• 1476 , Two Years Earlier •
Everything in the small farming village is a wet and muddy mess. A large amount of water pools in the mud-caked wheat fields surrounding the village, flooding the fertile farmland and ruining the newly planted acres. The deep ruts in the dirt roads, created from years of carriages and carts passing through, fill with the never-ending rain and overflow. On the outskirts of the waterlogged farming village, there is a small wooden cabin where the rain pelts loudly against the thatched roof.
Inside, a few hours before sunrise, a brave omega is planning their escape...
Despite Harry stepping quietly in the dark, the wood floor still creaks with every careful footstep. As each creak happens, Harry pauses with a cringe. He cannot risk the possibility of being caught. The glass lantern carried in his left-hand flickers as he tiptoes through the cabin on the way to the back bedroom.
The warm glow of the lantern being held aloft illuminates the hallway, and casts a harsh light on the fresh bruises that bloom on the side of Harry's face. These bruises are new, only a few hours old, but there are others on his skin that have yellowed, left there during previous drunken beatings. He takes a careful glance into the bedroom and finds Amos in their straw bed, snoring. An empty bottle of ale lies beside the bed. It has been knocked to the floor; the room reeks of alcohol and the nauseating scent of dirty, male sweat.
This is Harry’s chance — his chance for freedom.
Amos’ wool coat hangs over the back of a chair. Bending his knees, Harry reaches into the pocket and pulls out the small leather coin pouch he finds, tucking it into his own tunic to keep it safe. He hopes there are enough shillings left in it to afford refuge somewhere, and that Amos has not spent all their weekly earnings on bottles of ale, like he usually does.
Amos coughs in his sleep, causing Harry to freeze in panic. He holds his breath, watching quietly as Amos clears his throat again, his massive arm raising to scratch at his thick beard. It must be the lice biting. Harry feels like he stands there holding his breath forever, waiting, until finally the alpha goes back to exhaling his usual rumbling snore, which means he is once again out cold. The glow of the lantern flickers, dancing shadows and light over the face of the alpha Harry once loved. He takes one last look, then blows out the flame.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Harry tosses the leather reins over the back of Phillipe, the sudden movement spooking the horse. The massive 18-hand-tall draft horse stomps his dangerous front hooves into the thick mud, snorting and shaking his head in agitation.
“Shhh, Phillipe! Whoa, Phillipe!” Harry soothes. “You must be quiet. He cannot catch us, or he will kill me.”
He pets Phillipe's black, velvet-soft nose, then, once the horse has settled enough, bribes him with a carrot that was hidden within his tunic. The horse takes the bribe, carefully chewing the vegetable around his bridle, tiny bits of orange carrot falling to the ground. Adjusting the cloak he stole, Harry pulls the hood of it up over his head and wraps the thick, woven fabric tighter around his body. It smells like Amos. He would rather not wear it (he would rather light it on fire or bury it in the manure pile), but the white tunic he wears underneath is threadbare.
Using a mounting block he finds within the barn, Harry throws his leg over Phillipe’s back and settles himself down on the horse. There is no saddle, so he must ride bareback, but at least there is a halter and reins. He gathers the leather reins that are resting in the waxy, thick strands of Phillipe's black mane into his fists, and squeezes his thighs. Phillipe, bless him, takes a few hesitant steps sideways, not used to being ridden.
The raven-black draft horse has been used for years as a working animal on the farm, ploughing the fields and hauling heavy freight. The sidesteps cause the horse's muscular hindquarters to knock into the stall where Petunia, their brown jersey cow, is housed. She bellows, mooing loudly around her mouthful of cud in the otherwise quiet barn. Leaving Petunia hurts Harry’s soul. He raised her from a calf years ago, but he has no choice but to leave the dairy cow behind.
The omega gives another gentle squeeze with his thighs, and then Phillipe gets the message, finally moving forward, out of the barn and into the drizzling rain. The rain continues to fall in a steady rhythm as they make their way through the deserted streets. Phillipe's heavy hooves stick deep into the mud with each step forward, but the horse ventures on through the sleeping village without complaint. The storm does not bother Harry; he has even used it to his advantage. It will wash away any evidence of a trail, making it difficult for Amos to track him. It will be as if he just vanished.
Once Harry is high above the land and nearly on the edge of the woods, he glances back down at the village below. Holmes Chapel is a place he has called his home for his whole life. The hood of his cloak is soaked from the continuous onslaught of rain, and the wetness from it drips down into his eyes, mixing with the unshed tears gathering there. His vision blurs thanks to the tears, and he swipes at his face, knowing he needs to stay strong.
