Archive of Our Own

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom much like ours, there was a long and terrible war which raged far longer than the memories of most and beyond the lifespans of many who were caught in its path. Some say the soil is still red with the blood of the fallen, and everything that grows there is stained with it.”

“Why were they fighting, father?”

“Well,” said King Graham, hoisting his beloved son upon his knee, “there were two monarchs who each wished to rule the land. It was rich with magic and gems and all manner of strange creatures, and its people were the wisest of magicians. And the rightful queen of this land, she left the throne untended for a very long time for her own reasons, so others began to lay claim to her kingdom.”

The prince frowned. “Where did the real queen go?”

King Graham shrugged one shoulder and bounced his knee, jostling a smile from the prince’s lips. “Some say she went looking for the source of all magic,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Did she really? Did she find it?”

“We’re getting away from the story, my little cub.”

“But did she?”

King Graham smiled, and his eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “I think if she hadn’t, she would have come back.” The prince’s eyes widened, wonder and possibility dancing in their depths, and King Graham added, “Would you like to hear the rest of the story now?” The prince nodded, rapt, and the king went on. “There were two neighboring countries which put forth the greatest claim on the abandoned throne. The first was ruled by Etta the Raven Queen, third of her name, who was a first cousin of the kingdom’s missing monarch. The second was King Vilkus of the Antlered Throne, who was vicious and cruel and had an army to rival any in the five kingdoms today. Some say his army could rival all of them together.”

The prince snorted. “There’s not that many people in the whole world.”

“The world is far larger than you yet know, little cub.”

Though he scrunched his face and seemed unconvinced, the prince asked, “Well… but they stopped fighting one day, right?”

“Oh yes. After ages and ages of the Raven Queen’s magic and the Antlered Throne’s armies clashing, the forests were growing weak and the magical creatures were fleeing. Both sides recognized that the war must end, or there would be no prize left to claim.”

“What did they do? Who won?”

“They both did, in the end,” said King Graham, softly. “They reached an accord. Etta and Vilkus were wed, and their kingdoms united. They had become the most powerful single nation in the history of these lands.”

“And… that’s why the five kingdoms cracked the world? To send them away?”

King Graham nodded. “They were very dangerous apart. Moreso together. And when we heard word they were building a bigger army, with all his might and all her sorcery… We had to act. Our grandsires gathered the greatest minds and strongest sorcerers in the five kingdoms, and even made deals with creatures of magic. The crest of the feathered stag was broken, and the kingdom cracked into many disparate pieces, and the sea rushed in to fill the spaces between. Those who still live in the Shattered Isles are savage and brutal because they must be in order to survive. They are little but pirates and mercenaries. Their ships harry ours in the Ashen Sea, and across the Rift. And still, though lifetimes have passed, our borders and those of Selke are constantly needled by raiders from the Isles.”

The prince pouted. “And that’s why I can’t go out to sea.”

King Graham kissed the top of his son’s head—a curly mop of chocolate brown curls, like his dear mother’s—and said, “For now, my cub. When you are grown, and strong, we will talk. I know very well the call of the sea, and I like to think myself a wise enough father to know how foolish it would be to bar you from it forever.” King Graham gently pinched the prince’s cheeks and said, “But promise me that when the day comes, if you see a black ship on the horizon, you’ll flee, no matter what colors they fly.”

“What if they need help?”

“Will. Promise me.”

Prince Will, firstborn child of King Graham, promised his father when he was eight years old that he would flee any black ship which crossed his path. 

Twelve years later, a strong and beautiful young man sails the Ashen Sea in a custom skiff with rich turquoise sails which blend in with the crystalline waves. He has two large hounds with him, trained by now against barking at the playful mermaids splashing alongside the ship (but wary, still, of the maidens’ sharp teeth). He feels free with the salt spray upon his cheeks; as the wind fills the sails, so too is his heart filled with a joy he seldom feels elsewhere. 

He is a dutiful prince. Many afternoons, he can be found out in the city, among the people. The citizens of the kingdom of Mediena adore him, and he does all he can to improve their lives. He has always had an uncanny knack for recognizing what people need, or what they feel, even when they try to hide it. He’s built shelters for families who were cramming into one small house. He argued to increase the quality of food provided to Mediena’s poorest citizens. He fought for public education and access to health for all. He even founded the kingdom’s first free, public library with books from his personal collection. 

But, these last few years, it’s been different. 

Will adjusts the tension of one of the lines to better catch the wind and sighs, listening to the intermittent babbling of the mermaids. He can pick up about every fifth word, but he would know what they were talking about regardless. It’s the same thing everyone has been talking about since he reached the age of majority and drank from the ritual cup.

He had not woken as an alpha, like everyone had hoped, but he had also not woken as a beta, which would have been the likeliest outcome.

No; of course he had had the misfortune to present omega. And a male omega, at that. 

His parents, the other leaders of the five kingdoms, and even the people had been overjoyed. Ecstatic, really. There hadn’t been a royal omega in any of the five kingdoms yet this generation, though one of the princesses of Ulpes was expected to present that way. The last male royal omega anyone could remember was more than two hundred years ago. It was known to occur among the citizens a few times a year, but such a remarkable anomaly was rare enough to pull a family out of poverty, with the right suitor.

Two years after the announcement, everyone is still talking about how exciting it is that their perfect little prince is such a rare and unique specimen, in need of protection and care.

It makes him feel sick.

He’s not supposed to be outside the castle unescorted anymore. Even the mermaids know that. They’re talking about what a young, unmated omega is doing out on the water where anything could smell him. He would point out to them that there is nothing else to smell him, or at least nothing that would take interest, all the way out in the middle of nowhere, but his Mer is barely passable and it would only embarrass all of them. 

Then one of the mermaids squeaks and hisses something that sounds like hide, and Will is no longer so confident in his isolation. He scans the horizon and, just barely, he catches the silhouette of a black ship, sails shredded, main mast splintered, smoke rising like steam from the deck and the still-glowing patches of singed port-side hull. The rope in his hand slides a few feet in his slack grip, and the sail begins to billow out. His hands are raw by the time he regains control, and he squeezes his handkerchief in his bleeding fist, chewing at his lip.

He should run. He sits at the tiller and his less-injured hand hovers overtop. The ship is silent. No movement. He can’t smell anything yet, not even the smoke. He could still get away. 

But… somebody might need help.

His dogs are growling, low in the back of their throats. Will glances down at his clothing. It’s practical. Not identifiable as a prince’s garb, he thinks. He doesn’t bear a royal crest or the wolf’s head sigil of Mediena. 

He sails closer to the black ship. Decision made, apparently, damn the consequences. 

As he gets closer, he can smell the smoke, the burning timber, and blood. It’s overwhelming enough that he can't pick out any individual scents, so he’s pretty sure no one will be able to smell him either. He pulls up close to the side of the singed ship; it’s a frigate so it’s far bigger than his little sailboat and he needs to first tie his boat in place and then clamber up a gnarled, half-tattered net in order to actually see anything. 

The deck is littered with bodies. Some of them are from Selke but most are raiders from the Shattered Isles, bearing the sigil of the feathered stag. Will frowns. His father always said that sigil was broken and no one followed the royals in the Isles anymore. He always implied the two of them had been killed in the cataclysm. 

There’s a clatter from belowdecks. Will’s steps are slow and deliberate, at first. When the door down to the hold swings open, a plume of smoke spills out and Will immediately takes a deep, clean breath, then plunges into the darkness in search of the sounds of life. 

There are no visible flames on this level; they may be deeper in the bowels of the ship. Will’s eyes water as he hurries through the thick, cloying smoke. He sucks clean air through the portholes meant for the cannons and dives deeper, his shirt over his nose and mouth. 

Eventually he finds an overturned wooden table with a beam partially cracked and pinning it directly on top of a man surrounded by a puddle of mixed, coagulating blood. The man is coughing, gagging, gasping, fighting for each breath. He freezes when he sees Will and evaluates, his eyes watering even as they tick across Will’s features. 

Will can’t tell anything about him except that his eyes are almost as red as the blood he’s laying in, and that he’s going to lose consciousness soon. Will shoves the beam with all his might, and the man manages to drag himself free. His leg is bleeding profusely, and Will staunches the wound with his blood-spotted handkerchief. He ties it tight, his insides crackling and jolting at the sight and scent, and hoists the stranger to his feet with tingling limbs, numb from the shock of the viscera. They manage, together, to hobble to the surface, and to the clean air.

He sets the man down, leaning against the railing beside the lifeboat winch. Now that they have reached the deck, though the scent of ash and blood is overwhelming, Will is getting just the barest hints of alpha pheromones from the man.

