarely he kept his eyes cast downward. Attentive, but reverent.
What did rain feel like against a person's skin? What did it smell like? How was the breeze of a storm?
"It does please me, my little Winterwalker." He said, seemingly ignoring his nobles as he spoke to his little creature, pale as snow and skin as cold as ice. Even amongst his own people, this boy was a rare beauty – the embodiment of ice and snow and to own such a creature - rarer still now that his people were all but gone, fed the King's shallow desires to possess what others do not – cannot.
Reaching down, the King trailed his thumb over those exposed lips – lips the colour of blood diluted in melting snow, a soft pink with a hint of something more dangerous beneath. "I will have you tonight." He said with a note of finality, though he did not pull away from his toy. In fact, he opened his mouth to speak again when entrance to the thrown room was flung open, and the door slammed violently against the walls, rattling against their hinges.
An Armoured man , followed by a small procession of six armed guard, all of their faces obscured by their black armour. All the men knelt at the foot of the throne. The man at the front of the procession – whose armour was different, inlaid with gold filigree that lined the edges of his armour, like grape vines twisting around one another – withdrew his sword from his scabbard and knelt as well, his sword point downwards, his armoured head bent low, hiding golden eyes, his only distinguishable feature, from view.
"Forgive my lateness, Your Highness."
The soldiers' entry was a blessed distraction, causing Jack to sigh out the breath he had been holding.
He had also turned to watch, along with everyone else in the great hallway, and his hidden gaze had naturally been drawn to the man who was the apparent leader of the small military group. He watched as he dropped down without hesitation (Jack knew what hesitation looked like), with conviction. That…that was a man of servitude.
He'd die on the battlefield if it meant he could get out of the King's clutches.
Funnily enough, Jack sometimes overheard concubines who actually liked this life; were thankful for it. Granted, there was no work and there was no dying from starvation or famine and there was no begging in the streets, but Jack, he'd considered this hell and always would.
There was silence for a moment before the King straightened and released Jack as he turned his attention to the soldiers, laughing boisterously. "And so the Warrior Prodigy returns!" He shouted, throwing his arms up, grinning, making a point to ignore the way the General's head lowered ever so slightly at the 'title'. "Come," He said "Stand up, up!" He said, chuckling still as Pitchiner obeyed, sheathing his sword in one fluid and practised motion, although he kept his head bowed.
"I am honoured to look upon you again, my King." Pitchiner said at last. "The thought that I might begin to serve you closer to home is-"
"Yes, yes. You missed me, I understand." The King said, waving the man silent "General Kozmotis Pitchiner..." He said, seeming to scrutinise the man before him silently for a moment. "I've heard a lot of stories about you."
Jack's pale eyes were huge behind the obstruction of his veil. General Kozmotis Pitchiner. He could practically hear the swooning of women (and men in denial). Jack shifted, his motion accompanied by the icy tinkle of countless diamonds. "...Kozmotis..." He murmured to himself. "Cosmos?"
Of course, his movements and his words did not go unnoticed, and in an instant, the King raised a hand and delivered a swift, hard slap to the back of his concubine's head. "General Pitchiner or Sir, to you." He snapped."And more to the point." He said. "Silence."
The General did not move an inch save to clench his jaw tightly, forcing himself release the tension there when the King turned his attention back upon him. "I heard you cut down one hundred men with...an impressive array of weapons.."
"I am well versed in various forms of combat." The General responded stoically.
"Ah, yes." Said the King with a grin. "Aren't you also in possession of the gift to manipulate Dream-sand?"
There was a pause, before Pitchiner gave a reluctant singular nod in affirmation.
The concubine braced himself against the floor as the force of the blow knocked him over, shaking his head as if to rid it of either the memory of the King's touch or the dull pain. When the King's attention returned to General Pitchiner, Jack's eyes fell genuinely murderous.
He was the prize colt still unbroken. He was the one who still had spirit about him.
When the King glanced back at him once more, he averted his gaze; when the monarch addressed another soldier, Jack's eyes fell on Kozmotis and did not falter.
The lack of a hasty response did not please the King, but but he would not publicly embarrass or punish a widely-loved 'Hero'. Not upon his return home. So, instead, he smiled tightly, "how rude of me!" He said finally noticing the way the soldier's armour was dripping wet, and his cloak was soaked through. "Take off your helmet, General." He said, tone, too cheery.
