Work Text:
His hunt had been successful, his way back devoid of bandits, his vision once more graced by the grand crystal palace sitting atop the mountain, its tallest tower glowing and shimmering in the light of the full moon. The forest was empty of sound, its critters having found slumber already, only the knight’s armor clattering and ringing with every slow step.
He had the head of his quarry hanging at his hip, proof of his mission having been honoured, and a trophy for his lord to do as he pleased with. It was the head of a once majestic creature, white and gold, in the shape of a winged lion. An otherwise magnificent beast, however threatening the subjects of a nearby village. And so the lord of the land had ordered him to slay it. An easy feat to one such as him.
The role of the knight had presented itself to him as a most magnificent gift, where otherwise he should've been hanged or beheaded for his crimes against the land. Having had the misfortune of being born within the opposing noble family, it meant that his father had been at odds with the ruler of the country for decades. The previous king perished, having named a successor right on his deathbed. And the newly appointed ruler seemed to be at least ten times worthier of the role. He rode alongside his men into battle, right at the forefront. He was a sight to behold, a sight which the now-knight wanted to experience himself.
The knight's father didn't even earn the right to face the new king. No, instead the prince slayed him with his very own hand, wishing to face the land’s ruler head to head. And for that, the prince then murdered and killed his own men. Once his father's soldiers, they now fell by his hand, one by one, neither of them being able to steal the chance of facing the king anymore. And when the prince was done with them, he moved on to the lord’s armed forces. They fell in droves, the man piercing through them as if to prove himself and his worth in front of the king. And eventually, it worked.
A messenger made their way into the ruins one day, barely able to utter the words written on the royal missive. An invitation to a duel. Immediately. The only stakes being each other's life.
The fight took place on the very same day that the message had been sent out. No other soldiers were in sight, no other court officials standing by to idly watch the bloodshed. The king himself, all alone, dismounted his war horse, smacked the animal’s hind so it would run off into the distance, and then simply took a couple of steps towards his opponent.
The destitute prince had to admit that he had expected someone of a different age and build. Possibly the usual gruff, tall, not entirely fit for battle middle aged man. Instead, he was faced with a man of rather average height, slender, fit looking, his leather armor giving everything away at first glance. How peculiar, not even a full plate armor. Was he really that sure of the duel’s result?
But the strange choice of armor was not the only thing that caught the man's eye. The new king looked rather young, perhaps close in age to the prince even. Such round features, fair skin… plump lips, sharp fox-like brown eyes, his face being framed by feathered long hair in a pastel pink colour, tips of several strands being a purplish shade. And out of the top of the king’s head sprouted two long and tufted rabbit ears in the very same colours. From a king who was rumoured to have cat-like features, to one who sports the features of a rabbit. His father would've scoffed at the sight, but the beastly prince found himself curious.
“Gawking, huh? And here I expected an ambush”, the Viera spoke with a snicker.
“Duel etiquette does not mention any ambush”
“Aaaah, respecting tradition? After decimating my forces for days on end? Hm… This is getting more and more unusual”
But the prince no longer responded, instead unsheathing the one singular katana he had brought with him. A simple looking weapon, the Viera thought, and if that was what he'd used against his knights…. This was a skilled fighter.
“Alright. On to work I suppose”, the king muttered to himself, unsheathing two blades from his back.
‘A Viper…’
The prince had heard of these fighters before, mainly from the many books he'd been through in the royal library, but he'd never seen a Viper in the flesh. All he knew was that he had to focus, focus on keeping up with the blows instead of being distracted by the Viper’s moves. Maybe if he won, he could show mercy to the king, in exchange for being taught how to fight like a Viper…and then he could get rid of the Viera at the end.
The duel began without much ceremony, the Viera opening the fight himself, seemingly trying to make use of the prince’s absent-mindedness. However, his dual blades were met by the man's katana, not only parrying his blow but also launching him backwards with great force. Much of the fight ended up being all the same, both sides attempting to disarm the other with powerful swings. The prince was in awe at the other man's strength and almost beastly launches. He did not expect Vipers to be so aggressive in their technique. The stamina that this man had to have was…magnificent.
But after at least an hour of trading blows, the two men seemed sloppy in their movements, slashes wavering, hands trembling on the hilt of their swords. And yet, the prince did not expect his opponent to suddenly…drop his weapons. The punch to his gut came out of nowhere, as the Viera had launched his whole body at him with all his strength. The move managed to disarm the prince, both men having landed onto the ground, the king mounting the prince, hands wrapped around the man's throat.