“Was there anyone else down there? Anyone alive?” Will asks.

The man’s head is tilted to one side. He slowly shakes his head, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Will. He doesn’t seem wary, exactly, but he’s certainly cautious which makes sense given his injuries and his apparent isolation.

“Here,” Will says, and offers the stranger his waterskin. “I didn’t see anyone alive up here either. You might be the only one who made it out.”

The man inclines his head and drinks. His face is still bruised, bloody, and covered with soot. He’s broad-shouldered, but then so is Will after so much time sailing. He’s not acting differently toward Will now that they’re away from the smoke and most of the blood, so Will supposes either his nose is broken (which it very well could be, given the state of his face) or he’s inhaled so much smoke he can’t properly scent Will anyway. He’s dressed like every sailor Will has ever seen—practical, sturdy clothing, good boots that are made to grip the deck no matter the weather, a wide belt which is empty now of sword or pistol. His hands and forearms are black with blood and soot. No markings, tattoos, or sigils Will can see, but he definitely isn’t from Selke. Not with hair so fine and eyes so red, nor cheekbones so sharp they could slash through the ship’s hull.

“Do you need help getting your lifeboat in the water?” asks Will, gesturing toward the winch. 

The man thinks for a moment, tests his weight on his bloodied leg, then shakes his head, apparently satisfied. 

“Okay. Well. I should go, then.” At the man’s quizzical look, Will admits, “I’m not supposed to be here. I was always told to avoid black ships. I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least look, in case anybody survived and needed help.” He also doesn’t want to stick around long enough for the man to catch the scent of omega on the handkerchief and realize what he lost out on.

The stranger inclines his head again. He pauses, drinks from the waterskin, coughs, and then points to his own throat with a sharp scowl. He gestures to the prince, tilting his head a bit further. 

“Oh. I’m Will.”

The stranger smiles. He tries to hand the waterskin back, but Will shakes his head. 

“You save what’s left while you wait for somebody to find you. Should be almost full. Last you a few days, if you’re careful. I’ll be okay.” Will’s eyes drop to the wound on the man’s leg. “Keep the handkerchief, too. It wasn’t exactly clean, but better than nothing until you can get real treatment.” He doesn’t make eye contact (because he doesn’t like to, and because he’s a bit embarrassed thinking about the scandal that would erupt if anyone found out about him handing a handkerchief drenched in his scent to an enemy alpha), but he does look at the man’s mouth as he says, “Farewell. I hope you make it home safely.”

The man mouths farewell, as well as another word Will can’t parse, and then Will leaves him to his fate. His hounds are anxious, but as well-behaved as ever. They nose and whine at him for a moment as he unties the anchor line between his sailboat and the frigate, but as soon as he’s striding across the deck to get himself safely away from the other ship, they return to their designated safe spots to lay down.

Will sails home without looking back. He’s done his good deed for the day. All will be well. And the Isles, as it happens, have at least one polite resident.

He is practically frog-marched from his private dock to the throne room before his ship has even been properly secured. For the next few weeks he is followed everywhere by a pair of very diligent personal guards, and just when it seems the chaperoning will end he is informed that his official declaration of availability for courtship will be sent to all the kingdoms before the end of the month. 

He will be officially seeking betrothal from a worthy bride or groom, and likely competition to court such a rare specimen will be fierce. It would be wildly inappropriate for an unwed omega in the midst of seeking his mate to go scampering off into the city alone, heaven forbid sailing. 

The missives and official letters of invitation have been drafted, royal portraits copied and enchanted (a better likeness, the mages said, came from sticking on just a few hairs from the head of the subject), and the royal seal set to each envelope. A dozen go overland, and five are sent by sea. Not all of those ships make it back, but they never do.

Word arrives from seven of the noble houses they had alerted, from kings to countesses, that they will be sending their suitors post-haste. Will is also informed at the next council meeting that he will be escorted on a tour of Mediena’s major cities in two weeks’ time in order to provide opportunities for the commoners to see if they are, by chance, their prince’s fated mate. Such things are rarer now even than a royal male omega, but tradition dictates the tour go on.

Will tries not to think about it during the meeting. His focus is on the topic of the Isles, and rumors of a more organized settlement attempting to curb the raids and, allegedly, establish some kind of sovereignty. The kingdom of Selke insists that there have been black ships with red sails, flying a cracked feathered stag sigil with the gaps filled by gold thread, which have been intercepting raiding vessels for at least a month, but likely longer. They have also apparently recently rescued Medienan sailors who were attacked and found themselves sinking.

King Graham is skeptical that Islemen would be so gracious, but Will cuts in with an impassioned speech about rewarding good people and not punishing for the sins of a country’s grandsires.

“Isn’t it our duty to try?” Will says, bright with life and the fire of righteousness. “Shouldn’t we seek to grow beyond the actions of our forebears, just as this new monarch is trying to do?”

So, with great reluctance, the order is given to treat the ships flying the reconstructed sigil as, at the very least, neutral. It is Selke, ultimately, who will first open communication with the new kingdom, but Will cannot pay that the attention it deserves. 

One morning, four days before he is to leave for his city tour, Prince Will reaches for his half-empty glass of fresh apple cider and his hand passes right through it. When he stands, startled, he expects the chair to jolt beneath him, strike his thighs, perhaps topple over; instead, he finds himself standing inside the seat of the chair, his legs disappearing into the cushion with an ethereal wisp of smoke curling from every point of contact. His body appears spectral, ghostly, rendered still in full color but barely an afterimage of what it was moments ago.

He can’t feel anything.

His scream sounds hollow and echoey, even to his own ears.

His family, and the palace’s staff, fully panic alongside him. He can still speak to them, can hear their wails and hyperventilation, can ask if they feel his touch and hear their voices crack as they tell him they feel nothing from him. 

He can no longer touch. There is no temperature beyond a general sense of physical comfort—balmy, not the summer’s heat nor winter’s bite—and neither wind nor rain disturbs him.

He has been rendered incorporeal, like a ghost, and it is soon clear there is no fixing it.

The castle’s mages try spells, rituals, and charms, but all fail. The city’s mages try poultices, potions, and all manner of herbs, but those fail, too. The kingdom’s mages try invocations, chanting, and prayer, but even with incense swirling within and around him, his form remains wispy and intangible.

Experts from every corner of the five kingdoms, from every court, come to offer their services as soon as word spreads. Curse-breakers with impeccable records come to see him and determine only that whatever magics have ensnared him are deeply powerful, ancient in source, and common cures will not suffice.

Uncommon cures are attempted. They sprinkle him with blessed glacial waters from the far north, where unicorns are said to find respite. They encircle him with ash recovered from a crater in what is left of the continent to the south, said to have been all that remains of a great battle between the earth and the stars. They hire a sculptor to make a perfect recreation of clay, animate it, and attempt to bind his spectral body to the clay. They try fairytale cures from old tales, like three drops of blood drawn by a rose thorn mixed in a silver bowl with the milk of a pure white goat. They try burning the harvested mating glands of deceased alphas and putting him in a tiny room filled with the smoke. 

An old omega cunning woman, after looking at him for only a moment, declares that there are only two ways to break his curse: either the caster decides to let him go, or true love’s kiss will set him free. Will is, perhaps, the only person in the kingdom who fully believes her.

Though he is a cursed specter, once the panic dies down he is still expected to engage with his courtly duties. It’s difficult for him to stay present, despite how hard his family tries to keep him involved. He still has suitors, oddly enough, though most serious talks of courtship have been postponed until the curse is lifted. He must still attend council meetings, and speak at court, and assist with arbitration. He still goes into town atimes, to visit the library he founded and to check that the people’s needs are met. He is escorted by soldiers at all times, though he remains much beloved and impossible to touch.

He has passed a dozen years this way, now.

At first things weren’t so bad. He could go into the city or the gardens, he could speak with his family or the courtiers, he could attend festivals or plays, he could even read in the library with the help of his escorts. He has even sat for two new royal portraits, as his appearance has changed as he has aged. But as the weeks and the months and the years have worn on, he has found himself feeling more and more that waking life is no longer real for him. Reality has, instead, grown within the world of his dreams.

His first night in the dream world was actually his third night cursed. He did not sleep at all the first night, and the second was a fitful series of nightmares interrupted only by the unsettling sensation of gasping awake in a cold sweat whilst entirely incapable of either sweating or breathing. 