After one last lingering look, similar to the one he gave Amos in their cabin, Harry clicks his tongue and urges Phillipe further into the forest. It should take him no more than a few days of travel by horseback to reach the Kingdom of Doncaster - to reach safety, and his unknown future. Hopefully, Amos won't try to find him.
• 1478 , Present Day , 2 Years Later •
“Move!” the Queen Mother commands, rushing through the stone corridors of the castle.
Her beautifully embroidered dress billows out behind her, heavy and weighted, the tailored hem grazing the floor with each hurried step. Her shouted order echoes in the hallway, and the guards that are gathered outside of the King's sleeping chambers scatter, their metal armour clanking loudly as they clear a path.
She pushes through the heavy door and finds the King exactly as the courtier who came and got her had described. His young, handsome face is bloodied and bruised, and his chest is barely moving with weak breaths. Aside from the purple bruises and red, drying blood that mottle his face like oil paint splattered on a canvas, the rest of his skin is grey, almost devoid of all life.
Letting out a wail, she drops to the side of his bed. As she falls, her knees press into the soft fur rug that rests there on the floor, the hide skinned straight off the body of a bear her late husband, King Mark, hunted over a decade ago. The thick purple blanket draped over her son's body into her hands, the fabric bunching and pleating in her grasp. She is afraid to touch her son, though the urge to pull him into her arms and cradle him is strong and overpowering. Queen Jay wails again, hot tears laced with grief rolling down her normally composed face.
“How - how did this happen?”
“Jousting accident, My Lady,'' the royal doctor answers her. The elderly man stands at the foot of the bed, grinding some dry herbs in a small granite dish. They break apart under his pestle, and he adds a splash of yellow oil from a vial to the concoction. As he mixes the crushed herbs with the oil, it becomes more of a thickened paste.
“Apparently King Louis got bucked off his horse,” he adds.
Queen Jay gently raises a trembling hand and combs her fingers through the feathered strands of soft hair that lie there on his forehead, fixing his messy fringe out of habit. When her hand pulls away, it is stained with blood. She looks at it in horror.
The attempt to wipe the rust-coloured stain from her palm with her lace handkerchief proves useless. All her wiping does is spread the stain further down her fingers, and the once-virgin white cloth is now sullied with a red stain. The blood has already dried, seeping deep into the pores and cracks of her hand. Anyone who has had the misfortune of being on a battlefield knows that smeared blood dries fast, and clings to white fabric easily. Queen Jay is unfamiliar with such stains lingering, except for when she has her monthly, which is mainly dealt with by her ladies in waiting.
There is the sound of footsteps echoing outside in the hall, and then Princess Charlotte enters the chamber. Her council must have also informed her of this news. At the sight of her older brother lying there so lifeless, her face pales. She joins her mother on the floor, kneeling to wrap her arms around Jay's shoulders in an unspoken act of support.
Princess Charlotte sniffs the air and frowns. “I cannot smell him.”
The statement sends the Queen Mother into another bout of distress, but her daughter is right. The woodsy scent of her son, one that reminds her of freshly cut cedar and pine, which she has known and loved since he was a newborn pup, is faint and weakening - proof he is dying.
Queen Jay panics, addressing the royal doctor, cheeks wet with tears. “Is there anything that can be done? Can my son be saved?”
The royal doctor holds the stone bowl with the herb-based paste he has been busy blending. He uses his arthritic fingers to slather the mixture onto King Louis' bare neck, just above his scent gland. The effects of the paste are instant, bringing back a little bit of his colour. It helps; his skin is not as grey, though his breaths are still laboured.
“We have a week to find his soulmate.” The royal doctor does not sound hopeful. “Only the scent of King Louis' true omega will work to bring him back. I have used herbs to mimic the scent of his soulmate, to keep him from passing over fully, but it is nothing compared to the real thing. If we do not find his soulmate, he will die.”
“Then all omegas in the kingdom, in the country, must be brought here,” Queen Jay says, her resolve firm. The thought of losing her son, her firstborn, is too much of a burden to bear. She will not even consider it to be an option. If there is a chance he can be saved, they must do something. She stands from the floor, and Princess Charlotte rises with her, holding onto her trembling mother. They cling to each other in this moment of uncertainty. “By royal decree, I order it done. We must make haste. We must find his soulmate.”
