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Chapter Text

Michael’s palms are sweaty. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest. He swallows.

“Is there anything important to attend to, Trevor?” the King turns away from him, tilting his head back to look at what Michael assumes is his advisor. His father wasn't kidding when he called the southern men waifish , the man is tall and skinny like a one of the sickly adults in the north. 

As is the King, which is… strange. Shouldn't he be healthier if he’s the King? Is there something wrong with the food, or a sickness in the air? Michael considers the offer of private land elsewhere, if only to keep himself healthy and safe from whatever plagues the southern lands.

“Unless some sort of emergency arises,” Michael blinks and forces himself to focus, biting the inside of his cheek and looking between the three men in front of him, “you are free until your dinner with some of the lords and ladies taking care of the western towns this evening.”

“Ah, yes,” the King pulls a face and presses his knuckles between his eyes, rings shining in the light coming from the stained glass window behind him, “that sordid affair. Are you sure we cannot cancel it?”

“We cannot, sadly, but I am looking forward to it just as much as you are, if that is any consolation.” Trevor laughs gently, a handsome smile curving the edges of his mouth. 

Michael has so many questions. His head is practically spinning. Why are his advisors stood at his sides? Why is there only one guard in the room, apart from himself? Why is ‘Trevor’ laughing and disrespecting the lords without punishment? Michael looks to his feet and curls his hands into fists.

“Take pity on the poor boy, Gavin,” the other advisor says gently, rustling comes from his position next to the King, “not everyone is as malleable as you.”

Where are his honorifics? Michael wants to scream. Was he taught wrong? Will he be punished for any slip ups? Is this just another cruel trick from his father?

“Michael,” he looks up at the King, nails digging into his palms, “would you like to stay on as my guard, or do you want to live your days peacefully elsewhere?” the King smiles kindly, the corners of his eyes creasing. 

Michael wants to kill the weak part of himself that considers running off to some little chalet once again. As much as it has been denied throughout his life, he is an Ulfson. He is a bastard, but there is warrior blood running through his veins.

“I wish to stay, my King,” Michael places a fist over his heart and bows, just as he was taught to do in the southern lands, “it would bring me great honour if I could become your personal guard.”

There’s a short silence before Michael hears the King stand up and walk back down the dais, heels clicking against the tiles. “Michael,” the King starts, warm hand settling on Michael’s shoulder, “do you bow in the northern lands?”

“No, my King, we do not.” Michael replies honestly. His heart pounds faster.

“Then there is no need to bow here.” another hand rests upon his opposite shoulder and guides him back to standing. Michael’s gaze flutters around the room uselessly before settling on the King’s face. “If anything, I should be bowing for you. It is a brave thing, laying down your life to protect a stranger.”

There’s nothing to say that the King’s words are untrue on his face. Michael wishes his palms would stop sweating.

“King Gavin,” the other advisor starts, sliding his notebook in his breast pocket, “maybe we should give Sir Michael a tour of the castle, introduce him to his new home.” the man adjusts his glasses and smiles kindly. “Should I enquire about a uniform as well? A weapon?”

The question seems to be directed at Michael himself, and his assumption is only reinforced when the King squeezes his shoulders encouragingly. “I… suppose. I was told to leave my- the Ulfson family sword behind. But…” Michael looks down at himself, the paws of the bear around his shoulders brushing the backs of his hands, “I am unsure of any uniform.”

“You do not need to wear one,” the King steps backwards, crossing his arms behind himself, “but it is a shame about your sword, I am sure it will never serve as great a master as you. I will make sure a worthy sword is forged for you.”

“My King-”

“There is no need for the formalities, either,” metal clanks behind Michael and he turns to find the knight at the door coming over, he turns back to the King swiftly, “Gavin suffices in private, even if the lords and ladies give you grief over it.”

Before Michael can get any more confused, Trevor steps forwards on the dais and smiles. “Where should we start our tour? Maybe the bedrooms?”

“Ah, that reminds me I must have a room made up for Michael.” the other advisor seems to be talking to himself, retrieving his notebook from his pocket and scribbling something down before snapping it shut once more. “I will join the group later, once things are in order.” he leaves swiftly once the King turns and nods to him. 