The third night, though, he had fallen into an uneasy sleep after a long day of attempts to fix him and then… he had woken in a field of amethyst-tinged grass, knee high and soft to the touch, swaying in a breeze which he could feel upon his cheek. He had sat up and looked out upon a lazy silver river, thick with fish. There was a massive, gnarled black tree nearby, boughs heavy with aubergine leaves, roots twisting out through the riverbank and onto the water. The sky was pale lavender, the clouds lilac-gray, and all he could see were rolling purple hills dotted with black trees and distant ruins.

There was that, and the raven. 

It sat upon a crumbling stone wall near where Will had woken, head cocked curiously to one side, watching him with intelligent red eyes. 

He had just laid back down, too exhausted and grieved from his ordeal to pay much mind to a strange dream, and had allowed himself to enjoy the feel of the earth beneath his fingers, the touch of the grass, the kiss of the wind. 

He had been back there every night since.

He had, after a few nights, cautiously left the riverbank behind and started to explore. The raven had followed wherever he went, no matter how far he roamed, and he had at some point thought to look up at it, perched upon a shattered battlement, and ask,

“Don’t you have more interesting things to do?”

“I find this perfectly interesting,” the raven had said, and Will’s surprise must have been obvious. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing specific,” Will had said. “I’m just looking.”

“Is there anything you would like to find?”

“Not at the moment.”

The raven had nodded, and fallen silent. Will had not spoken to it again for several nights. 

“I’m cursed,” he had said, seated between the roots of the huge black tree. 

“I know,” the raven had replied. 

“How do you know?”

“You would not be here otherwise.”

Will had frowned. “Are you cursed, too?”

“Yes,” the raven had said. “Though the nature of my curse is different.”

“So, you’re real, then. A real person.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a name? I’m Will.”

“Will,” the raven had said, and it sounded very much like the name was rolling around in its beak, or the mouth of the man who spoke through it. “A pleasure to meet you. I do have a name, but I cannot share it.”

“Because of your curse?” At the raven’s silence, Will had said, “Then what should I call you?”

“Friend,” the raven had suggested, and Will had actually smiled.

The time between waking and sleeping grew tiresome, in some ways. Rote. Get out of bed. Sit at the breakfast table. Sit in the garden. Attend court. Settle a dispute. Sit at the lunch table. Read in the library. Afternoon tea with a visiting suitor, maintaining the relationship for when the curse was lifted. Sit in the courtyard to watch the soldiers train. Allow the mages to try to break the curse. Sit at the supper table. Read and answer correspondences. Wander the halls. Finally, back to bed.

Nights with his friend were different and exciting. They explored together. They talked of many different things, from philosophy to art to medicine to politics to simple pleasures. Will complained enough about his day to day duties that admitting he was a prince was less a reveal and more a confirmation. They did not discuss whether or not the raven had heard of him, but Will got the impression he had.

His friend did not always appear as the raven though; sometimes he would be a large cat not unlike a panther, sometimes a fox, sometimes a great serpent, sometimes something else entirely depending on his mood, but always he was smoky and black, and always he had those same maroon eyes.

All that aside, Will had realized with some bitterness that even in the dream world, he was kept at a distance. His friend would stay close enough that conversation did not require the raising of voices, but always up on a branch or a wall or a respectable two meters away. He supposed the charitable explanation was that they were both trapped in this place, and Will was a prince—an omega, no less, though it was unclear if his friend was able to tell as much in the dream world—so the distance was out of respect. An alternative was that his friend’s curse disallowed him from contact, even in the dream. But Will, who spent ten to twelve hours unable to interact with anything or anyone in the waking world, grew so desperately tired of the physical isolation after nearly two years that he felt he would lose his mind if he did not at least try.

They had been sitting on the bank of a small silver-gray pond, full of black reeds and purple lilypads and indistinct fish. Will’s bare feet were drifting in the cool water. His friend, in the form of a large black otter, was lazily floating along the water’s surface, well out of reach. 

With some disgust, Will had tossed a partially shredded leaf into the pond and said, “Do you stay away from me because I’m a prince, or because I’m an omega?”

The otter had cracked one eye open and replied, “Pardon?”

“It’s definitely an issue of propriety. You’re well-mannered.” Will watched the otter, frowning. “You have some kind of formal education. Etiquette training. One might say you’re courtly.”

“Is that meant to be taken as venomously as it was said?”

“No,” Will said, pulling his feet from the water. He tucked them beneath himself and began to braid a few blades of grass. “It’s just… I’ve seen it my entire life. Dealt with it my entire life. And I’m sick to death of it. It just got worse after my coming of age ceremony and my presentation.” This time the word was meant to be taken with venom. He looked to the otter, who passively drifted along the opposite bank. “You’re an alpha.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. I figured. You knew I was omega, because you’ve heard about the cursed prince of Mediena, but you can’t actually smell me, can you?”

“No. Scenting only works on one’s physical body. We are mere projections.” The otter tilted his head to one side. “How did you know?”

“That you can’t smell me, or that you’re an alpha?”

“Either. Both.”

“It’s because you keep trying,” Will had said. “You watch me a lot, but you keep your eyes closed more often than most alphas. You rely on your sense of smell more than anything else in your waking life. You get frustrated when you realize that you’re not getting anything, and when you realize that you’ve let yourself relax even though you can’t be certain where I am. Usually after I’ve been quiet for a long time. Highly acute sense of smell, then, but hearing and sight are the only tracking senses that work here. I’d guess you’re a thoroughbred.”

The otter chuckled and paddled to the edge of the bank, where it shook out and transformed smoothly into the large obsidian panther shape.

“If I did not already know you were omega,” his friend practically purred, “your attention to detail and striking ability to read me, even across various bestial forms, would have been all the proof I needed.”

Will leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and demanded, “So which is it, then?”

The panther had blinked, slow and languid. “Which…?”

“The reason you stay away from me. Which is it? My title, or my presentation? Are you being polite as a courtier? Are you being proper as an alpha alone with an unmated omega? Or is it some combination of the two?”

His friend’s laugh had been low and rumbling. “Ah. I see. Tell me, Will: which reason have you been hiding behind?”

“Excuse me?”

The panther sat, its tail wrapped around its feet, and those sparkling maroon eyes glimmered at him from across the pond. “You are upset that I have not crossed the distance between us due to one set of rules or another, yet I could make the same argument about your behavior. I am a mere count. As crown prince, would it not be improper for you to engage so casually with a courtier of such a lowly rank? I am an unmated alpha. As an unmated omega, is it not improper for you to spend unsupervised time with me? As the future King of Mediena, the thrice-blessed Omega Prince, cursed though he may be, is it not improper for you to spend unchaperoned time with any individual of any rank, gender, or designation, without following the channels of proper courtship?” The panther smiled. “Well? Which reason is it, your highness?”

Will had glowered. Stood. Stalked around the edge of the pond.

Sat, with a harrumph, directly beside the panther, and stuck his feet back in the water.

“All my life,” he had said, his voice low and tight with barely-controlled rage, “I’ve been told who I could and couldn’t approach. Where I could and couldn’t go. When it was and wasn’t appropriate to laugh, to speak, to smile, to nod, to…” He had choked and growled. “The rules don’t apply here,” he declared, with a quiet vehemence which reverberated in his chest. “To either of us.”

He had placed a hand upon the panther’s shoulder. A tingling zap zipped from his palm to his chest, shocking him to his core.

His friend was warm.

He had not felt the touch of another living thing in more than two years. And his friend, still and silent and somehow still visibly pleased, was warm and soft and leaning into his touch. He had slid his fingers deeper into the panther’s coat until his nails reached skin, chasing the shock of a real connection, chasing that feeling of surprise from that first touch, and though he did not find it, he had looked up into the curious red eyes of his friend and, with true delight, he had laughed.

He supposed things would be different after that, but they didn’t truly change until nearly a year later. Indeed, he would lay sometimes between the roots of a great black tree, with his friend’s body warm at his back rather than the rough, cool bark, and occasionally he would bury his face in his friend’s feathers or fur in order to scream or sigh about some new absurdity at court, but otherwise they treated each other the same. It was almost funny how easy things could be without pheromones involved.

But then, a little before the third year, halfway up the steps of a ruined tower which had appeared a few hills over from the riverbank, Will paused with his foot still lifted partway in the air and glanced over at the raven sitting in the gap of a slim window.

“You’re always something that kills,” Will said. “A predator. Why is that?”

The raven had said nothing, and Will slowly lowered his foot to the next stair, turning his attention back to the next landing.

“I said I wanted to find something new today. And then we did.”

Still, the raven said nothing.

“When we first met you said you knew I was cursed because I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Silence, but for the flutter of wings as the raven moved to the next window, above him on the landing. He looked up, his expression schooled to neutrality.

“It’s you, isn’t it. You cursed me.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a good reason?”

