Hi Friends!

Thank you for reading and reviewing! I sincerely hope you enjoy where this is headed.

I forgot to let you guys know that there will be non-con in this story. Sorry...it's going to happen...(honestly, what else would expect of me? lol)

Please forgive my mistakes! It's late and I wanted to give you something to start your week off with.

Enjoy!

Derek swung his sword in a large arc, hitting the enemy soldier on the horse next to him. The other man took the staggering blow on his left shoulder and promptly plummeted from his saddle and down to the ground. The king didn't wait to see if the man was dead; for he was sure that the trampling of hooved feet would finish the job for him if need be. The young man just moved on to the next foe in line, letting out a battle cry as he renewed his grip on the heavy instrument of destruction that he was wielding.

Around him the battlefield was wrought in chaos. There were troops from both sides crying out on the ground, desperate for help that would never come. Derek did everything thing he could to mentally push past the shrieks of anguish that were swirling around him but he still found them hard to ignore. Deep inside his conscience was frantically urging him to jump off his horse and aid those in need and it was getting harder and harder to close his mental eyes against the carnage.

The battle, which was still currently raging around him, was of epic proportions. King Charles had sent over eight hundred men fight against Derek and his much smaller group of five hundred. Fortunately, Derek and Sir Hotchner had built up a strong army over the last four years, instilling in the men sword skills that were second to none.

The king was proud of his troops as they fought the larger contingent of soldiers. In the few moments he had between each attack he could see that the majority of injuries and deaths were wearing red and black, not Quantico green. It was a motivating factor that helped inspire his troops to fight harder; for they could see that they were more successful than their opponents. In fact, the opposing side's body count so far was due only to Derek's group alone; Sir Kassmeyer and his troops hadn't even sprung up from behind the enemy yet. Once that realization dawned on the king he knew without a doubt that the outcome of this battle was going to be in Quantico's favor.

The young monarch stole a huge breath and squared his shoulders. There were adversaries all around him and he couldn't afford to become distracted by ruminations. Out of nowhere a pain filled cry pierced the air and the Quantico standard bearer, a boy no older than sixteen, who had been riding next to him took a blade in the gut and fell off his horse.

Derek felt immediate remorse at the loss of such a young life. He was incredulous that any soldier on either side of the battle would kill someone so young and defenseless. It would take a warrior with a cold cruel heart to kill a child that was in no way a threat to him.

The king released a furious growl at the thought of having to tell this young man's parents the bad news. He looked up from the boy's body and straight into the face of the opposing side's commander.

The two formidable men sat face to face on their horses, as the rest of the battlefield seemed to disappear around them.

"What is your name, coward?" Derek demanded of the black man in front of him.

The older soldier man's lips formed a smirk, "And what, pray tell, gives you the authority to call me a coward, Your Highness?" The last two words were said in a mocking tone, meant to signify his contempt for the young monarch.

"Only a coward would kill an unarmed man," Derek snarled, his lip curling in disgust.

"Man? Hardly? More like a boy…tell me, Your Highness, do you purposefully surround yourself with delicious looking children. I mean really, if I wasn't trying to win this battle for King Charles I would be more concerned with capturing some of your soldiers and taking them to my bed," the older man laughed with a sick sparkle in his eye.

Disgusted by the man's admission, Derek raised his sword and shouted, "You will never get the chance!"

The other man raised his blade high and countered, "We'll see about that, Your Highness. Oh, and you can call me Buford."

Derek barely had time to process the man's name as Buford's sword swung down and narrowly missed his left shoulder. The king, spurned into action, jabbed his blade straight at the knight commander's heart but his attack was easily deflected by the veteran soldier.

"You'll have to do better than that, boy," the knight called out, disrespecting the younger man on purpose.

"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet," Derek sneered confidently as the two circled their horses around one another.

The monarch took his time, looking for a weak spot but keeping up his defenses.

"I believe that! But that is not threat – because there is so much more of you that I would love to see," Buford taunted, licking his lips as if he was tasting a delectable sweet treat.

Unable to contain his anger and revulsion at the knight's obvious tastes, Derek released a mighty roar and feigned a hard swing toward Buford's neck. He halted the blade's arc in midair and redirected it toward the knight's wrist.