“The bedrooms can wait, then. The kitchens? Or the training grounds?” the knight asks, scratching the back of his neck almost boredly. Michael can't help the way he perks up at the mention of the training grounds. 

The King laughs without any malicious intent. “It seems our new friend likes the sound of the training grounds. Is Jeremy training the new recruits today?”

The knight nods, “should have most of the armory out for the occasion too. Might be a good chance to see Sir Michael’s skills in action.”

If this Jeremy is as slight as the three men in front of Michael, he is confident it won't be much of a showcase. He simply nods.

The King turns on his heel and leads the group through one of the side hallways leading to the throne room. “We should probably introduce ourselves to you, Sir Michael,” Trevor smiles, walking at a leisurely pace next to Michael and behind the King, “I'm Trevor, King Gavin’s left hand advisor.”

“I'm Geoff, though most call me Sir Ramsey. I was the temporary King's guard, and I'm currently the head of our general guard.” the knight, Sir Ramsey, introduces himself with a carefully neutral expression. Rather intimidating for a southerner.

Michael frowns slightly to himself, “‘left hand advisor’..?” maybe it’s a common term, but Michael has never known a ruler to have more than one advisor.

“A man cannot be expected to rule a Kingdom with only himself and the opinion of one other,” the King explains, looking over his shoulder with a smile, “the three of us all have our strengths and weaknesses, so we compensate for each other when we falter.”

“That's how he explains it, but i just think Gavin couldn't pick between the two of them when the time came.” Sir Ramsey smirks, stepping ahead of the group to push open a large set of wooden doors.

“You’re just jealous that we replaced you, Geoffrey.” Trevor jabs back, smirking.

“So…” Michael furrows his brows. He understands the reasoning, it makes a lot of sense. “The other man earlier... your right hand?”

“Yes, his name is Jack,” the four of them step out into the courtyard in the centre of the castle, almost an acre of land surrounded by roofed areas with benches, shelves and cupboards. It’s a strange little area, but Michael has nothing else to compare it to in terms of castle courtyards, “I apologise if he came off as stiff, it’s been a rather stressful few weeks, what with the summer festivals and some issues with the lords.”

The four of them walk to the centre of the courtyard where a group of around two dozen men are sparring lightly, an instructor passing through each of the pairs and giving light guidance. 

The closer they get, the more Michael’s heart speeds up.

“I know that man.” he mutters, doing his best to restrain a smile and barely succeeding, just in case he’s mistaken. Sir Ramsey gives him a sidelong glance, frowning slightly.

“Michael,” the King steps to the side once they’re close enough, “meet-”

“Jeremy.” it comes out as a shocked sigh, but the man snaps his head up all the same and gives him a bright, beaming smile.

“By the gods!” Jeremy comes over and grabs Michael’s hand, pulling him into a firm embrace. It’s easy to sink into, fingers curling into the back of his leather armor. “King Gavin said Ulf was coming, but I didn't know he’d be bringing you along!”

“And here I am to stay.” Michael pulls back and smiles tiredly.

Jeremy laughs, brows shooting up, “honest, Michael?”

“This is a lovely surprise,” the King says, smiling kindly. Jeremy takes a step back and gives a half bow to him. “How do you know each other?”

“I grew up in the north, my father was good friends with the yarl,” Jeremy explains, “Michael and I were practically brothers until I left for the southlands.” one of the worst days of Michael’s life. He remembers it well. 

“While this is a touching reunion, I believe this visit had a purpose.” Sir Ramsey reminds the group, raising a brow at the King who nods in return.

“Ah, was there something you needed?”

“We’re here to get a good scope of Michael’s skills as a warrior. He’s to be my new Kings guard.” the King explains, tilting his head as he talks. Despite his royal attire, Michael can't help but notice how seamlessly he fits in with any environment. The dirt on his boots only adds to his friendly demeanour.

Jeremy lights up even more at the news, if it’s possible. “Michael was one of the best warriors in the north, and that was years ago,” he pulls a face, turning to Michael, “however, we have no greatswords available right now. They’re not a common southern weapon, I'm afraid.”