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The bakery is busy this morning, with more customers than usual, and Harry is struggling to keep up. He wipes at the stray bead of sweat that trickles down from his eyebrow. It is hot back here, trapped beside the wall of ovens, all busy baking loaves of bread for the population of Doncaster. Outside the walls of the bakery, he can hear the hordes of people moving throughout the streets, the sound of livestock bellowing as they drag carts, and the creaking sound of wooden wheels as they bounce over the uneven cobblestone roads.
He wipes his hands on his already-soiled apron, and then goes behind the stone wall of ovens to stoke the fires that are housed back there. The coals need to be stoked every few hours in order to keep the loaves baking and the ovens hot. Grabbing the iron rod that hangs on a wall, he uses it to push the glowing embers around; they smolder and crackle. Some of them break and crumble into grey ash, but most remain intact and bright orange. He coughs, covering his face and nose with his apron, his eyes watering from the stinging effect of the smoke.
Thankfully, most of the smoke back here gathers and exits the oven upwards, swirling out of the stone chimney above. It tempts people who are passing by the bakery with its aroma of freshly baked bread.
Coals stoked, he leaves the wall of ovens and takes a deep breath of air into his oxygen-starved lungs. After gasping and then clearing his throat, he tosses another light dusting of milled flour onto the work counter. The flour readies the wood surface for more sticky raw dough, the fourth batch to enter the ovens this morning. Suddenly, there is a commotion in the front of the bakery, where Alienor, the owner, works at the counter.
Two armoured palace guards stand there, speaking with the old, widowed beta. Harry watches curiously from the space in the back, ducking down a little in an attempt to hide. There have been whispers through the town of omegas being gathered and forced to the castle all week long - something about the King being ill - but Harry had thought they were only rumours…
Alienor turns and points an old, bony finger at Harry which causes the guards to look and follow its direction. Their armour clanks as they move. They notice him hiding in the back, watching this exchange warily, eyes wide. Alienor’s arm wobbles with the effort of pointing, and her skin sags with decades worth of wrinkles.
“He is an omega," he hears Alienor say. “Unregistered. That may be why you missed him last week,” she adds.
Before he can ask any questions, Harry is bound with a thick rope around his wrists. They march him out of the bakery and into the cobblestone streets. His ears burn and grow hot with embarrassment as the people nearby in the village center stop to whisper. The roads are still a little damp from the early morning rain Doncaster received, and the air is fresh and cool in his lungs. He takes a deep inhale, unsure of what will happen to him and if this is his last time breathing free air.
The guards force him towards a cart, and he winces as the rope binding his hands together digs and bites into his flesh. They load him onto an ox-drawn cart containing several other bound omegas. Once he sits, the cart lurches forward, heading in the direction of the castle. Some of the other omegas in the cart are crying, and one has a young pup clinging to her dress. The omegas on the cart are of all backgrounds, ages, and genders, but Harry realizes they all have one thing in common: they all lack bonding marks on their necks.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
It is the final day they have left to find King Louis' omega soulmate, and time is running out. This morning, the guards were ordered to find any stray omegas that may have been missed, either by error or failure to register, and bring them to the castle immediately by any means necessary.
Hundreds – no, thousands – of omegas of all genders and backgrounds have already been paraded through King Louis' bedroom in the last week, but none have caused any improvement in his condition. During this daily parade of omegas, Queen Jay kneels by his head, and uses a damp cloth to wipe his forehead. This repetitive action does more to quell her own anxiety than actually aid him at all. Princess Charlotte has been resting further down towards the foot of the bed, hands clasped in silent prayer. Their knees ache from their daily act of sitting vigil, but they will not abandon him.
Though she has not admitted it out loud, Queen Jay has almost given up hope. There are only a few hours left in which to find this elusive soulmate, and the King's breaths are becoming ever more shallow. His skin has started to mottle with a colour resembling death, a blotchy, red-purplish marbling, and his ankles have begun to swell with retained fluid.
Queen Jay is familiar with the signs of a dying man. They were present on her husband's body only a few years ago, before he took his last breath. She knows her son is only hours away from death.
Despite this, a steady stream of unbonded omegas continues to enter the room. The Queen’s eyes remain unblinking, her attention glued to her son's face, determined not to miss any improvements that might occur.
The next wave of omegas enters the room, with the footman announcing that these are the strays who were found within the city center this morning. One by one, they are forced through the threshold and presented to the dying King in his royal bed.