“You're…a great warrior”, the Viera spoke, catching his breath. “But oh boy do you…loooove to tease”, a smirk made its way onto the king’s face.
The prince laid on the ground, no defined expression on his face, simply taking his time to take the man's appearance and demeanor in. He could feel the Viera’s fingers curled around his throat, but without applying any kind of pressure. No killing intent it seemed. The man's knees also did not seem to squeeze his sides, the king instead choosing to fully sit on him. Nothing in his demeanour pointed towards potentially wanting to hurt the prince, much less to kill him as the duel was supposed to end. So then why-
“Your death would do everyone a disservice. Losing such a good warrior over…over nothing really”
“I have killed your men”
“We've all signed up for the job. We knew what we were getting into”
‘We…’
“Yield. And I will take you in. Dress you in heavy plates, arm you with my best steel. My home shall become yours and your strength shall serve as my own. Hunt in my name, and I'll repay you with as many duels as your heart desires”
“If you are looking to dull my fangs by trapping me within the confines of your castle, I have had enough of that…on account of my birth”
“And waste your strength on rotting between castle walls? I have plenty guards for that. No, no, you shall go out and return with my quarry whenever I request it. And if it pleases you, you may run fear into the hearts of any diplomatic visit that I need to host or go to. Your stature alone shall be enough for it”
“And if I refuse?”
“You may return to being a wandering beast. A wraith. You may even attempt to breach my castle walls. But I will not waste my breath on facing you again. You had every opportunity to knock me over and extinguish my flame. Yet you lay there and listen all the same. You want something new. Something better. I can tell that you find me interesting, even a little bit. Your eyes do not look entranced, they're calculating, analyzing, trying to figure me out, trembling with hope for someone worthy of your attention. Yield. Accept my terms. And I will be at your disposal to dissect me for however long you wish”
The prince seemed to have met his match when it came to talking. Perhaps even when it came to strength. It was true, he had every chance to murder the king in just one move, and yet he chose not to. Deep inside he’d wished for the duel to end differently very early on. And the chance for that seemed to show itself through the Viera's offer.
“I yield”, he bluntly stated, his eyes closing briefly in a slow blink.
“Marvelous choice!”, the Viera exclaimed, his hands letting go of the prince’s throat and instead pressing themselves together into a pleased clap. Immediately hopping off his opponent, the king extended him a hand.
“And what is the name of my newly appointed knight?”
“....Zenos. Just Zenos”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Years of service had passed, and the bystanders could only watch the knight from afar, each having their own views of the large mysterious figure coming and going from within the crystal palace walls. Where everything else shimmered and glowed, the knight was a dark presence within the court, both in appearance and in attitude.
His black and red horned suit of armour clashed with the otherwise idyllic view that the Crystal Tower embodied. To some, it felt like a demon was employed within the king’s guard, a dark omen haunting the palace, towering over all, looking down at them, or sometimes not even paying them any mind as he stomped his way out of the gates.
Others believed his presence to be a hint at the new king’s preferences. Perhaps the lord wished for mercenaries instead of knights, aiming to conquer even more lands beyond their present borders. But where some waited for more of the dark knight to show up, only regular recruits, guards and knights were employed. And so the knight remained singular, unique in his haunting presence down the halls of the shimmering palace.
In truth, the man may have deserved the fear and restraint coming from regular folk, knights and nobles alike. Zenos never spoke to others, nor in the company of others. He also never removed his helmet. His voice and looks would remain a mystery to anyone and everyone…besides the king himself. Or so most had assumed. The knight held himself up to the role of a lingering shadow, four paces behind the king when His Highness would walk down the halls, guiding diplomats and guests of other countries. When the king found himself sitting with said guests, the knight would stand perfectly still, always on the king's left side, his presence darkening the room, instilling fear and a dull but ever present feeling of anxiety within the pompous nobles. And so, he earned the title of “the King’s Hound”, whispered only among the nobles and the other knights of the palace.
But something that all seemed to know, or at least assume, was that the knight and king had many private meetings, with no other guards present even, everyone being dismissed. What the two discussed would forever remain a mystery, only springing even more gossip among common folk about how the king must dabble in the demonic dark arts, having made a devilish pact and bringing a demon into the realm as a servant.