Michael nods slowly, opening his mouth to explain that it’s fine, but the King hums and turns to Trevor before he can say anything. “Trevor, do you remember the greatsword that belonged to my grandfather?”

“I shall retrieve it at once, just give me a moment.” Trevor nods his head to Gavin, who nods back, before leaving swiftly. 

“Shall I give you a tour while we wait for Trevor to return?” Jeremy asks, adjusting his leather bracers, “the recruits can keep running their drills without me.”

“If you would be so kind.” the King smiles. “Do you mind showing Michael around without myself and Geoff? I have to ask him something.”

“Of course, my King.” Jeremy gives another half bow before turning and walking away. Michael follows quickly, frowning softly to himself. “This feels like a dream, you know. I always wanted to go back and see you.”

Michael frowns more, sighing, “I'm glad I remained in your thoughts for so long, but once we grew up…” his hands curl into fists again as they pause at the edge of the proper training grounds, the earth dusty and dry. “Well, it is no matter now. I'm here, and I have no intention of returning.” his eyes drift over to the King and Sir Ramsey, leant close to each other and talking with neutral expressions.

“And I am thankful to the gods for bringing you here.”

“They had nothing to do with it, this was just my father’s way of getting rid of me without staining his own reputation or losing an asset.”

Jeremy frowns up at him before nodding and looking over the training duos spaced out evenly. “Are you really to be King Gavin’s guard?”

“Yes.” Michael says simply, crossing his arms. “It was that or waste away on some private lands elsewhere, and we both know that I am not suited to an idle life.” Jeremy laughs gently, nodding.

Michael’s mind cannot stop racing. His true brother, working under the King of the southernlands? He’s unbearably proud, and unbearably curious.

“I can see that your hunt went well,” Jeremy comments, looking over the bear skin, “better than my own.”

“Yes,” Michael laughs a little, raising his brows, “though, I suppose anything would be better than a single goat.”

“That goat put up a big fight!”

“Excuse us,” Trevor’s voice makes Michael jump and he turns to face the man. He’s followed by Sir Ramsey and King Gavin, “but I have retrieved the greatsword for you to try.”

The weapon in Trevor’s arms is small compared to northern greatswords, but Michael can tell it’s finely forged. He takes it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, who should I spar with?” he turns his head to Jeremy automatically, but the younger man just laughs.

“Not me, dear friend. I haven't trained enough recently to fight someone like you.” he grins apologetically before perking up, “what about Sir Ramsey? He’s a very capable fighter, I think you would be mostly evenly matched.”

Sir Ramsey laughs, looking up at Gavin briefly before looking to Michael, “well I won’t say no, but I don't want to leave you too bruised on your first day.”

Michael looks to Jeremy, who carefully doesn't change his expression apart from the corner of his mouth twitching.

It looks like this advantage is not in Ramsey’s favor.

Turning back, Michael nods slowly. “Let’s spar, Sir Ramsey.” it would be rude to deny an offer from a knight, after all, and he should make sure that the King has full confidence in his new King's guard. 

While Jeremy goes and clears the training grounds of the new recruits, Michael goes over to one of the empty benches and pulls off his cloak, folding the skin almost lovingly before placing it down. He takes off the top layer of his winter furs, too. Summer has barely started in the southlands and yet he can feel sweat soaking into his clothing. Michael is left in simply a pair of trousers and boots, but he wouldn't have it any other way. The sun beaming down on his back is strangely refreshing. 

When he unsheathes the greatsword to check its condition, Michael feels his heart stutter. Just below the hilt on the blade is a very familiar engraving.

“A gift from your great grandfather to my own grandfather. Just after the war between our lands ended and my grandfather’s coronation.” the King’s voice makes him flinch, and Michael whips his head around to face him.

“Are you sure i can use it?”

“I don't see why not,” the King grins gently, “I'm much too excited about seeing you fight Geoffrey to even consider changing my mind. It should be wielded by someone that knows how to use it.” the King steps forward, eyes tracing the tattoo going down Michael’s arm before he settles his hand on the sheath of the sword. “Of course, i’ll make sure that you have your own sword forged. Something even more magnificent than this.”