Barely paying them any mind, Queen Jay dips her damp cloth into the bowl of cool water. Wringing out the excess, she raises her hand and is about to wipe the cloth over the King's forehead when suddenly his brow creases and furrows. His eyelashes flutter, fragile and delicate against his sharp cheekbones.
Startled, Queen Jay pulls her hand back, dropping the cloth into the bowl of water with a soft splash. She watches as his forehead creases again. She gasps at the sight! A groan falls from the King’s chapped lips, and the sound of pain causes Princess Charlotte to slowly raise her head from where it has been bent in prayer. The royal doctor, who has been hiding within the shadows of the room, rushes forward.
They watch as the King's condition improves right before their eyes. His skin is no longer mottled and grey, but slowly returning to its usual sun-kissed glow. His breathing grows stronger with each inhale. His forehead creases again, and his eyelids flutter again too, opening for a moment. There is a brief glimpse of his blue iris - just barely a flash of blue before they close again. He does not wake fully, but it is the most improvement he has shown since the accident.
“I believe we have found his soulmate.”
Nobody had cared to look before, but suddenly all eyes and attention turn to the omega who stands in the chamber.
What they find is a dirty male peasant, with matted, greasy brown hair, and an apron that has black soot and flour embedded into the fibers of it. Flecks of fine-milled white flour stick to his sweaty face. He stands there awkwardly on the fur rug, hands bound together with rope. His green eyes are wide with fear and confusion, though they are clear and beautiful nonetheless.
“Where did you find this one?” Queen Jay asks, regarding the young man carefully. Her eyes judge her son's soulmate with nothing less than immense disapproval.
“In a bakery, Your Majesty,” the peasant omega before her answers, a deep voice despite his youthful appearance.
She bristles. She did not expect him to respond. The question was for the guards, not the omega himself! The nerve of someone with such a low rank addressing her in such a way! The insolence! The lack of propriety!
“I am not regarded as Your Majesty,” she scolds, insulted. “I ceased being called that title when my husband passed away a few years ago, and my son became King. I am addressed only as My Lady, or The Queen Mother now, nothing else.”
The omega hangs his head at the reprimand.
With a dismissive flick of her wrist, the Queen gives an order to a young maid who is busy cleaning the fireplace mantel. “Take this omega to the west wing of the castle and wash him in preparation for the bonding ceremony tomorrow.”
“Bonding ceremony?” The omega pales to almost the same hue as the flour that is stuck on his face. “What? I do not understand.”
The royal doctor offers him a soft smile, much more welcoming than the Queen Mother herself. “You are King Louis' soulmate! There was an accident, but thanks to your arrival, and your scent, he should regain conscious thought in a few hours… I will visit you shortly to discuss the details.”
Queen Jay does not watch as the dirty, stinky peasant leaves the chamber – her focus is on her son – but she can hear their footsteps fade. She simply rewets the cloth in her bowl of water and hums a soothing hymn as she wipes it across the King's forehead. Instead of the cloth producing no effect, like before, this time his forehead creases in response. So the omega is a peasant? Her son will live - that is all that matters.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Harry glances down at the shallow tin plate balanced on his lap. This is his first meal of the day, and his stomach rumbles in hunger. Night has already fallen. His room deep within the belly of the castle is muted in darkness, only illuminated by the dancing fire that crackles and pops against the far stone wall, settled deep within a hearth.
Before she left, the maid had also given him a small loaf of sourdough bread. He stares at it, then tears it into small pieces, and dips one of them into the broth that surrounds the plate. The broth is thin, like water, but tinged a light brown with animal fat and stock. It soaks into the bread fibers easily, making the bread soggy and wet. He brings the piece of bread up to his mouth and nibbles at it, letting out a moan at the burst of salty flavour that coats his tongue.
Along with the broth, Harry notes chunks of carrots and softened cabbage leaves. He picks up a piece of carrot, and the vegetable molds in his grasp, so soft it almost becomes an orange paste between his fingers. He stuffs it into his mouth quickly, eating eagerly now, his hunger taking over and his mouth salivating. A little bit of the watery thin broth escapes and dribbles messily down his chin.
There are also small chunks of meat on the plate. He counts them - four in total, mainly leftover cartilage and gristle. They are scraps, but Harry leaves those for last.