Unfortunately, the commander had more experience than Derek and was able to spot the fake attack. He dipped his head and shifted his horse away from the knife's-edge. He had managed to weasel himself into Derek's space their horses practically touching, and jabbed his elbow into Derek's chin.

The king felt the blow and blacked out momentarily.

"Open your eyes and look to the sky, Your Highness. Let the last sight you see be me," Buford shouted from his perch up on his horse.

Derek shook his head back and forth in an effort to clear his vision. He blinked his eyes and was greet by the site of a gray stallion framed by a baby blue sky. The shadow of a man tipped over the side of the horse, revealing Buford's visage.

The other man jumped down off his horse and stood over his prey, a triumphant smile on his face. "I'm sorry that I won't be able to enjoy your youth, boy. I'm sure it would have tasted sweet." As he discharged his final torment from his mouth he swung his sword up high and brought the tip down, stabbing it into Derek's stomach.

A torturous groan issued forth from Derek's throat as his vision faded. His last thought was of Spencer's crooked smile and his regret for breaking his promise to come home.

Spencer struggled with all his might against the iron grip that was pulling him away from his home. He needed to get back to his mother; he had to see if there was any way to save her. He knew the likelihood of her surviving the stab was low but he couldn't give up hope.

Not knowing what else to do he brought his hands up and scratched his nails deep into the man's forearms. He dragged them all the way down the exposed flesh, accumulating pieces of skin in the crevasses along the way.

"Gah!" Raphael exclaimed at the sudden stripes decorated his skin. He dropped Spencer down to the ground and gave him a swift kick in the ribs. "You fucking piece of shit. I'll teach you to not to hurt me!" The man punctuated each word he said with another strike to the boy's midsection. The co-king waited for the man to stop before he rolled himself into a ball and coughed uncontrollably. He then over dramatized his reaction to his injuries in the hopes that the man would let his guard down and give him a chance to escape.

So, he turned his back toward the man and groaned in pain as he clutched his stomach. He listened closely and soon heard Raphael ask a squire to run and get him a few bandages for his arms. While the other man was sufficiently distracted, Spencer heaved himself up on his shaky legs and took off at a sprint.

The former slave aimed his sights on the barn off in the distance. He hoped to reach his horse and run off into the woods; there he could lay low until it was safe to come back to the castle and pick up the pieces that remained.

He had gotten halfway to his goal when his legs were suddenly hit with heavy weights that were attached to ropes. Two of the three stone balls delivered mighty blows to each limb, knocking him off his feet, while the third wrapped the rope around both legs, entangling them so he couldn't get back up.

He ended up falling flat on his face in the dirt; the right side took the most abuse due to the sharp pebbles and rocks that were hidden by the grass. His hands were splayed out at his sides from his attempt at softening his fall. As he gathered his senses he gently moved his right hand up to his cheek, inspecting the gashes that marred his tender skin.

Moments later the sound of boot clad feet assaulted his ears, inciting Spencer to open his eyes and see the source of the noise land right in front of his nose.

"You sure are a dumb shit. Did you really think you were going to get away from me?" growled the grizzled man.

Spencer remained silent as he tried to regulate his breathing in an effort to stave of the impending panic attack that was slowly building in his chest due to his failure.

"You're lucky that the king wants you alive because if it was up to me I would have killed you for what you just pulled," Raphael muttered, kneeling down next to the prone boy in order to bind his limbs securely.

Spencer tried hold back a sob of defeat when he felt Raphael grab his arms and force them behind his back. The rough ropes twisted around his wrists, locking them together tightly. "You could let me go. I'll just run off into the woods and I won't come back. You could tell him I tricked one of the other guards and then I'll be out of your hair," he suggested as his bindings cut through his paper-thin skin.

"Keep wishing," he said, ignoring the kid's feeble plea.

"But it's wrong to take me from my home, my friends…my…my family," he said, trying to appeal to the man's sense of decency and avoid saying Derek's name at the same time.

"Right or wrong doesn't matter. All that matters is if it is the King's will," Raphael said emotionlessly.