Michael doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't. He bites the inside of his lip and nods slowly. 

“Go spar then, Sir Michael,” the King grins, raising a brow, “show me I made a good decision in putting my faith in you.”

Nodding again, faster this time, Michael steps back and bows before walking briskly over to where Sir Ramsey is waiting for him. The knight seems to have stripped his own restrictive armor, painted arms revealed to the skies. Michael is enthralled . Tattoos are reserved for the greatest of warriors in the northern lands, and Michael can see that the patterns escape under the knight’s thin shirt. Is there more? How long and how hard has Sir Ramsey been fighting?

“Are you ready, boy?” Ramsey asks, drawing his sword and swinging it around carefully, grip loose and easy. “I’ll make sure to treat you kindly, if you’re that nervous.”

Smirking slightly, Michael shakes his head while drawing his own greatsword and gripping it in two hands, holding it out in front of himself, “I see no need for that, Sir Ramsey. But that offer is open to you, too.”

There’s low muttering in the group of recruits as they watch, and Michael notices while scanning the crowd that the King has joined Trevor and Jeremy near the edge of the ring. 

Without any hesitation or preamble, Ramsey dashes forwards and swings his sword viciously. Michael blocks the blow with his blade and briefly wonders if this is meant to be a fight to the death. He pushes the sword away with his own before shoving Ramsey away with a foot against his chest. The older man stumbles slightly before regaining his balance and shaking himself off, smirking.

“Nice to know you’re not completely defenceless, boy,” he jabs, adjusting his grip and spinning his blade, “though, I do wonder if all northern warriors are this passive.”

They’re not, and Michael has always been considered strange for the way he fights. Allowing yourself to take a few hits first can reveal many secrets. And, shamefully, Michael has always enjoyed the rush of pain.

“Nothing to say?” Ramsey asks, swinging his blade once again. Michael dodges to the side and swings the flat of his greatsword against Ramsey’s back, sending him to his knees.

“I find words unnecessary and demeaning during a fight,” Michael jabs back, making a slow circle as Ramsey climbs back to his feet, “it’s about the body, not the mouth.”

Ramsey laughs. He spins swiftly and swings again, this time aiming for Michael’s legs, but he manages to jump in time and slam his feet down on the blade to force it from Ramsey’s hand. The flat of his greatsword collides once more, this time with Ramsey’s shoulder, and he steps backwards quickly to dodge a punch. He kicks Ramsey’s blade closer to him. 

No more words, no more pointless chatter. The recruits are tellingly silent as they watch, and Michael finds he doesn't mind the crowd. He can feel the tension in the air as his own blade clashes with Ramsey’s, the pair of them focused and efficient in the way they fight. The zing of pain that sparks in his bicep when Ramsey’s blade nicks him is invigorating. He almost wishes this were a real fight.

Michael swings the flat of his blade against Ramsey’s sword arm, then kicks him solidly in the chest to send him to the ground. His foot remains on the older man’s sternum and the tip of his greatsword finds its place under Ramsey’s chin, tilting his head back. The older man is panting, but his grin is bright.

“If this were a real fight,” he swallows, letting go of his sword, “it would not have lasted as long.”

“Indeed.” Michael moves his foot away and offers a hand up to Ramsey, pulling him up when he takes it. “If this were a real fight, I would have killed you in the first swing.”

Sir Ramsey raises his brows before laughing, loud and raucous and shameless. He slaps a hand against Michael’s back before ruffling his hair, rough and firm. “You’re a fine warrior, Michael.”

Michael’s eyes drift over to the King and his small group, and he receives a proud smile in return.

Chapter Text

He shouldn't be here. Michael knows he shouldn't be here. How suspicious would it seem to an outsider, waiting purposefully for the temporary King's guard to go on break just to approach the King’s chambers? Awfully suspicious. Criminally suspicious. After his sparring session, their little entourage went around almost the entire castle until the late afternoon when the King was to have dinner with the lords and ladies. Michael was encouraged to make himself comfortable in his rooms, and he waited until the sun set fully - rather late, later than Michael expected, as if the days are stretched impossibly long in the summer lands - to approach the King’s chambers.