Watching at the other man obeyed, Pitchiner took the helmet from his head and tucked it beneath an armour clad arm, revealing sun-kissed skin and deep black hair with striking golden eyes. He bowed his head again, in silent thanks for being allowed to remove the article. He rather hated it, if he was honest with himself. Protective though it may have been, it was impractical in all other respects. Save for keeping his head dry, of course.
"So, tell me, General." The King started, conversationally. "What was the weather like abroad?"
The General blinked. He glanced out of the large window for a moment before he shook his head and turned to regard the King once more. "Terrible, Sire." He replied. "All sun, sea and sand." There was a brief pause in which the King took a moment to absorb the comment, and he laughed, which set of a ripple effect, some members of the court even giggling at the General's little joke.
Jack could have related to the hatred of impractical garments. He was perpetually covered in them (or, actually, not covered was a little more accurate). There was no denying the General's incredibly handsome appearance-and those eyes, they seemed to have a slight innate glow to them. Stupid as Jack thought the man was for so blindly obeying a cruel monarch, he could sense Pitchiner's aura was a kind one. Gold. Pitchiner's aura was gold.
Jack was good at these things. Sensing. The King liked to use him as a diviner of sorts, which Jack despised for many reasons; two of which being that he hated helping the King in any regard, and that the King became very angry when told things he did not want to hear about his future.
The concubine's lip quirked imperceptibly at the joke, the humour mostly lost on him through the filter of his hatred.
The feeling of eyes upon him was not unexpected in this room, as he seemed at present to be the main focus point at present, which suited him just fine. After all. He wanted the King's attention. Yet, there was something different, more intense than any of the others. While the others laughed, Pitchiner imperceptibly searched for those eyes.
It took him a while, given that those eyes were obscured by a white veil.
As soon as Kozmotis Pitchiner made pseudo-eye contact-as much as could be had with that damned veil blocking the view-Jack's mouth twitched into a smile that was as mean as it was alluring. Little puppet, it seemed to say, with the bad King pulling your strings.
That smile...those lips. Dangerous. The first word Pitchiner came to associate with the little white doll with what appeared to be little self-control. Rather than respond to the look in any perceptible way to anyone that mattered, Kozmotis simply blinked and dismissed the boy as he returned his attention to the King, whom hadn't seemed to notice the exchanged, which had lasted no more than a second.
"Your Majesty." Pitchiner spoke up again, as the laughter pittered away.
"General?" The King responded, feeling indulgent.
"I have a request to make." Kozmotis said without hesitation. He had known this King long enough to know that if you wanted something, you had to win him over first...ingratiate yourself with him.
"What might that be." The King smiled.
Raising an arm, Pitchiner turned slightly, giving one of his soldiers a signal to stand and leave the throne room for a moment, only to return moments later with the hand of a little girl in his own larger, armoured one. She possessed that same tanned skin and long flowing black locks, although the shape of her eyes was more defined, sharper and rather than gold, her eyes were a bright, rich green.
"This is my daughter." Kozmotis said as the other Guard released her hand and she hurried to his side. The resemblance was there, but there were clear differences. The announcement of course caused a wave a murmurs and hasty, shocked whispering. One woman even fainted.
"A Bastard." The King deduced with a slight scowl.
"Yes." Pitchiner continued without hesitation. "This is why I bring her before you, Sire." He said, his tone purposeful and held more back-bone in it than the King had heard for decades. "I wish to have her officially legitimised."
The King raised a brow. That was not usually something one did for their illegitimate children, let alone their daughters. Drumming his fingers against the arm of his throne, the King leaned back into it, contemplative...
Sanderson watched from an upper balcony inside the expansive throne room, his hands resting delicately one laid on top of the other against the obscenely intricate railing. It was carved with swirling, organic-looking patterns, almost as if vines and flowers had once twisted and thrived around the structure - but had suddenly turned to ivory stone.
He was a short man, shorter even than the King's tiny winter sprite, with golden-blonde hair just as unruly, golden skin and pale, yellow eyes. He wore an ornate gold coat inlaid with white stripes of patterns and a shimmering white cravat; a white gold head head ornament indicated his position as head palace physician. He was highly intelligent, quite cunning, and the only other person in the kingdom who could currently control dream-sand.