Spencer gulped at the response, knowing that there would be no reasoning with this man. Instead he sucked in the groan that was threatening to break loose and allowed himself to be thrown over the man's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The journey to King Charles's tent didn't take long and before he knew it Spencer was sprawled out on the hard ground. He rolled over onto his back and looked up at Raphael. The soldier didn't pay attention to the king he had mistaken for a slave and set about prepping the room.

While the other man was busy off in the corner, the young king took a moment to observe his surroundings. Unsurprisingly he found that his rival monarch's lodgings were extravagant, even by kingly standards. The man had everything a normal bedroom would contain and then some.

For starters, the fabric that surrounded them was of a brilliant golden brocade etched with Charles's coat of arms. It was a thick cloth that easily kept the wind and rain at bay while making sure the ruler housed inside would never experience an uncomfortable temperature. Off to one side there was a large ornate tub tucked into one corner, empty for now, but waiting for later when the king would want to enjoy a soak after a long day. In the center of the tent sat the fire-pit. It was small but effective, roaring away with the help of at least ten thick logs. Over the flames was a spit that had some unfortunate creature roasting and sizzling as its fat dripped down into the fire. Above the blaze, in the roof of the tent, a vent had been constructed in order to give the smoke a route to escape. Then there was a massive oak table set up next to the pit that had foods that Spencer had never seen before spread out over its vast expanse. The former slave marveled at the fact that all of those delicacies had to have been brought along on the campaign just to satiate the selfish king. Beyond that, an enormous wardrobe was stationed in the corner overflowing with costumes and regal attire for the King to don while he was at war.

Of course, none of those showy pieces were even able to hold a candle to the bed that King Charles had forced his servants to bring along. It was a massive piece of furniture that would easily hold up to seven adult sized bodies. It was covered in a deep red velvet blanket and at least ten pillows of varying sizes and shapes. To top it all off, the frame of the bed was accentuated with four posts that narrowly scraped the roof of the tent and were connect to each other via another wooden frame. There was also a curtain that matched the bed spread draped around the upper supports that had golden thread woven throughout it. The fabric hung down from the two posts near the headboard and could be brought about the bed when needed to allow the king some privacy while he slept. As Spencer gaped at the bed he realized that the tent must have been constructed around it; for it would have been too large to carry through the slit in the fabric that was used as a door.

"Don't even think about trying to escape boy," Raphael growled as he made his way back over to Spencer.

"I…I wasn-"

"Don't lie to me boy. I could see your roaming eyes looking for weaknesses," the man snarled, grabbing the former slave's hair and forcing his head up to meet his gaze.

"I-I-I swear I wasn't l-look-"

A loud whacking sound resonated throughout the room after Raphael's hand connected sharply against Spencer's injured cheek.

"I can't abide liars," he said gruffly, grabbing his captive under his arms and dragging him over to the bed. The man made fast work of retying the ropes around the former slave's wrist so that he was now fastened to one of the bedposts.

"If you can't speak the truth, then you don't get to talk at all," he said furiously as he grabbed a handkerchief out from under his armor and fastened it around Spencer's head.

The young boy bit at the foul tasting cloth and did his best to give the man a ferocious glare.

Raphael laughed at the kid's attempt at intimidation, "Next time learn to tell the truth. It will help you greatly when the king questions you later. He has less tolerance for liars than I do." Once he had concluded his sentence the knight stood up from his crouched position and left the co-king all alone in the tent.

"Your Highness!"

"Your Highness, can you hear me?"

"Your Grace, you need to wake up."

Derek could hear the persistent voices penetrating the darkness that surrounded him. His abdomen was radiating waves of pain, its throbbing matching the beating of his heart. He let out a pained groan and felt the fog that had been obscuring his consciousness clear a little.

"That's it, Sire. Open those eyes."

The king moaned again but he reluctantly followed the orders of the concerned voice that belonged to Sir Hotchner.

He blinked multiple times as the light of the sun constricted his pupils. He realized that he was lying on his back with a few soldiers milling around him.

"What happened?" he croaked out, squinting his eyes until they grew accustom to the bright beams.