The raven ticked its head from side to side. “Yes.”

Will stopped on the landing and peered out the window at the rolling periwinkle hills, nodding.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s head for the top.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Will said.

“I expected more questions.”

“I already know the answer to the important one.”

“Which is?”

“No,” Will replied, starting on the next staircase. “You cannot or will not lift it. Which means I’m stuck in here, and you are the closest thing to a real connection I have. By design, I’m sure, but if I punish you for what you’ve done by denying you the company you clearly desire, I’m punishing myself just as harshly, if not more. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“Not even the reason itself? Only whether I believed it a good one?”

“Would you even tell me the reason, if I asked?” The raven was silent, and Will snorted. “That’s what I thought. Come on.”

And so, though he knew now the full nature of his predicament and knew at least in the dream world who to blame for it, Will had simply done what he always did with situations beyond his control: he found a way to make it tolerable, or even pleasant. As far as he was concerned—despite the way each passing hour seemed to siphon realism and solidity from the waking world like so much sand trickling down to weight the base of the hourglass—the fact of the matter was that nothing he did in the dream actually mattered. It might feel real, and, hell, it often felt like the only thing that was real anymore, but it was still just a dream. He could do anything he wanted there in order to pass the time, to make his life tolerable or pleasant as the case may be, until the curse ended or Will’s life did. 

He was still aging, after all. Though his hair did not grow much, and his beard stayed as little more than close-cropped stubble, there were clear signs. Clearer, perhaps, in the reflections he caught upon the ponds and pools in the dream, but still visible in the waking world in his ethereal state. He was a little taller, a little broader, his face a little sharper. He could only assume that eventually he would grow old enough to die, and with freedom more or less guaranteed in one way or another, he did not feel the need to deny himself the petty comforts offered by his captor.

Should he hate the raven? Probably. But it had always been a struggle to really connect with anyone else, and despite everything else he really had come to see the raven as his friend. He allowed their friendship to deepen over time because, to his mind, there was no reason not to. Perhaps it was just the isolation and the loneliness clawing through his chest, but Will’s desire for some kind of connection overrode sensibility. He wanted more, and he would have it.

After all, the dream wasn’t real, and nothing he did here mattered.

In year six, the nature of their relationship changed. 

Captor and captive, in some ways, had fallen far behind them. Will rarely mentioned the curse, and his friend changed little other than to be more explicit about the fact that he was shaping the dream world for the two of them. They would swim together, or climb trees, or explore. Will would rest with his head upon whatever form his friend chose to take, his fingers idly twining in fur or toying with a tail or a claw, and his friend would rumble beneath him with contentment and they would often doze off.

One such day, Will had sighed and nuzzled close beneath the panther-form’s jaw and fallen asleep, only to wake in the real world with a sincere pang of disappointment. He attended court, where there was much discussion of the Mended Sigil and its curious ruler, a claimant to the throne of the Shattered Isles referred to as their Warrior-King; there was, apparently, talk of treaties with Selke, and potential recognition of a settlement serving as the Isles’ capital. This would lend strength to the claim of a new royal line, and possibly lead to the official reunion of the Isles with the five kingdoms. Will, naturally, urged his father to give thought to putting his mark upon the treaties. After all, this warrior king had, within the last five years, cracked down so hard upon the raiding ships that the Ashen Sea could nearly be considered safe, and getting in early as the wealthiest coastal kingdom on the continent with a primarily sea-faring potential trade partner could help Mediena to maintain its position among the other kingdoms. He asked if his father thought having the king of Selke make a proprietary trade agreement with the Isles during the very early stages of its reintegration, when the Isles were in a position to accept anything the kingdoms were willing to offer given their unstable footing, sounded like a wise course. He also reminded his father that this Warrior-King had thus far been nothing but a man of his word, and had saved countless ships, soldiers, and even coastal towns since his first missives had arrived.

His father had, after some thought, agreed. He was pleased with the wisdom and mercy Will was showing toward the situation with the Isles, and as a reward he had the soldiers take Will out to sail for a little while.

In some ways Will was pleasantly surprised and pleased that his father had allowed him such a concession.

But mostly, sitting at his sailboat’s prow, gazing over the sun-dappled waves, Will just wanted to scream. 

He couldn’t feel it, after all. Not the whip of the wind or the sting of the saltwater. Not the nuzzling his dogs still attempted from time to time which just passed through his hands. Not the warmth of the sun or the cool of the spray. He could not smell the sea, or the planks, or the pitch, or the sweat of the sailors. He could not taste the freedom of the water upon his tongue. 

He could hear the chatter of the mermaids, marveling at the sight of him, the magic radiating from him, how long it had been since they had seen him. He dared to meet their eyes and smile, though he felt it crack upon his face. The mermaids cast almost pitying looks his way, then disappeared into the depths.

He told his father it had been wonderful to be back on the sea, and thanked him graciously for allowing the outing. 

In the dream world that night, he paced up and down the riverbank, agitated, twining the false fabric of his false shirt in his false hands. The raven sat upon a rock nearby, unmoving. 

“Why don’t you ever appear as a person?” Will glanced at the raven, who only tilted his head to one side. “People are predator animals, too. And you have full control here.”

The raven shifted into something more fox-like, but smaller and with larger ears which twitched. “I have a measure of control. But this is your dream, Will.”

“What, so, because I don’t know what you look like, you can’t make yourself look like a person at all?”

The fox form shifted for a moment into a humanoid figure, all black, long and towering, with antlers beginning to rise toward the sky, then back again. Those huge ears flattened just slightly. 

“I am limited by how you are willing to see me.”

“I don’t think of you like that,” Will said, frowning.

“Not consciously, perhaps.”

Will chewed at his lip. “What do you look like?”

The ears twitched again. “What would you like for me to look like?”

Will’s mind, briefly, flickered to alphas he has known throughout his life. Men and women who were strong and graceful, warriors and dancers and fierce advocates, merchants with an eye for finding a weakness and digging in for the best bargain, teachers and guardians of the young who protected them and guided them with a ferocity and pride matched only by their own parents. Sailors who step foot on shore only a few times per year, whose great love is a demanding and tumultuous ocean. A particular sailor he hadn’t thought of in five or six years, handsome despite his bruised and broken face.

Red eyes. 

“You’re from the Isles,” Will said, and the fox stilled. Will gestured to his face. “The eyes. Islemen are said to have red eyes. I thought it was nonsense when I was a kid but I met one once and he had red eyes like you. I want you to look like him. I only met him for a few minutes so I don’t remember him perfectly, but he’s exactly what I want right now. And at least the eyes will match.”

The fox shape shimmered, dissipated, and reformed into a shadowy approximation of a man, with sharp cheekbones and few other discernable features. 

The man glanced at his hands and hummed. “You really don’t remember much about him.”

“It was years ago,” Will said, defensively. “And he was hurt. I could barely tell what he looked like.”

The figure hummed again, then those eyes—different, somehow, in a human face—turned toward him. “Was there a reason you wanted me to appear as your injured sailor, Will?”

“I want to go sailing,” Will blurted.

The figure blinked, slowly, like a cat. “I see.”

“My father, he sent me sailing today. As a… gift, I guess. But it wasn’t a gift at all. It just… it reminded me of everything I don’t have in the real world. It aches. I want it to go away. So. Take me sailing.”

And he had. They walked a little ways, over a pair of lilac hills waving with black and gray grass, and found a sparkling shoreline with a small black sailboat tied to a rickety dock made of silver planks. The dark purple sails were furled, and the deck rocked invitingly. Will had practically sprinted to board, touching the heavy ropes and dragging his hand along the tiller just to remember what it felt like. In short order he and his companion had sailed out of the harbor and into the vast, shimmering sea, clear and silver and purple and black the deeper they went. Will closed his eyes and leaned forward on the bow, relishing the salt spray and the flutter of his curls as the ship cut through the wind and the waves. 

“Will you tell your court?” his companion asked, softly. 

He could have asked what his friend meant, but he already knew the answer: would he tell his father that an Isleman was responsible for his curse?

“No,” Will said. “I don’t know why you did it. I don’t know if you did it for yourself or for someone else. I don’t know if your motivations, or theirs, were personal or political. And I don’t care. I won’t jeopardize peace with the Isles by making a claim I can’t even prove.”

“A noble sacrifice,” the figure said, with no hint of sarcasm or mocking. 

“A great ruler puts his people first,” Will said, sighing into the wind. “Besides. This could be a lot worse.”

They did not speak again until the ship docked and they had taken a seat at the edge of the pier, their feet dangling in the water. 