Meat is a luxury item, and is rarely eaten by peasants on a regular day. Having meat available means being blessed during a hunt, or sacrificing crucial livestock. Some hunts are unsuccessful, and no peasant is willing to part with their livestock so easily. A goat that gives milk, or a chicken that provides fresh eggs, is a much more valuable asset in the long run. Since meat is only consumed during special occasions, Harry has not eaten it in a long time.
Once the rest of the vegetables are gone, he takes his time chewing the pieces of meat, savouring them. Harry must chew the same piece of meat for five minutes. He sucks all the juice and flavour out of each chunk, rolling them around in his mouth as he does, only swallowing them once they have become bland and less tender.
The last piece of bread is used to clean the plate. He wipes right down to the metal, until no evidence of the stew remains but a few streaks.
Beside him, a small wooden cup is full of a cream-coloured liquid. He sips it, pleased to find it is fresh goat's milk. He tips the cup back and drinks, throat bobbing, swallowing the thick layer of floating fat that rests on the top, and all the nutrient-rich liquid at the bottom.
Finished with his meal, he pushes the empty cup and plate aside, then takes a moment to run his fingers through his curls. His hair is untangled now, his skin soft and clean as well.
Earlier, upon entering the guest chamber, Harry had been stripped of his clothes, and his bound wrists freed. The dirty shirt, pants, and work apron that he had arrived in are long gone now, thrown into the crackling fire by the maid. He’d stood butt naked, hands modestly attempting to shield his lower body from prying eyes, and watched in shock as the clothing caught fire, and then became fully engulfed by flame.
Next, he had been forced naked into a massive tub of water. The size of the tub was unsettling, and for a moment he’d panicked, fearing he would drown in the depth of it. As a peasant, he was used to bathing with a small bucket and a cup. The warmth of the water was a pleasant surprise, though. He had never bathed in warm water before.
The maid (Mathildah, as he later learned), had used lye soap and washed his body, until his skin was raw and red from her constant lathering and scrubbing.
His matted hair had proven to be difficult, but after being coated with a fragrant oil, it had finally begun to untangle. Mathildah’s fine tooth comb, made out of animal bone, had raked through his curls and wiped the comb on a white cloth that rested on her fat thigh after each pass. He knew she was picking out lice and fleas, the tiny black dots left behind on the cloth proof of their infestation, but he did not feel embarrassed. Most peasants suffer from such vermin.
They managed to make easy conversation during their time together, and Harry believed she was someone he could trust. In between lathering soap, she even mentioned that she had a cousin in Holmes Chapel, which delighted him greatly since it meant they at least had something in common to talk about…
Since fleeing from Amos and his iron fist two years ago, Harry mostly kept to himself, too scared to develop any real friendships. Talking to Mathildah was a nice change, so during the bath he let his guard down for the first time.
The bath took hours, but Mathildah had not complained. Hunched over the wooden tub, she had even scrubbed between his toes and behind his ears, and had rinsed his hair multiple times until the oil used to detangle it in the beginning was gone, leaving behind clean strands. By the time his bath was finished, the water had turned black from his filth, and had lost its warmth.
Mathildah had then dressed him in a thin linen chemise, virgin white, and layered over it a thick purple tunic, with a purple belt that cinched around his waist.
He inspects it more closely now that he is alone.
The purple fabric of the tunic is obviously woven from the finest wool, and dyed the royal colour. It has thin gold thread embroidered along the hem, intricately stitched into a design he does not recognize.
It must have taken years to make a garment this beautiful. He does not feel worthy enough to wear such a beautiful piece of clothing - a point the Queen Mother made very clear with her harsh, poorly-concealed judgement of him.
There is a sound outside the room, and Harry assumes it is Mathildah returning to take his dirty dishes back down to the kitchen, but instead, the older man who had addressed him in the King's bedroom earlier shuffles into the room.
Harry does not know for sure, but he assumes this man is very important. Why else would he have been at the King's bedside? A doctor, perhaps? He is an elderly beta, with a halo of white hair and a face weathered by age. Deep creases, wrinkles and sunspots are visible across his skin, the joints in his gnarled hands are stiff with gout. Reaching such an advanced age is rare, especially with disease being so rampant, so those that do are often called upon for their wisdom. The man has kind, gentle eyes. For a moment, Harry wonders if he is unbonded, since Alienor and him would actually make a pretty good match…
“I apologize for my delay,” the man greets him. “The King regaining active thought has kept me busy. I hope your dinner was suitable?”