He raises a fist and hesitates. His heart skips a beat before he raps his knuckles against the thick oak.

“Come in!”

Michael pushes the door open slowly, shutting it behind himself. The King is sat at a desk next to the balcony, writing something down on a strip of parchment before placing his quill into an ink well. The King turns on his chair, a look of suprise overtaking his face before he smiles gently. “Sir Michael. While I am not unhappy to see you, I thought you would be sleeping by now. Is there something wrong with your room?”

“No!” Michael pulls a face and looks down at his feet, “ah, no, my King. there’s nothing wrong. I just wished to…”

There’s a gentle sigh. “Speak freely, Michael. And please , you can just call me Gavin. There isn't another soul here, you won’t be punished.” Michael looks up to find a kind expression on the King’s face.

“Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me-”

“No,” Michael wants to hit himself. He needs to stop interrupting, but he can't help himself. “Not for… the informalities, but for your kindness.” the King - Gavin - seems mildly shocked, so Michael continues. “You were right, earlier, in the throne room. This truly is the Free Kingdom, and you will never truly understand the gratitude I have for you for welcoming me here. You…” the wind rushes past the open balcony, disturbing some of the papers on Gavin’s desk and rustling the plants outside. Gavin pays no mind to his desk, his full focus on Michael. His sharp gaze is almost overwhelming. “You are truly kind and generous, and I did not feel brave for taking your offer to be your guard. I felt cowardly.”

Gavin frowns, “Michael…”

“But you make me want to be brave, you make me proud to be a bastard and…” Michael’s heart races but he pauses, brows furrowing. There’s more rustling coming from the balcony. 

“And..?” 

Michael shakes his head, putting a finger over his mouth and drawing his knife from his boot and quietly walking closer to the balcony, past the grand bed and the doorway into the wash room. A look of panic overtakes Gavin’s face, eyes flickering to the closed bedroom door, before a slow acceptance settles over him.

“Michael-”

“Hush!” Michael snaps, moving past Gavin to stand in the blindspot next to the balcony, waiting before motioning with his hand. “Come here.” he whispers sharply. Gavin’s expression keeps contorting, from confusion to more panic to a mild sort of fear, until Michael rushes over to grab him. Thick fingers wrap around a bony wrist and Michael is suddenly reminded of how frail the southern people are. He pulls Gavin over to the corner of the room, a hand over his mouth. “There is someone climbing the wall to your balcony, Gavin.” Gavin’s breath quickens against his palm, but understanding fills his eyes. “Stay here, stay hidden. Do not move.” Michael doesn't leave any room for argument, and Gavin nods slowly. He removes his hand and tightens the grip on his blade in his other hand. 

The rustling gets louder and louder, finally cresting with a loud thud and a slam. Something shatters, a pot or something similar, and Gavin huffs behind him. Michael doesn't bother with telling him to keep quiet, because the man already knows that he should, but he reaches back and squeezes his wrist gently instead. Gavin’s hand finds his own and squeezes back before retreating.

Footsteps are loud against the tiled balcony, and they slowly make their way inside of the room. The intruder passes them both, gripping a curved dagger in one hand and pulling a second from their waist with the other. Michael’s own blade feels frighteningly small in his grip, but he refuses to balk now. 

Michael slowly steps behind the intruder, adjusting his grip on his knife before slamming his shoulder forward into their back. They let out a suprised grunt and fall to the ground, dropping one of their daggers but keeping the other in a firm grip. Michael jumps backwards when they slash at his waist with it, cutting through his shirt and barely grazing his abdomen. His minor retreat gives them the small advantage they need to get back to their feet and push forwards, swiping repeatedly with their blade and forcing Michael on the defensive, stepping backwards until his back is against the balcony railing. 

They're a skilled fighter, he won’t deny it. The blade catches his wrist and he hisses, but the intruder isn't expecting the fierce punch that connects with their jaw. They stumble again, spitting blood on the floor, and Michael grins in response - practically a snarl. 

“I was unaware that the fool had taken a northern bedmate,” the intruder smirks, his voice is reedy and muffled. “Just another stain on the royal records.”