“Thank you,” Will said, leaning back on his hands. He smiled up at the wispy gray clouds. “I wish I had asked earlier.”

“You may ask for anything, Will,” his friend said, quietly. “If it is within my power, I will grant it.”

Will’s stomach clenched and flipped, but he sounded casual as he said, “Anything, huh?”

“Apart from the obvious,” the figure amended.

Will barked a laugh. “Right. Of course.” He leaned to the side until his head was against his friend’s shoulder. “I already said I wouldn’t bother.”

“You did.” His friend was, again, almost unnaturally still. “What would you ask for, then, Will?”

“What’s it like, being a count in the Isles?”

He took the nonsequiter in stride, of course, and tilted his head back and forth. “I imagine it is unlike being a count on the continent in many ways, but alike in the ways that matter. There is a great deal of tradition, and expectation, and pressure to do right by one’s family. Power is a more delicate thing to balance, I should think. Nobility is most often granted through right of conquest. Few families have held their titles longer than two or three generations. Once someone too weak became head of the family, they were swallowed. To remain head of a noble family there, one must be practical, and ruthless, and in some way frighten the others.” He paused, thoughtful or perhaps pensive. “It is… lonely.”

“Well. That’s the same,” said Will.

“That is the nature of your curse,” the figure said, softly. 

Will shook his head. “It was lonely before.” Those curious maroon eyes turned to him, and they quirked as though he had lifted an eyebrow on his pitch black, mostly featureless face. Will laid his cheek flatter against that immobile shoulder and felt the roughspun texture of a sailor’s cotton tunic. “Even before I came of age. You don’t really get to have friends, when you’re a prince. I think it’s the same for a lot of the nobles. Not all of them, of course, but… there’s politics to think of. Propriety. Implications. If I befriend the son of a duke my father spends a lot of time with because they’re coming to a trade agreement, am I really friends with him or was he just trying to keep me happy during negotiations? Alternatively, was I using my friendship with the duke’s son to get him to make a deal that was more favorable for my father, with some implication that I would either bless or ruin his family in the future depending on his actions?” He huddled closer, his body a tingling line from head to toe wherever he touched his friend. This was a thrill he had never been permitted to experience. “I am twenty six years old,” he said, softly, “and I have the slightest memory of playing catch-me-if-you-can with a bunch of other kids during a festival when I was maybe eight? And if you were caught, you had to give a kiss to the seeker. And I was very fast, which meant I was very hard to catch, but it also meant when I was the seeker I got to kiss whoever I wanted.” He paused. “That’s the only time that’s been true, in my whole life.” He huffed a laugh, then, and added, “Both of the kids I caught to kiss are still technically trying to court me. My father favors the woman, my mother favors the man.”

“And which do you favor?” his friend asked, setting a cool hand on top of Will’s where it rested upon his shadowy bicep. 

“Neither,” answered Will. “I was… infatuated with a local librarian, when I was a teenager. An omega. She’s married now, with a son of her own. But other than her, I’ve never had more than a passing interest in anyone.”

“Yet you feel lonely.”

“You know what they say. Alpha the body, beta the mind, omega the heart.” Some bitterness, in that. 

“In the Isles we say they are better called hunter-protector, builder-philosopher, and creator-destroyer,” his friend said.

Will scoffed, but stayed close. “I guess that’s fitting, with how sensitive omegas are.”

“Sensitive. Emotional. Loyal. Empathetic. Insightful. Calculating. Sharp-tongued. Unpredictable. Like an old god,” his friend said, softly. “There is no benevolence without wrath.”

“Are you worried I’m about to ask for something you’ll find painful?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You can just say no.”

“I could.”

“But you won’t. No matter what I ask, apart from the obvious.” Will sighed and leaned away. “Then there’s no point in asking. I don’t want it if you only do it because I ask you to.”

Slowly, his friend wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him back across the planks, until he was once again pressed shoulder to ankle against that mistform body. He looked up into crimson eyes and swallowed. 

“Anything you ask of me,” the figure murmured, “would be my pleasure.”

“But painful, too,” Will said, thickly, “because it isn’t real.”

His friend did not answer, and Will kissed him.

It was a slow thing, this kiss. The prince’s hands settled upon cheeks that felt so real and so warm, his mouth pressed soft and pliant against answering, hungry lips, fingers both long and strong firmly gripped him by the waist. It was… exploratory. He knew how to kiss. He hadn’t lied about being so young the last time he had gotten to kiss whoever he wanted, but he had sort of left out that in the years since—before his curse, at least—he had kissed others not necessarily out of desire for them but because he wasn’t supposed to and circumstances allowed for it to happen anyway. A stablehand here, a courtier there, a tutor now and then, even that librarian he had mentioned on one occasion. But none of them had, at the time, been the result of any real need or want for their company or their companionship. He had just read their intent, their desire, and had the opportunity to fulfill it. 

This was different. He could tell, now, with the trembling intensity of the lips straining not to push things too far, that his friend wanted him, desperately. Perhaps that was why he had cast the curse in the first place. It didn’t really matter to Will. He wanted this, too, if only because he had never had a chance to connect with anyone so deeply before. Captor bonding, probably, but he didn’t mind that, either. After all, it wasn’t real. 

And if his captor came to love and trust him enough to set him free, he could just marry and bond with one of his suitors in the waking world before anyone else could get a hold of him.

The next few kisses were slow, too. A few days from the first, Will tilted his head up toward the panther creature, batting his eyelashes just so, and it morphed smoothly into the humanoid figure, whose lips were already halfway to Will’s. They had been on the grass, then, beneath the wide black tree by the riverbank, and they had slowly kissed and shyly touched one another’s faces and arms and ribs, but no further. The day after that, Will had awoken on the riverbank to find his friend laying beside him, propped on his elbow, and those long fingers had brushed the curls from Will’s forehead as he leaned down for another slow, sensuous kiss which must have lasted for nearly an hour.

And then, physicality had become an even greater part of their relationship. They would play fight, or chase and tackle one another, or dance to music unlike any Will had ever heard. They were constantly touching, constantly in arm’s reach, constantly whispering in one another’s ear. It was inevitable, even with his friend’s constantly shifting form, that things would continue to escalate.

Near the start of year seven, while trade negotiations with the Isle were finally beginning and envoys were meeting on neutral islands in the Ashen Sea, the crown prince of Mediena moaned like a harlot in the crisp amethyst fields of his dream.

His friend, his captor, his count, had been wrestling with him in that smoky panther form, and one of those massive paws had dragged across his chest. Startling sparks of pleasure radiated from his nipple, and he could feel the shock of it reaching down through his navel and tightening behind his groin. He had gasped and arched, his body growing both harder and wetter by the second. The response was intense, particularly given the lack of any scent, but he figured his body was responding in every possible way it could because there was nothing to signal whether he would be mounting, or mounted. 

His friend had frozen, as he was wont to do when something new happened. He cautiously shifted to the humanoid form, but did not move any closer. 

Will was, for no apparent reason at all, panting, as though he had run for miles without end, and he could feel wetness begin to glide down his thighs and smear across his stomach. He raised a shaky hand to his face and found himself burning with what must be a dark, rich blush. He ticked his eyes over to his friend, mere steps away, fascinated and visibly aroused. 

“Do you want me?” Will murmured, his voice slightly muffled by the fingers still partially covering his face. 

“Yes,” the figure rumbled.

“How do you want me?”

“In every way,” came the answer, almost hissed from the darkness. “In all possible ways.”

Will hummed. “In the grass? On the dirt?”

The world shifted around them in a way he had never seen. Normally these alterations were hidden from him behind hills and trees. But this time, the whole landscape heaved and lurched around him, and when the swirling stopped he was on a low bed in a small cottage, the shadowy figure of his captor standing at the foot of the mattress.

“Anywhere,” the figure said. “Everywhere. But for your comfort, here, first.”

“First,” huffed the prince, and sat back on his knees, wobbling slightly.

His trousers stuck to his thighs and rubbed almost painfully against the head of his cock. Cold sweat gathered along his spine, and he tore off his tunic to remove the unpleasantness.

“Tell me what to call you,” Will demanded. 

“I cannot give you my name.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The figure shivered, and the eyelids fluttered. The shape flickered for a moment, then solidified again. 

“Count,” he said, his voice rough. “Or Captain, if you prefer.”

Will nodded, and slowly eased himself down with his head and shoulders upon the pillows. He did not break eye contact with the shadow at the end of his bed. When he was settled, he murmured, 

“Come on then, my count.”

The figure let out a strangled sound, pulsed into another shape for a moment, and then his mouth was searing hot against Will’s, his hands running along Will’s ribs, his thumbs dragging against Will’s hard nipples. Will moaned, and the sound echoed back, muffled, barely controlled. 