Harry nods, cautious about trusting him. “Quite suitable.”
The hesitation must show, because the beta smiles softly and moves forward in the chamber, bowing his body as a sign of respect and authority. No one has ever bowed for Harry before. “I realize I have not introduced myself… I am Wagner, the royal physician.”
So Harry was right. The beta is a doctor.
“Why am I here?” Harry asks, getting straight to the point. “I know you mentioned I am King Louis' soulmate…”
“Yes. There was an accident. King Louis was gravely injured, and only the scent of his destined bondmate could heal him. When you entered the chamber, it was as if God himself had placed his hand upon the King's soul and brought him back. Now that we have found you, tomorrow night we shall hold the bonding ceremony!”
This is a lot of information to take in and Harry feels like the food he ate has become thick sludge in his stomach.
“How is he?” Harry averts his eyes, confused about why this is the first question he asks, why he is so concerned about a man he does not know. “How is the King, I mean?”
“He is fine,” Wagner reassures Harry. His eyes, which are plagued with a white film, twinkle with mirth. The corner of Wagner's mouth quirks up as if he finds this whole thing amusing. “He is still resting, but there is not even so much as a scratch on him now.”
Hearing the King is well causes Harry’s muscles to relax, his heart to irregularly thump deep in his chest, missing a beat or two. Harry is unsure why hearing this news makes it so he can finally breathe; he was not aware he was holding his breath at all.
“If I did not know about the science behind his recovery,” Wagner says, whispering the word ‘science’ almost as though it is a sinful, dirty word, “I would be crying witchcraft. It really was miraculous to witness, wasn't it?”
Harry is about to agree that yes, the improvement of the King was inspiring, when there is a loud commotion outside in the hall.
“Your Majesty! You have been told to rest!” A voice with a stilted accent that sounds vaguely Irish – an accent that Harry has only heard in passing once or twice before – can be heard out in the corridor, pleading.
The person's half-hearted attempt to divert the King elsewhere is apparently ignored, because suddenly the man Harry had seen unconscious and resembling a corpse earlier in the day comes barging into the room, very much alive. A frazzled, blonde man trails not far behind, hot on his heels and wearing an expression of pure annoyance across his face.
The blonde man says something else, more words uttered with a stilted accent, but Harry is not paying attention at all. He had not registered the King's alpha scent earlier; maybe it had been weakened due to the severity of his injuries? But now, Harry is embraced by the overwhelming scent of pine, of freshly chopped wood, of sawdust and shavings. The strength of it in the air makes his knees feel weak, and they buckle without cause.
Once, when Harry was a young pup, his father had sold a chicken, and using the shillings, bought him a wooden toy for his birthday. A bird, polished smooth, and barely the size and weight of a small turnip. Harry had kept the toy bird for many years, past the age he should have, and held it pressed against his cheek as he slept. For a while, it was the only way Harry could fall asleep, nostrils close against the smooth wing. The memory of the wooden bird comes flooding back, and Harry wonders now if the unexplained comfort he had found for years in the silly toy had something to do with the scent of his future mate.
It must have, because the effects are instant. The fragrance clogs his sinuses, and it makes his head feel detached from his body. The room spins, and before he can stop himself, Harry has dropped to the floor, kneecaps cracking painfully against the hard stone.
He bows his head in submission, biting his bottom lip between his teeth. He does not think kneeling before the King is proper royal protocol at court – a simple curtsy would probably have sufficed – but his omega brain has taken over, and he is powerless.
“Leave us,” the alpha orders, his voice strained and urgent.
Wagner, and the blonde man whose name Harry doesn’t know, follow the King’s direction, because Harry hears the shuffling of footsteps, though he does not raise his bent head to watch them leave. He listens as the retreating footsteps get more faint, before disappearing completely.
Despite his best efforts to be calm, his body trembles. He feels very vulnerable, alone with this strange alpha he does not know.
“Your Majesty,” he says formally, remembering the scolding he had gotten from the Queen Mother. “I was not expecting your presence tonight.”
A hand comes toward Harry’s face. It must be because of the years of abuse that he suffered from Amos, but he flinches out of habit, waiting for the blow. The hand pauses in its journey, before gently cupping his jaw and urging his eyes upwards.
He blinks in surprise at the unexpected tenderness, and then he is staring into the very intense, very handsome face of the King. He looks younger than Harry remembers he did. Perhaps the first impression Harry had of the King is not the best one to refer to going forward... They are gazing into each others’ eyes, face-to-face for the first time. While Louis looks at him, Harry finds his cheeks warming under the scrutiny. If Harry had not been grateful for the bath and Mathildah's rough scrubbing before, he certainly is now.