Only the king’s advisor had been all too curious about his own lord's dealings. Such a curious young man he was, that he'd made a plan to spend time in the throne room that day, chat away with the king himself, until the knight would show up. He'd recently been sent out to scout a far off system of cave tunnels, four days of travel away from the palace. The king expected him to return that day, and it was only obvious that they would once again have a closed-off discussion.
After a few good hours spent reminiscing and playing several rounds of a fae-named marble game, the ever familiar sounds of clinking armour began to slowly echo down the halls leading to the throne room, a chill air and an uneasy atmosphere sinking into the walls, and into the bones of all present within. It was the advisor’s very first time being in the same room when the knight would return from one of his quests. He was feeling quite uneasy, mostly due to the already all too well known gossip contributing to his preestablished prejudice for the man, but the sudden cold that had entered the room and gave him goosebumps was not helping him in forming a better first impression either.
The dark almost gigantic figure standing at the very bottom of the stairs leading to the throne would then kneel in great silence, once again only his armour speaking in his stead, as his head lowered, clearly fixating his gaze onto the crystallized marble inlaid into the floor. He would not greet the king, nor state the conclusion of his mission, but instead hold the kneeling position just like a statue.
Apparently the mere presence was enough for every single one of the guards to know that they were dismissed from duty, as the armour clad men bowed to the king and made their way out of the throne room in an orderly manner. Only the advisor was left, visibly taken aback by the fact that he could witness the knight in all his glory, mere steps away from him.
“Alphinaud, I'm afraid our time is up for today. If you'd be so kind to leave us…”, the king said in a friendly tone, dismissing the young man with a wave of his hand.
“I, uh, o-of course your Highness!”, the young man bowed in a hurry, his steps taking him to one of the side exits, reserved only for high functionaries and nobles, instead of the main exit. He needed to take this path in order to also have a proper angle on the whole discussion. He closed the masked wooden door behind himself with a loud click, only to then very gently open it again, just enough to allow one of his eyes to peek at the base of the throne through the crack. If anything close to what others had been gossiping was going to take place within those walls, Alphinaud was going to be the very first to find out.
On the other side of the door, the king would slowly descend the stairs, his silk gown flowing and draping across the steps as he reached the very base of the stairs. The knight still wouldn't dare raise his head, not until he'd hear his lord's voice:
“They're gone, Zenos. You may take off your helmet”
Even if the sentence was worded in a way that made it sound like an order, the voice it was spoken in sounded much more like a plea. Zenos did as he was told, removing the dragon-like horned helmet, waves of blonde hair unfurling from underneath, now flooding his shoulders and back. Their silent watcher almost had to stifle a gasp as he watched the great reveal. He'd expected a monstrous look underneath the armour, not an…oddly prince-like appearance. So the knight wasn't hiding his face on the basis of botched appearance…but then…why?
A peculiar silence then befell the throne room. The two men would utter no words, Zenos only slowly raising his head to meet the king's downward gaze. A hand was then extended towards the knight, visibly waiting to be held, which Zenos did, but only after removing one of his heavily armoured gauntlets. His gloved hand would then meet the king's, gently holding onto it before bringing it up to his forehead. With the back of the king's hand now resting against his brow, the knight seemed to be mumbling something to himself. Alphinaud couldn't exactly tell, but…was he… praying?
The king himself never quite knew what his dear knight was saying to himself each time they met again after a mission. It had been one of his little quirks that he never wished to bother the man about. He was sure that if it was something he'd wanted the king to hear, Zenos would've made it known. He never had any issues with being blunt. So instead, he embraced this quirk as a ritual they'd share.
Only Zenos himself knew that each time he returned, he'd made a habit out of reciting a half prayer half promise to the individual before him. Not to the king, but to Ilyndor, the man donning the title and crown. The man whom he ended up revering in an almost god-like manner, not for his political position, but for the strength he'd shown throughout the years. The knight had found himself by Ilyndor’s side at each major clash, whether it was between the palace’s forces and a neighbouring city's rebel groups, or between the king himself and a realm ending monstrosity, Zenos was his right hand. He'd never seen a leader so involved in the physical aspects of leading an army, nor had he ever known a man with more resolve and power in front of dangerous opponents. Several times he had to ask himself…was the king a man, or a god? Was there more to him than he let on? He could never hope to reach up to Ilyndor's qualities, nor did he really wish to.