His trousers simply disappeared from existence, returning to the ether of the dream world, and the glide of the count’s hardness against his was exquisite torture. He gasped and dug his nails into the count’s back, squeezing his eyes shut against the extra stimulation. He could almost picture it in his mind’s eye: ash blond hair, the lips dipping in a severe and tantalizing bow at the center, strong chin, callused hands, muscles taut and wiry all flexing in his back, and those smoky maroon eyes drinking in the sight of the debauched prince.

Fingers trailed up his thigh, and he shivered, his breathing heavy and rapid.

“You are a remarkable creature,” came the sibilant whisper. “Like a symphony walking. Surely you were made to entice the gods themselves.”

Those fingers swirled around the aching, dripping, empty part of him, and he whined in the back of his throat. The response was something choked out in a language Will did not understand, and then two digits slid inside him, his body greedy and rippling until a third was hastily added alongside the others.

That was better, but still not enough. He ground his hips down, seeking more, deeper, fighting to contain the desperate sounds of pleasure and need threatening to tear open his throat. He lost that fight when the fingers disappeared, and again when he was quite suddenly and deliciously filled to the very brim. 

His moan was breathy, and husky, and his voice cracked around the words, “Oh, Captain—!”

The result was an answering whine, a shudder, and the sense that his partner was, at least momentarily, significantly larger, heavier, thicker, and Will had to bite hard on the man’s shoulder to keep down the guttural howl being wrenched up through his rearranged guts. Then the fit passed and the count’s movements went from erratic to controlled, from abrupt to fluid. From feral to careful. 

Will did not want careful.

He waited until the rhythm was set and the count was withdrawing, and then tilted his head back, exposing the column of his throat, and moaned, “Harder.”

Again, that sensation of a rippling form, and this time as the count lost control he could feel the thickness, the almost overwhelming size slamming into his body, the grunt of the beast atop him rattling his bones. Will squirmed at the sensation, imagined his stomach bulging, and a flood of sweet wetness eased the way for the creature’s frenzy even as Will shuddered and painted his own belly white, untouched but for the press of the body above him. He held tight to the creature, incoherent as he chased the internal climax rapidly building from the short, brutal thrusts sparking to life those neglected places inside him. Tears of overstimulation and perhaps euphoria sprang to the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed reflexively around the monstrous flesh as he came undone. The count, or the beast he had become, gasped for breath as it, too, found release, spilling so deep Will would have sworn he could taste it, were he capable in the moment of anything but falling into helpless, breathless laughter. 

The creature was slow to pull itself free of him, and the warm flood of spend that followed was somehow not as unpleasant as the empty ache. He wished they would have stayed tangled together longer; he wished, bizarrely, for the alpha to knot him, though that was typically only done for breeding purposes. He felt the bed dip as his count settled beside him, and then, painfully, all the fluids and even the stretch of his body were gone. The dream had claimed the evidence of their union, as he supposed it should. 

None of it, after all, had been real. It was all in his head, as it always had been, and as it always would be.

Will sighed as he finally opened his eyes, and found the creature—the count, his Captain—watching him.

It was the creature he had seen before, when he first asked why his friend was never in a human form. From crown to heel it was perhaps eight feet tall, though antlers sprouted gloriously from its head. Its face was humanoid but mostly featureless, though the sharp cheekbones and red eyes were still present as with its assumed human figure. The hands were enormous, with razor-like claws ticking against one another at the tip of each finger. Its lower body was a mass of fur and feathers, the feet cloven and clawed simultaneously. 

“Is this what you really look like?” he asked, softly.

“No,” it rumbled. “But it is what I am, after a fashion.”

“You’re a servant of the shattered sigil,” he said. “The old kingdom. The Raven Queen and the Antlered Throne.”

It inclined its head, but said nothing. 

Will could have asked more questions. In that moment, his captor was more vulnerable than he had ever been, and eager to lay himself bare in some ways. It would have been easy to get something, some kind of clue, some advantage. 

But instead, Will only closed his eyes again and opened his arms, inviting his lover, whatever his form, to curl up with him and rest. 

After a moment of hesitation, the weight on the bed shifted, and a raven hopped into the circle of Will’s arms to nestle down, its beak laid tenderly across Will’s shoulder.

For the next five years, the prince lived in contentment and even bliss, apart from the eight hours each day he had to spend in the waking world. True, he could spend time making a difference at court or reading or visiting with his people, and he treasured that time, but even on days where he felt he really hit his stride in negotiations he was still tormented by his inability to experience the waking world in any meaningful, tactile way.

In the dream world, he was kept warm and satisfied in the arms of the count. He was thoroughly fucked by man or monster on a nightly basis, and given that there was no lasting consequence their coupling was often savage and feral, leaving spatters of black blood sprayed across the sheets or the grass like ink from an overfilled pen. No matter how severely they bit or clawed, no matter how sore or stretched Will’s body became, everything was put to rights within moments of their separation. It was no less devastating the one thousandth time as it had been the first, but Will grew accustomed and even in some ways appreciative of the constant reminder of this world’s impermanence.

Sometimes he caught his companion watching him, tracking his movements with soft eyes. Sometimes the creature would pull him close and breathe in just behind his ear, as though perhaps this time there would be something for him to scent, and his great, heavy sigh would rattle with disappointment even as his long, powerful arms tightened around Will’s bare middle. Sometimes the humanoid figure would smile just so and kiss him, lips as delicate as the surface of a still pond, brushing more than pressing, and he would feel that smile grow broad as he pulled himself closer for a proper kiss.

The count never said the words aloud, but Will knew. He figured they both knew, just as they both knew it was better not to say anything at all. It would only make the distance, the transience, more difficult. For the count, at least. For Will, it would change nothing; after all, his imprisonment ends only with his death.

A dozen years since he was cursed, and the worst part about it now is that Will can no longer use it to get out of festivals and celebrations. The novelty wore off for the kingdom and her people, and even for those suitors still around. Trying to cure him has become a party game he is expected to tolerate. More irritating, really, is that on festival days he must remain awake for longer than usual. At least it provides stories to bring back to his count. 

This particular festival is meant to be a grand celebration of unity. The Warrior-King of the Mended Sigil has been recognized by the five kingdoms, finally, as a ruler of a sovereign nation. A treaty is being signed tomorrow morning which was first signed and sealed in Selke, passed to Ulpes, across to Bersikir, then to Pyrrbatyn, and finally here, to Mediena, where it will receive the last of the five seals and thereby the full acknowledgement and recognition of the Continental Kingdoms. It’s been so long in the making at this point it’s basically a formality, but emissaries from all the other kingdoms have come to witness the ceremony, which takes place tonight, and the signing itself the following day. The Warrior-King himself will be here to pledge his commitment to peace and safe seas.

He had, apparently, had an official coronation some weeks ago, which had welcomed envoys from each of the five kingdoms. By all reports the court was rustic but its members were deceptively well-versed in both Continental etiquette and customs, as well as quite happy to discuss both the difficulties and numerous benefits which had been the ultimate result of their pivot from raiding to focusing on the nurture and growth of their own lands and people. They had nothing but praise for their king, though they did often express that much of their initial justification for following him was fear of reprisal—he was, by all reports, unbeaten on all fields of combat, and had chosen to use his strength to force the Isles to reunite under his flag and adopt civilized, forward-thinking practices in order to rejoin the rest of society and thrive as a nation, rather than to merely accept the mediocrity of subsistence and die at sea like so many foolish warlords before him. While fear had been the foundation of his reign, the Warrior-King had earned the respect of his lords and ladies by always following through on his word. He had promised to make them all wealthy and comfortable and to increase quality of life in the Isles, among other things, and he had done it all with panache. 

Will does want to meet the man. He had, after all, been the Isles’ biggest advocate, at least in the early years. Selke’s king had become quite close with the Isles in the past five or six years, of course, but Mediena had never missed out on a trade agreement or treaty even before talks of legitimizing this king began, and that was in large part due to Will’s insistence that there was good in the Isles worth the risk and the chance. 

That said, Will does not want to be at this party. Already, his remaining two suitors have come to see him, mimed kissing his cheeks as though either was still interested in him beyond the opportunity he presented for them to fuck each other, and sauntered off to mingle, eat, and drink. His parents are seated in their great thrones, accepting tribute and acknowledging guests. There are a few villagers whose children have come of age, and they are introduced properly as adults, their presentations made public. No omegas tonight, though. 