He was also under a cruel spell woven by the shallow, frightful King: the monarch hadn't approved of someone in his court possessing higher intelligence than his own, and so he'd taken Sanderson's voice to prevent him from ever again overshadowing the King in educated conversation.
His eyes followed the graceful, decorated figure of Kozmotis Pitchiner, his old friend, a comrade he'd once thought he might never see again- surely Kozmotis was not as blind as he seemed in his servitude to such a horrible king-
Jack watched him, too; daggers in his icy, vibrant eyes. He found it sickening. The only thing more nauseating to the concubine besides the King himself was a person who ignorantly worshipped such a horrible man.
It was that permeating, thorough illness of the soul that kept Jack going, that prevented him from taking his own life to end his suffering, his slavery. One day, he'd murder the King. He would paint these perfect walls with that man's blood. He would wash his face with it. He would wear those royal intestines as he now wore his magic-suppressing collar; he would hang his severed head and his eyeballs outside for all to see. One day.
"All right." The King agreed at last, ignorant of his concubine's hateful, treasonous thoughts. "I'll have her legitimised." He agreed, sitting forwards once again.
The General's lips twitched for a moment, in the beginnings of a smile, "If." He continued, which stilled the motion completely, and Pitchiner froze, wondering just what it was he would have to do for the King. He'd already gone to war for him – won that war, he'd practically just handed the King another country. "You give the court a demonstration of that wonderful work you can do with that dream-sand." He said, and Pitchiner felt inexplicably relieved. "A duel!" He said "If you can beat my good physician Sanderson, your Daughter and yourself can live without shame for the rest of your days, and you may pass all your belongings to your daughter when the time comes."
Without a family, a soldier's possessions and money went to the crown, and although Pitchiner owned very little, he possessed quite a bit of money. Fourteen years at war left very little time for house-hunting and a lot of time for saving wages. The General bowed. "As you wish." He submitted, plainly.
Grinning, The King glanced around and found Sanderson quickly enough gesturing for him. "Come the two of you are to prepare yourselves and you shall have your duel within the hour." He said, grinning. "Don't worry. You don't have to kill each other." Which no doubt Pitchiner was relieved about when his eyes travelled upwards and landed on the familiar, although much-changed blond. Again, he resisted the urge to smile.
His oldest friend. Sanderson Mansnoozie.
Of course, his gaze did not linger and he bowed again and tapped his daughter on the shoulder. She looked startled for a moment, before giving the King an awkward curtsy, and following her father hastily out of the room. She clearly had not been trained in the manners of court or courtesy. Some of the nobles couldn't decide whether the fact was adorable or disgusting.
As soon as the King turned around and, inevitably, looked immediately for his favourite concubine (it seemed to Jack that the man could not go very long without looking for the splendorous beauty of his pet), Jack's eyes shot away from the retreating figure of Kozmotis Pitchiner and his otherworldly insidious stare turned reverent, submissive, sweet. His mouth tugged into a lovely, sheepish smile and he looked down and away with the same bashfulness of a blushing virgin.
Inside his head, he remained in that palace room painted completely red with the blood of a monarch. He had become a master of disassociation over the years.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Sanderson felt a twinge of excitement. There was a little bit of life to his step as he swivelled on his foot and exited the throne room via an upper floor corridor. There was not much preparing to be done for him in order to duel, but he was eager to have a moment alone with his friend.
A light rap of knuckles on Pitchiner's door, in the rhythm of an old song they used to know.
By the time Sanderson made it to Pitchiner's room, the man had already taken off his breastplate and had begun take off his leg armour. He opened the door, smiling widely at his visitor, looking miffed for a second when a servant approached from the inside of the room and begun to unfasten the armour whilst he spoke to his old friend. Her had told the boy not to bother (aware that it was easier to get out of armour than into it without help), but if he was to chat with Sanderson and not be late for his demonstration, he might as well let the boy assist him.
He made a point to ignore the servant as he reached out, his hand cupping the back of his his;s friend's blond head as he pulled him into a hug, his other hand embracing the blond tightly. "Old friend!" He said. "It is so good to see you at last." He said as he pulled away slowly, moving then to rest his hands on Sander's shoulders.