Hotchner sighed and kneeled down next to the cot that was supporting the monarch. "You were knocked off your horse and stabbed in the gut."

His injury seemed to flare to life with the knight's reminder. He brought his hand up to the wound and tried to press on it to assuage the stinging. Unfortunately, his actions did the opposite of what he intended and caused more pain to flow through his body. "Oh god…How bad?"

"We almost lost you, Your Highness."

"How…how did you…"

"You were lucky. Right after you were stabbed Sir Kassmeyer and his troops showed up and distracted your assailant from finishing the job. My squire was able to get over to you during the confusion and he pulled you out of the fray and to our physician," Hotch explained.

"Buford…"

"Pardon me, Your Grace?"

"My assailant…he said his name was Buford."

Derek noticed how Sir Hotchner's face grew dark at the man's name. "Do you recognize his name?"

"Yes," the knight gritted out.

"And?"

"He was here the last time King Charles came to visit. I didn't get to interact with him much but I heard rumors…," he trailed off.

"What do you mean, rumors?"

"The other squires told me to steer clear of him. They said…they said that he liked the taste of fresh meat."

Anger flashed across the king's face. "I'll lay odds those weren't just rumors. He alluded to his tastes when we were fighting. He said…he said-" Derek cut himself off from the rest of his sentence when he remembered there were more people listening to his recapitulation than just his friend and confidant.

Hotchner could tell that whatever was said between the two had shook his king to the core. "It can wait, Your Grace."

Derek nodded, thankful that the other man was insightful enough not to push him. Suddenly, he realized that he had no idea what had happened throughout the rest of the battle. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around himself frantically. His eyes scanned the area around his prone body and didn't see any signs of danger. There were just soldiers milling about getting food, resting against trees, and taking care of the other injured fighters.

He turned his discerning eyes back to his faithful friend, "The battle?"

"We were triumphant, Your Highness."

Derek let out the breath of air he had been holding and relaxed back onto the cushioned bed, "Triumphant?"

"Yes. Thanks in part to our tactical decisions. They honestly thought they had us for a minute but when Sir Kassmeyer and his men came over the rise they saw that they were outnumbered. Instead of staying and fighting it out till the bitter end Buford called a retreat and they galloped off with their tails between their legs," Hotch said with a satisfied smile.

"Cowards," Derek remarked.

Hotchner hummed his agreement and stood up from the monarch's bedside. "Get some rest, Your Grace. We'll start our journey back to the castle tomorrow."

The young king, whose eyes were practically closed, jolted up from the bed and cried out, "Spencer!" He pushed his aching body up with all the strength he could gather and turned to put his feet on the ground.

Sir Hotchner reacted quickly to Derek's alarm and put his hands on his friend's shoulders, pushing him back down. "No, Your Grace. You must rest. Your injury was too severe for you to be up and about right now. You are in no shape to ride with that wound and the physician said that you shouldn't even attempt to walk for another two days. He's afraid that you'll bust open your stitches and bleed out."

"I don't care. It's been over two days since Anderson rode out to let us know about the attack. Who knows what's going on at the castle! I have to – we have to get back!"

"But it is not safe for you to travel. Tomorrow is even going to be precarious but we're fashioning you a makeshift carriage for you to ride in when we leave in the morning."

"I can ride a horse just fine! Now get your hands off of me!"

Hotchner stood strong, never letting his grip weaken.

"Let go! You don't understand! We left them practically defenseless…my mom…our friends...Spencer…he could be…they could be…"

"Dead," the knight said blatantly.

Derek flinched at his friend's blunt word.

"Trust me, Your Highness, I do understand…Haley's there too," the knight said compassionately. "But we must keep our heads and not go storming off in a fit of emotions. This country cannot afford to lose you too! We will do this smartly and safely and arrive back at home in one piece. And whatever we find when we get there we will confront together."

The king hung his head in defeat. He knew his friend was right but that didn't stop his heart from aching at the thought that his beloved was dead.

The tear tracks from earlier had dried on the boy's chapped cheeks. His eyes had run out of moisture to shed a few hours ago and since then he had been trying to get the image of his mother out of his brain.