Throughout his life as a prince, he'd always felt lost. A growing but chained beast, mucking about in the mud, sinking within an endless darkness that held him back and choked him up the more he struggled against it. And so, for decades he allowed himself to sink, unfeeling, waiting for the end to finally come. And deep inside, something within him had hoped that would be the case on the day of the duel. Until the very end of the fight there’d been something gnawing at his brain, telling him to just give up, to slip up during a guard or a parry, simply allow the blades of his opponent to pierce his chest and succumb to the end he'd been hoping for.
But had that happened back then, he would have never seen the light which was Ilyndor. Him taking Zenos in had proven to be the biggest act of mercy that life could've dealt him. Where he once expected to only sink even deeper into the mud, he instead found himself following a beacon of blinding light, one that he'd constantly felt pulled towards with no hesitation. Instead of digging his heels into the ground, he would keep walking, always seeking out the blinding and burning light at the end of it all, waiting to engulf him once more once they reunited.
And finishing his muttered prayer, he would then let go of the king's hand, only to then find himself gently held and caressed by it. Ilyndor's fingers would brush against the man's cheek, before slowly sliding lower down his cheekbone, tracing a line across his jaw line and finally stopping at the knight's chin. Holding onto it, the king placed his thumb against the man's lips, gently brushing it across the lower lip. It had become a well expected gesture by now, by both of them, and Zenos would always find himself breathless as it happened. The movements could seem almost sensual to an outsider, especially due to the slowness of it all, and the way that Ilyndor's fingers lingered. It all made the knight feel a burning sensation deep inside, and each time the feeling seemed to become more and more intense. He couldn't explain it, and all he knew was that his heart would always feel like it was close to bursting. But the “ritual” between the two wasn't over just yet.
The king would then push down against the other man's chin, bringing his forehead forward instead. Zenos could no longer dare look up at his lord. His blue eyes would instead look downwards, not fully closed, waiting. Holding his breath was becoming harder and harder to master, still he could not allow himself to heave like a starving monster. His whole body was tense, he could feel his shoulders locked into place, his knee sunken into the floor beneath him. If to Zenos it all seemed to take an eternity, Ilyndor merely felt it as a fleeting moment, as he slowly bent down towards his knight and placed his lips against the man's forehead, raising back up all the same, but not before giving the man’s cheek one last lingering caress.
Zenos could feel himself engulfed by flames for a moment, just the single short moment when Ilyndor had placed his lips against his skin. He couldn't allow himself to melt under the other man's touch, he had to hold himself together. Still, once the king straightened himself back up and averted his gaze, Zenos could feel his muscles and limbs relax once more, his lungs filling up with air at long last. Lowering his head, he fixed his gaze onto the crystalline floor tiles at his feet, his vision erratic as his eyes wandered, his heart nowhere near close to settling, his heightened pulse drumming up into his ears. Still, the king's voice was enough to ground him again:
“You have your bath drawn within my chambers. You can tell me all about your scouting then”, Ilyndor stated, already heading off towards the secret door behind the throne itself. Instantly, the knight was back onto his feet, holding his horned helmet under his arm as he followed his sire, a bloody red partly tattered cape hanging behind him.
On the other side of the throne room, the young spy was overcome with several emotions that were going to become overwhelming the more he chose to linger within the palace walls. Alphinaud felt as if he'd intruded onto a moment that his eyes were never meant to see. He felt embarrassed, awkward, confused, and wishing that curiosity had never taken over him. That exchange was unlike anything that the locals had assumed. Far from it. It felt intimate, in a way that he couldn't explain, but it was akin to eavesdropping on a sinner’s confession. What was supposed to give him more reasons to gossip, instead pushed a feeling of heaviness onto the young man's shoulders. Alphinaud was beginning to feel the ever present grasp of guilt. And all he could do was silently close the door and hurry down the hall. Faster and faster, even at the expense of his heels making a ruckus as they clinked against the tiles.
He had to leave the place for a while, put in a leave request perhaps. Maybe….Maybe he'd forget what he'd seen after a couple of weeks away from the palace. Yes, he could retreat to Eulmore, focus on a few of his paintings, distract himself.
A good choice. Especially as the king had been fully aware of their uninvited guest all along. Curiosity scarred the young man, a valuable lesson that he had to learn, should he wish to survive at court.