There was a strange tingling sensation that Pitchiner tried for ignore as he looked into his friend's amber eyes...but something about it was not natural, but Kozmotis could not yet discern what it was that was wrong with his friend.
The General's presence and embrace lit up Sanderson's eyes. As Kozmotis held his shoulders, Sanderson brought up his hands and let them sit in a gentle grip on the General's forearms. He wanted so badly to speak to him, to say how he'd missed him, how happy he was to see him alive and unharmed and renowned. His hands moved to Pitchiner's face, and then to his upper arms. As if checking to ensure that he was solid and really here.
With a short chuckle, Pitchiner's own hands travelled to Sanderson's face, and he leaned in pressing their foreheads together before he tilted his head upwards and pressing a kiss to Sander's forehead. His finger's travelled lowered as they moved towards the blond's shoulders again, pausing only when the tingling sensation became stronger. Pulling away, Pitchiner frowned, brows furrowing. Tanned fingers moved to slide over Sander's neck.
"Magic..." He muttered to himself, his gaze finally meeting his friend's own, one hand moving to rest on his shoulder as the other moved to cup the side of the blond's face. "What is this?" Pitchiner asked. "What happened to you."
"The King took his ability to speak," Came a sultry voice from just behind Kozmotis, the servant bowing his head to the King's favourite concubine and scurrying off with his eyes reverently averted.
Jack walked right up to the General and took up the work that the servant was performing-removing Pitchiner's armour and straightening the garments underneath-but he did it quite a bit more quickly. The King would not be made to wait again today. And Jack would rather his mood not nosedive even more.
"One of you should take away the King's ability to breathe."
In an instant, Pitchiner's hand shot out and closed around the concubine's throat, lifting him off the group enough that his his toes barely brushed the floor. For a moment, Pitchiner wanted to let go – the other's skin was shockingly cold. He ignored it, "treasonous whore!" He growled out, his face less than an inch away from Jack's own. He only thanked God that his daughter was with another servant in a different room, washing and changing into fresher, more appropriate clothes for Court.
"I knew I saw evil in that smile of yours, concubine." Pitchiner's body was tense, as he watched Jack, still unable to see the other's eyes through the veil at this distance – unsure if he even wanted to. "I felt your hate and I am watching you." He snapped, his grip almost hard enough to bruise. "The only reason I haven't killed you is because you belong to the King." And he was willing to bet that the boy hated the fact.
Sanderson's small but surprisingly strong hands shot out to grip Kozmotis by his wrists, gently but firmly urging him to release the boy. He shook his head, quickly.
Jack had gone completely and utterly still until his weight was on his feet again. He rubbed at his throat, spoke quietly and with averted eyes- "I am none of those things by choice."
Sandy didn't look happy. He looked concerned, upset, brows furrowed as Jack continued to unlace and unbuckle the General's armour.
Sandy got Pitchiner's attention and communicated through a sort of archaic sign language that he just hoped Kozmotis knew. 'Not evil.'
Pitchiner's gaze narrowed upon Sanderson, thoughtful. He off-handedly shoved the Concubine off him and pulled his arm bracers off tossing them behind him on a nearby bed. It had been a long time since he'd seen that wordless script and it took him time to absorb it. He used to have an aunt whom was hard of hearing, and she taught him for a time, before she died. He'd had quite a firm grasp on it for a long time afterwards. "Not evil then." He snapped. "Just traitorous."
Sanderson didn't have time to further their conversation and Jack didn't quite have the nerve to tell the General that he wasn't traitorous if he wasn't a part of this kingdom. Jack's kingdom was no more. Jack felt allegiance to no-one.
He motioned toward the door, missing some of that grace that he forced himself to show when under the scrutiny of the King's watch: "...we should hurry. He will anger." The way the concubine spoke, he had a rather prominent accent; this wasn't his first language.
Forcing himself to calm, Pitchiner side, eyeing the other two. "Go on ahead." He said, very obviously reigning in his temper "I'll follow shortly." He said, before retreating back into his room, but not before giving Sanderson one more clap on the shoulder. He closed the door and threw off the rest of his armour as quickly as he could and he changed into a pair of trousers – black, loose and flowing at the top and tightening up around the knee to hug at his strong calves. Around his upper arms he wore armlets made of simple cloth and his torso was left bare. The traditional wear for Sand-weavers.