He is in the little alcove which was built for him, where he can observe the proceedings and hold a small court of his own should others decide to come see him. Some do, of course. Some venture up and offer potions or herbs, or just to say hello. He speaks for a short time with the librarian and her wife, asks after their son, smiles and nods politely as they speak. Their pity falls upon his ethereal skin like a dusting of snow, too weak to stick and show to anyone else but cold enough for the chill of it to sink to his bones. Not literally, of course, but the discomfort of his figurative bones is enough for the prince to casually seek an opportunity to offer everyone a gracious goodnight. 

Even as he scans the crowd for a quiet corner or a gap he can disappear through, he knows he must stay. He’ll be expected to stand beside his father when the time comes for the ceremony. He can scowl about it, though. Internally, at least—all things aside, he’s still crown prince, and he must act like it. Near sundown, he steels himself and heads to his own throne, beside his father’s. Soon enough he will be able to leave and return to the dream, but he must get through this first.

On cue, the delegation from the Isles enters the room to bright, brassy horns and the thunderous applause of the attendants, a crowd swollen with courtiers, townsfolk, and visitors from far and wide. They are, most of them, big and broad, with hair ranging from silver grey to chestnut brown and eyes in every possible shade of blood, fresh and scarlet or dry and black. The man leading them, in a thin antlered crown made of braided wire, lets the adoration wash over him for a moment before he approaches the dais. He sets a hand to his breast and bows just slightly to the royals of Mediena before he rises, straight and tall, chin lifted, smile confident and relaxed. 

“We welcome you with peace and friendship, Hannibal of the Shattered Isles,” King Graham says, rising to tower over his guest. It visibly irks the Warrior-King, but only for a moment, and Will doubts anyone else caught it. “The crown of Mediena acknowledges your claim. Come forth, King, and drink from the cup of monarchs.”

A steward shuffles forward with a heavy golden goblet and offers it up to King Graham, who drinks and then lifts a hand toward King Hannibal, inviting him to rise up to equal footing. King Hannibal does, slowly, and reverently drinks from the goblet. A cheer fills the hall, and the steward takes the goblet as scribes come forth with the scroll case containing the informal, public version of the treaty.

“Here I place my name and seal, that none should deny your claim in the kingdom of Mediena. Here I seal the covenant of the five, that all in the Continent shall respect your sovereignty.” King Graham gestures to Will, whose valet smoothly steps forward. 

“Here my name and seal are placed, witnessed by all the people of Mediena, that the friendship of our houses should last even into the next king’s reign,” Will says, and his valet quickly stamps and squiggles in the appropriate spots. 

The Warrior-King looks at him for the first time, and Will is momentarily struck dumb. Those eyes. He would know those eyes—!

“Here I place my name and seal,” purrs King Hannibal, “to honor those who heard my claim. May we welcome a peaceful and prosperous era without end.”

Another uproarious cheer as the king of the Isles makes his mark, but all Will can hear is the ringing in his ears. He knows that voice. He hears it every night. 

There is a banquet, and Will has to slap the calmest smile he can muster onto his face as he follows his mother and father to the head table. He is to be seated beside his mother, and on his father’s other side will be his count, his captor, his absolute bastard of a friend. 

Somehow he passes through the first few courses without realizing. Obviously he doesn’t eat, and his mother seems fairly engaged in whatever father and the bastard are talking about, so Will simply pretends to lounge in his chair and watch the gathered crowd until he is rudely interrupted.

King Hannibal, quite suddenly, stands beside his chair, offering a hand. 

“What?” Will says, his voice echoing gently. 

“I wondered if you would be interested in a dance,” King Hannibal says, smoothly. 

“I’m afraid it would be wasted on me, your majesty,” the prince says, feigning disappointment. “Such is my curse. I cannot touch, nor can the touch of others reach me.”

The King tilts his head in that way he so often does, and Will responds with a smile on the sad side of placid and a hand waved through the arm of his seat to demonstrate the futility of the king’s request. 

“I had heard of this curse, but in seeing it up close I can only imagine the burden it places upon you.” He pauses, his eyes ticking to the king and queen. “I assume you have tried every remedy there is.”

“All that we know of,” his mother says, with a tight smile.

King Hannibal opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to say, “Forgive me for my impertinence, but I feel compelled to ask if anyone attempted a kiss?”

“A kiss?” The queen places a hand upon her chest, scandalized.

King Hannibal nods, solemn. “In the Isles, there is a tale of a terrible curse which caused a young princess to be lost in a land of dreaming. The only cure was the kiss of true love.” He pauses, absorbing the queen’s wide-eyed gawp, and his cheeks turn pink. “Ah. It was not my intention to… I must apologize for my forwardness. I do not mean to overstep, your majesties, your highness. Please forgive me. I only felt—”

“Compelled,” Will says, softly.

King Hannibal glances at him, then away, hurriedly, as though embarrassed. “Yes. Please, accept my apologies.”

“Nonsense,” says Will, good-naturedly. “It’s practically a tradition at these events for people to try to break my curse.”

“But, Will—” his mother starts, and Will stands, waving her away. 

He steps through the back of the chair, affecting a thoughtful expression. “It is unorthodox, to be sure. And yet, there is something…”

“Compelling?” his father suggests, with a hopeful lilt.

“Fated mates are very rare,” his mother says, warningly. 

“But tend to be drawn to one another,” his father argues. “Come now, my dear. The worst that happens is they pass through one another.”

Will and Hannibal are no longer listening to anyone or anything else in the room. Hannibal approaches until he is just shy of touching. They are similar in height, but Will tilts his head and looks up into those mirthful maroon eyes. Quietly, just for them (and perhaps the head table, and the servants edging closer) he murmurs, 

“There is something different about you, your majesty.”

“I could say the same about you, your highness,” breathes the Warrior-King. 

They kiss, and the whole world catches up with Will all at once. Lightning zips from his lips to his feet to the crown of his head as his body becomes corporeal once more. He stumbles back and King Hannibal catches him, keeps him from falling, and Will can feel the warmth of those hands, the fabric against his skin, the hot rush of air off a nearby brazier, the sweat at the back of his neck, the massive mop of curls bouncing across his forehead and cheeks, the gasp of breath tearing between his teeth and down his throat and filling his lungs, the wetness sparkling at his eyes. The quality of sound is so different! The shock echoes through the crowd and the stone halls, the rustle of his parents’ formal festival clothing as they shoot to their feet is overwhelming, the muttered prayers and godly praises of the servants burrows through his ears and into his brain, and Will can only stare into the molten red eyes of the man who cursed him. The man who holds him now, equally as enraptured, pupils huge, nose twitching.

Will remembers himself. An unmated omega, a prince no less, being publicly manhandled by a foreign king. 

He steps back, gently prying King Hannibal’s hands from his waist, and turns to his parents. 

His mother is covering her mouth with her hands, and his father is reaching for him. He goes to them, despite the barely restrained growl he hears just for a second at the back of Hannibal’s throat. He throws his arms around his mother and father and manages not to weep, though tears are certainly shed by all three.

Over the crown prince’s shoulder, King Graham manages to say, “Thank you. Thank you for giving me back my son.”

“True love’s kiss,” his mother sobs. “At last, at last, my darling boy!” She kisses his cheeks and holds him tight. “It’s as though you knew. You pushed so hard for peace with the Isles. And now—!”

“Fate drew you together,” King Graham says, and wipes a tear from his eye. “A sign from the gods.” He offers his hand, palm up, to King Hannibal. “What would you ask of me in payment for this miracle?”

“Only what I suspect fate would consider already mine,” King Hannibal says, and Will can feel his eyes boring into his back. “I would ask for the hand of the Crown Prince, who has laid claim to me, heart and soul. I would beg your blessing, King Graham, for the marriage of our two houses.”

Will can only nod, his eyes squeezed shut, his head tucked against his mother’s shoulder, but it is enough to sell the lie.

“You have my blessing,” King Graham declares, and the crowd erupts once more as the fate of their prince is sealed. 

Will tries, at first, to continue his routine, as though he does not wake sweating and gasping in distress from the first completely normal, unremarkable dream he’s had in twelve years.

It is almost immediately apparent the following morning that his senses are far too overwhelmed far too quickly for him to simply traipse about the palace, and he is not the only one experiencing an unexpected set of consequences related to his student physical reappearance. 

After he has enjoyed his first breakfast in a dozen years with his parents (and valiantly struggled with the almost nauseating experiences of tasting, chewing, and swallowing), Will attends the official signing of the longer treaty with the Isles. All seems well at first. He even exchanges a shy smile with his ‘true love’ which inspires a few warm, knowing chuckles from the other witnesses. He puts his own name and seal to the parchment, but as he is leaning over the lectern there is the subtle but unmistakable sound of at least four individuals in the room scenting the air, followed by shattering glass. Will looks up sharply, startled, only to see King Hannibal dazedly staring at the remains of a champagne flute in his bleeding, dripping hand. Will is pinned in place by the overwhelming rush of mixed scents in the room, from lust to fear to Hannibal’s cloying, possessive rage. 