At the moment he had his bound legs stretched out in front of him and his head leaned back against the post. His mouth was dry due to the cloth absorbing all of his saliva and his throat was scratchy and raw. His fingers were hanging limply behind his back, numb now due to the rope cutting off his circulation. He had worked on freeing himself the whole time but the knots never unraveled.

The co-king was just about to allow himself to try to sleep when a trumpet blared outside of the tent and the door was pulled back letting in a large gust of cold air. Spencer's eyes snapped open instantly and watched as the king stalked menacingly into the shelter.

"I don't understand! Are you sure your men searched everywhere?" he growled on his way over to the dining table.

"Yes, Your Highness. I double checked everything." Raphael stated, following behind the man.

"And what about your men?" Charles demanded of the younger man whose name still eluded Spencer.

"My-my men were v-very thorough, f-father. We found no sign of h-him or the other courtiers," the boy said nervously.

A snarl escaped Charles's lips at his son's response. "Then where the hell is he? Our spies were very adamant that he has been here the whole time. I want to leave more than the body of the queen mother in my wake. What could be better than the King Derek coming home to see his young lover's head on a spike up on the ramparts? That would definitely convince the naïve child that he needs to give me what I want."

Spencer's brown orbs grew wide at hearing his fate if Charles discovered who he actually was.

"We will look again tomorrow, Your Grace. And this time I will bring in the dogs," Raphael said.

Charles grunted at the man's plan and sat down at the table. He then waved at the other two figures in the room to join him and started to tuck into his meal.

"What would I do without you, dear brother?" the king said between mouthfuls. "Definitely not rely upon my son."

The young man flushed at his father's callous comment and tilted his head down in shame.

"Ha…truer words were never spoken. But nonetheless, I will find him for you."

"What if you don't?" came the boy's meek voice with a tiny bit of heat behind it.

"What was that Tobias?" Raphael demanded, not used to the boy being antagonistic.

"I said, what if you don't find him. Did we really just come here to kill King Derek's lover?"

Charles sat down his fork on the table and stared at his son. "No boy. We did not come here just to kill the king's husband. Our main goal is still to seize the major access points to this country's lucrative resources. We will secure the waterways for transporting goods and then we will move further into the country and harvest the minerals and timber. There is much money to be made off this land and it's high time that it fills my coffers."

"So we're just in this for the spoils of war?" Tobias asked naively.

"No son! The most important thing that we will receive when our side is victorious is power. Soon enough the world will learn know my name and cower at my feet," Charles gloated. The arrogant man took a long swig of his mead after his diatribe and let out a mighty belch.

The young man looked at his father with trepidation and simply said, "Oh."

"Speaking of spoils…leave me. Now," Charles ordered with an evil glint in his wolfish eyes.

Raphael and Tobias both got up immediately and left their unfinished meals on the table. They both knew not to protest their sudden dismissal or else they would have the wrath of the king to face.

Spencer, who had been watching the whole exchange from his position against the bed, started squirming against his bonds in distress. The tent doors swished shut and the young man held his breath in anticipation of what Charles would do now that they were alone.

Strangely, the king continued to sit in his chair and finished his meal. The mighty monarch didn't seem to be in any rush as he savored each bite of his mouthwatering fare.

Ten minutes later the man finally set his fork down and pushed himself away from the table. He ambled off to the other side of the tent and soon after Spencer could hear the trickling sound of the monarch relieving himself in a chamber pot.

Once he was done answering the call of nature, Charles slowly stepped toward the bed. When he got close to the restrained captive he crouched down and stared deep into Spencer's eyes.

"Raphael told me about your disobedience earlier. He also told me about how your tongue has tendency to lie. I do not tolerate any of those qualities in the people that surround me, especially not from a slave," Charles stated, his words accentuated with a dangerous tone.

Spencer, unable to move, did the only thing he could and tilted his head down away from the man's scrutiny.

The king snarled at the loss of eye contact and grabbed the young man's bony chin, forcing it up so their gazes would meet.

"You will learn, boy…oh will you learn. In fact, your first lesson is going to start now."

Spencer cringed back into the post, his deep pools that once sparkled with laughter and amusement now shining with intense terror.