Michael doesn't deign him with a response, adjusting his grip on his knife and swinging it forwards. He catches the intruder’s shoulder and he grunts once more before dashing forwards and pinning Michael against the railing, hands gripping his throat and bending him uncomfortably against the cold steel. 

“No denial? I'm not surprised, it would be an honour for a lowly northern barbarian to lie with a southerner of any standing,” the intruder grins fiercely, knocking the blade from Michael’s grip when he tries to aim it for the intruder’s side. 

Gavin appears over the man’s shoulder and stabs a letter opener into his back, but the man simply turns and back hands the King harshly, sending him sprawling across the floor. Michael takes his chance to punch the intruder in the throat before shoving him backwards. He grabs a fistful of hood and hair, bashing his head against the brick wall next to the door of the balcony. The intruder is stunned, blinking fiercely with a grimace, but he still manages to shove Michael away. He turns, blood streaking down his face, and sprints forwards to tackle Michael.

Lowering himself slightly and bracing the smooth soles of his boots against the tiles, Michael rams his shoulder against the man’s waist, lifting him up and over himself. The man’s back hits the steel railing with a sickening crack and he falls silently into the dark courtyard below, the screams of servants and maids ringing out in the night.

Michael doesn't bother himself with looking down at the body, he knows they can't have survived the fall. Instead, he rushes forwards and slides to his knees in front of Gavin. “Are you okay? He hit you hard, do you see lights?” Michael takes Gavin’s face into his hands, tilting it gently and studying the dark bruise that spreads from his mouth to his ear. He runs a finger along the King’s nose to check for a break.

“It’s fine, I'm fine,” Gavin laughs breathlessly, eyes wide and dazed, “that was a wonderful display, Michael.”

Michael can feel his face burn so he looks away briefly, tapping the bridge of Gavin’s nose with a huff. “He didn't fix your nose, at least.”

Gavin squawks, laughing from pure surprise, until the bedroom door is shoved open and Geoff rushes inside with Jack and two other guards, weapons drawn. “Gavin!” he calms slightly, weapon drooping, when he sees the pair of them on the floor, mildly bruised but otherwise fine. “Gods above, Gavin. Why did a body just come hurtling from the balcony?”

Gavin turns to him with a bright grin. “My new King's guard has just saved my life.”

Michael grows even more flustered, if it’s possible. He pushes himself to his feet and helps Gavin up too, giving him another once over. “They came from the balcony,” he explains, voice stilted and hesitant, “scaled the wall all the way up. I sent him back from where he came.”

Jack looks mildly disturbed while Geoff simply laughs, waving off the two guards behind him who sheathe their weapons and leave, “maybe Ulf was right about something, you northern boys are a different breed.”

Michael frowns and nods, curling his hands to fists. It feels strange, having so many eyes on him. Why are they so suprised that he did the job he was there to do? Does he truly look like he wouldn't?

Stepping forwards, Michael bows to Gavin. “Sorry for disturbing you so late, my king. I hope the rest of your night is peaceful.” spinning on his heel, he marches swiftly out of the king’s bedchambers, ignoring his harried shout of Michael!  

He isn't officially the King's guard until morning, anyway.

The path back to his room is long and much too confusing, and if he hadn't been pacing it so much before entering the King’s chambers what felt like hours ago he probably wouldn't know his way back. 

The room he enters is large and lavish, it doesn't feel like his own and it doesn't feel like it ever will be his own. He’s too used to the thick tarps and skins on uncomfortable, rocky ground. The smell of smoke permeating the tents and every single sound ringing out like some sort of echoing cave. Children laughing in the night three tents down, a fighting couple across from the communal fire.

Someone crying after a hunt gone wrong.

Michael’s stomach growls and he places a hand against his abdomen, hissing in shock when there’s a stinging pain. A small amount of blood comes away on his palm, dark and shiny in the torch light, and Michael wipes it away on his trousers.

He left his knife in the King’s chambers. 

Fuck.

He’ll have to request that he search for it in the morning, the idea of losing the blade leaves him hollow and shaken, but he knows that Gavin - the king - is kind and merciful. He wont dispose of it. 