It seems the courtiers, envoys, servants, and guards are struggling with Will’s scent, which he supposes must be overwhelming even for those already bonded. He is, after all, thirty-two years old and as yet unmated, and on top of that, everyone grew used to him having absolutely no scent at all. And, in honesty, their scents are not much better for him. He is lost in the feelings and thoughts of those around him, and on top of textures and flavors and bodily needs, he has a great deal to acclimatize to.

Will sequesters himself in his suite of rooms. The days and nights drag, but the weeks pass at a remarkable clip. He takes the time to relearn his way around his body and the real world in general while his parents handle the planning of his upcoming wedding. He does not see King Hannibal at all during this time, citing the incident the day of the signing as proof of the fables about fated mates. He acts embarrassed as he explains that he has read legends about fated mates whose love led to the razing of a city, in the days surrounding the consummation of their bond. He deliberately blushes a deep, dark red and his voice cracks a bit on the word consummation. The stewards and valets titter about it and word spreads throughout the palace that the crown prince fears his reaction to his beloved will be too strong for propriety’s sake. They are to be separated until the day they stand together in the temple.

He has very little to do with planning his own nuptials, apart from assisting to add a few clauses to the marriage contract, and the day of the wedding actually feels as though it sneaks up on him. The day itself is a blur right up until he is ushered out a vestibule door and escorted up toward the temple’s altar. Scents are less overwhelming now, but this many people is still a lot to process. Or, it would be, if he did not immediately lock in on Hannibal, whose scent peaks and sharpens as he becomes aware of Will. 

They approach the cleric from either side of the altar, their eyes locked from the moment they meet. The space between them seems to crackle. When they lay their palms together for the handfasting, Will’s breathing stutters for a moment and Hannibal somehow manages to conceal his shiver from everyone other than Will.

He doesn’t remember saying the words. He knows he must have. The guests begin to applaud, and when the two of them turn toward their audience, the cleric drapes the tri-colored cord around their necks and a flurry of flower petals is thrown from the balcony above, fluttering around them. They take slow, measured steps down the center aisle, hands clasped and raised delicately to just below shoulder height, and more petals rain down upon them from every row they pass. Will’s stomach is doing flips, and he cannot focus on the congratulations or the tears or the blessings. He cannot recall seeing his parents, though they must have been present because he is invited into their carriage on the return journey to the palace, while his new husband is escorted by his own retinue. 

They will not be permitted to be alone with one another until all of the ceremonies and rituals have been completed. It wouldn’t be proper, after all, for them to ravage each other outside the marriage bed.

Will is sort of able to dissociate during the celebratory feast, the ritual of cups, the lighting of the ancestral candles, all that. He has to be a little bit present for the reception, where representatives from the noble houses bend the knee to offer gifts and blessings.

Before he knows it, and well before he feels ready for it, he is led by his giggling servants into the anteroom of what will become their marital chamber. He is assisted out of the more complex pieces of his wedding suit, which are promptly whisked away, and when he has fully undressed he is bathed in scentless soaps and wrapped in a silk robe. The servants are actively trying not to gossip or offer advice as they lead him into the main room. Another handful of servants is turning down the bed, placing a warming pan under the coverlet at the foot, and setting up a tray on the sideboard with wine, meat, cheese, fruit, bread, and cream.

Hannibal emerges from another side room, looking far more comfortable in silk than Will feels. The servants rapidly excuse themselves, faces pink, smiles and giggles even more obvious than ever before. Hannibal and Will, though, are too busy watching one another to pay much mind.

The door snaps shut, then the lock clicks. They will have privacy until after dawn. 

Hannibal takes a single step forward, then pauses, his reaching fingers curling back toward his palm. He opens his mouth to speak, but Will decides enough is enough. He drops all pretense—no more stuttering, blushing, innocent and flustered little omega here, just a very annoyed prince asking the only question that still matters: 

“How did you do it?” he murmurs, settling his hand upon one of the bed posts. Hannibal tilts his head in that curious way of his, and Will huffs, his nostrils flaring with irritation. “How did you curse me?”

Hannibal blinks, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “My dear, sweet, breathtaking prince. Didn’t you know? There is no obstacle that cannot be overcome by true love.”

Will scowls. “Don’t get cute. It’s the only thing I still can’t figure out. And fuck you, by the way.”

Hannibal’s long fingers catch on a delicate chain dangling around his neck. He lifts a rather hefty locket from beneath his robe and his eyes glow momentarily as he snaps it open. Inside, even from halfway across the room, Will can see one of the enchanted portraits his parents had sent out to entice courtships. Tucked into the other side is a scrap of cloth, which Hannibal gently tugs free and shakes out. It is threadbare, and covered in dried bloodstains. 

The last piece clicks into place. Will drags a hand down his face. 

“Are you fucking serious? The sailor I helped, that was you?” Hannibal nods, and Will incredulously says, “That’s where all this started? I figured you saw the portrait and got obsessed that way!”

“I caught your scent through the smoke and the flames and the viscera,” Hannibal says, softly. “I knew then you were mine, and only mine.”

“Yeah. I got that part. You laid a curse on me that would specifically isolate me from other people. Blood curse. Old magic, ancient magic. From the time of the Raven Queen. Is that how you convinced the Islemen to follow you? Were you really a count, or did you lie about that?”

“I never lied to you.” He approaches, slowly, dragging his fingertips along the coverlet. “Do you know the story of the Isles? The kingdom claimed by the Raven Queen and the Antlered King was abandoned by a relative of the Raven Queen. Her name was Simone.”

“She left to find the source of all magic,” Will says, flatly.

“Yes. And she found it.” His eyes glow just slightly, and Will’s hair flutters about his ears. “I am a child of her union with the source. Some generations removed, of course, but with a true claim to the throne. Such as it was.”

“And you were taught your family’s magic. The lost sort, that supposedly died when the sea drowned most of your kingdom and took its rulers to the depths.”

Hannibal tilts his head from side to side. “Yes.”

He pauses, frowns. “So you seriously rebuilt the entire kingdom more or less from nothing based on an ancient claim that may never have been recognized all so you would have the legitimacy necessary to court the prince of one of the kingdoms that killed your ancestors and set your people back hundreds of years? And on top of all that, you cursed me with the intent of making it look like we were fated to be together so that nobody could challenge your claim either way?”

Hannibal shrugs one shoulder. “I have never been one to leave room for uncertainties.”

“You’re a complete bastard.”

“And yet you did not protest.”

Will scoffs and leans against the window, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares out at the dark city below. 

“Why would I?”

Hannibal chuckles and sidles up behind him, sliding his arms around Will’s waist. He settles his chin on Will’s shoulder and inhales deeply, then buries his nose against Will’s neck. With his lips dancing across his groom’s skin, he says, 

“You have never struck me as the type to give in so easily. I almost believed you did not know me, given how ready you were to give yourself to the king of a foreign land.”

Will snorts. “Sorcerer or not, king or not, bastard or not, I think you’re severely misreading the situation, Hannibal.”

“Oh?”

Will catches his eye in the reflection and the corner of his lips pulls up just slightly. 

 “Your power may be great, your majesty, but Mediena is much wealthier and boasts a much stronger military and a much larger navy. I didn’t give myself to you.” His crooked smile broadens. “The future king of Mediena has finally taken a spouse,” he says, softly, “and that means he is soon due for his coronation. I will be King Will of Medeina and Her Isles, and you, my dear, sweet, breathtaking Captain, will have the great honor of standing beside me as King-Consort. Or did you not read the terms of our marriage contract?”

Hannibal is still, the way he used to get in the dream world when he was processing something. His eyes dart back and forth across the glass, catch back on the reflection of Will’s eyes, and then he huffs and stutters a warm, startled laugh. 

His arms tighten around Will’s middle. “Vicious, conniving thing.”

Will’s smile fades and he covers Hannibal’s hands with his own. “Yes,” he says, almost in a whisper, “and that is why you love me.”

Hannibal turns him around and captures his lips in a long, slow kiss which draws a rumbling moan from low in Will’s chest.

“Yes,” he breathes. “That is why I love you, my prince.”

“Then love me, my count. My captor. My king. From now on, I want to be able to feel you come morning.”

And, laughing, taken to bed by the man of his dreams, the prince succumbs to the waking world at last.