This is all so… wrong. His father told him that the king was a vicious man, that all kings are. That nobody in power would ever treat him with power, especially because he would never truly be an Ulfson.

There’s a knock at the door. Michael wishes he had his knife. It creaks open and Jeremy pokes his head in, the worried expression on his face melting away when he sees that Michael truly is fine. Mostly. 

“Jack wanted to send one of the usual healers, but i insisted i do it myself,” Jeremy explains in lieu of a greeting, stepping inside and pushing the door shut with his back. “The castle is practically in celebration and it isn't even festival time yet. Did you really save Gavin?”

Michael nods. “Why does everyone seem so surprised?”

Pulling a face, Jeremy walks over and bumps his shoulder gently against Michael’s tattooed one, setting a bowl of water on the bedside table with some bandages and cloths. “It’s moreso that you survived it. Being a member of Gavin’s King’s guard is practically a death sentence.”

It is a brave thing, laying down your life for a stranger .

“I don't understand,” Michael frowns, sitting on the edge of the bed. Jeremy pulls over the chair from the desk and sits in front of Michael, raising a brow for him to continue. “G- The King is kind , why has there been so many attempts on his life?”

Jeremy sighs, soaking one of the cloths and wiping at Michael’s wrist. “It’s… complicated. Gavin is kind, almost too kind. After his coronation, a lot of people thought he was too young and foolish to take over. While the lords and ladies respect him to his face, they truly wish that someone else was in power.”

“The fool…” the assassin had called him that, almost spat it with a certain kind of distaste only gained after years of hatred. “But, if they know it’s the lords and ladies, why not replace them all?”

“It would send everything into upheaval, it would be dangerous to change everything in one foul swoop.” Jeremy wraps Michael’s wrist and ties off the bandage, smiling almost pitifully. “There is nothing we can do as of now, it’s more political than you’d think. But Jack and Trevor should teach you the right members of the court to trust, as there are a few who agree with Gavin.”

“What is so wrong with being kind, anyway?”

“They see it as a weakness,” Jeremy tilts Michael’s head back to check the bruises on his neck, frowning slightly, “he refuses honorifics, refuses the kingly treatment most of the time, and they hate it. They think it is weak and shameful to deny one’s standing.”

Michael sighs tiredly before laughing, pressing his palms against his eyes until lights appear and spark across the void, “maybe I should have taken his offer for an idle life. The intricate stuff has always been hard.”

“Sadly, the southern people take a more intellectual approach to things, rather than taking things to the battle field.” Jeremy tilts Michael’s head back down, a strange expression on his face. Michael wishes he knew what it meant, where all the new little scars on his true brother’s face came from. “But, I'm sure if you asked, Gavin would gladly let you take up his offer.”

Michael frowns heavily, furrowing his brows, “I was only kidding, Jeremy. I've taken up my post, and I will only leave it in death.”

“That’s what I'm afraid of.”

Standing and walking over to his own balcony, Michael looks out through the glass panes over the lively kingdom. His hands are still damp and clammy, heart beating a constant pace above his usual. 

“What were you even doing over that way, anyway? You can't have heard the intruder from here.” Jeremy asks, and while his tone is light there is something like suspicion underlying it. Michael thins his lips and closes his eyes.

“Nothing.” he lies. “Just… nothing at all. Walking to the kitchens, I suppose.” it feels almost shameful to admit his true purpose, so he’d rather seem suspicious. Maybe King Gavin will eventually clear it up, maybe not. 

There’s a brief silence, Jeremy’s gaze is burning into his back, and the bruise resting on his lower spine throbs with the intensity of it. “Alright then, I suppose. Maybe we could go now, together. There should be leftovers from the dinner earlier, if the other workers haven't gotten to it yet.”

Michael nods, grabbing a new shirt from the chest of drawers next to the balcony and pulling it over his head. “Sure, Jeremy. The dinner they gave me was much too small.”

The shorter man laughs, “yes, compared to the northern meals these are basically starters, but you get used to it.”

Something deep in Michael’s soul hopes he does, eventually.