Eyes so blue they resemble a clear, cloudless sky in May travel over the features of Harry’s face, searching. Harry wonders what he is looking for. They seem to linger a little longer on his dimples, as well as his mouth, before finally settling on his bare neck, void of any bonding mark.
“Just Louis,” the king answers. His eyes come back up to Harry's own, and then he is smiling. God, his blue eyes are so hypnotizing. Harry is lost in the depth of them, dazed. They really are the most remarkable shade of blue. His voice is beautiful too, melodic like a harp but sharp like a cat's claw. “To you, I am just Louis.”
The King – Louis – uses a touch that is as soft as a feather to guide Harry back up onto his unsteady feet. Once he is off his knees and upright, Harry realizes their height difference. He is a little taller than the alpha, but he does not mind. Amos was a beast of a man, one that had towered over Harry, and used his hulking size as a way to intimidate and control those around him on a daily basis. Harry likes being the tall one for once, even if it is only by a few inches.
Taking a brief moment to let his eyes roam over Louis' body, he notes that his stance is casual, unbothered. He stands as though he is not a King to multiple subjects – more like a lower class squire, yet also commanding and regal in a way that speaks to his true authority and privilege. He wears a thin, red sleeping robe, evidence that he left his bed in a hurry to get here. The robe shines in the ambient light of the fire, whereas Harry's wool tunic is shadowed.
Silk, Harry thinks with a shock. The omega has seen this type of expensive, modern fabric only once before, a few months ago on the back of a traveling merchant's cart. No one in the village had been able to afford to purchase even a scrap of it. No sales made, the merchant had carried on, but clearly the yards of it Harry had seen that day had found a buyer.
“And your name would be?” Louis asks, a teasing tone in his voice. It is only then that Harry realizes he has neglected to introduce himself to his mate.
He tucks a strand of fallen hair behind the curve of his ear, shy. “Harry.”
The movement of his hand catches Louis' attention. His gaze zeroes in on the lingering marks upon Harry’s wrists, left there from the rope restraints. Louis' mouth tightens into a frown, and he grabs Harry's raised wrist, inspecting it closely.
“Who did this?”
“Uh… your guards?” Harry answers. He tugs his hand free, and Louis lets it go easily and without fuss. “I was bound with rope and brought here like a prisoner… by your own mother's orders, I believe.”
The biting words make the alpha wince. His blue eyes soften a little, though his mouth is still twisted into a frown, clearly bothered that Harry is hurt. His natural pine scent becomes rather smoky as well, like a piece of wood singed by flame.
“Please accept my apology that you were treated in such a way… You must know that she only gave such orders out of fear of losing me forever.”
Louis looks away, shielding a brief flash of emotion that dances across his face, and Harry assumes he is only now fully comprehending just how close he had been to death. Harry wants to hate him, to blame him for the way he was brought here to the castle, but he finds he cannot. The alpha is right. He had no control over such things… For Harry to channel the anger he feels about the situation onto Louis is unfair.
The omega intends to say just that, goes to tell Louis he does not blame him for an act caused by another, but “I am a peasant” comes out in a rush instead. Shame burns his cheeks, colouring them a flushed red.
Louis' eyebrows crease together at the sudden confession. “So?”
“I am of no royal blood,” Harry states again. He withholds mentioning the years of abuse he endured, avoids telling him about Amos and the fact that he has laid intimately with another alpha before. He fears what may happen to him if he tells the truth regarding his lack of virginity. Spoiled omegas are not accepted well, outcasts in society. Speaking the truth would ruin him, so for now, Harry keeps this all a secret, and focuses on the more glaring difference between them: their rank.
“Your mother, the Queen Mother, did not seem very happy about my lack of nobility.” He fidgets with the hem of his tunic, back to feeling vulnerable.
“Yes, so I have been told… Wagner mentioned that she was rather rude to you…” Louis trails off, one of his eyes twitching in displeasure. “She is very… passionate about certain things. I will speak to my mother, do not fret.”
A log burning within the grated hearth on the far wall pops and sizzles, and they both turn to look at the dwindling fire. Mathildah may need to return soon with a fresh log.
A moment of silence passes, and then the alpha turns back to Harry and smiles softly, the thin skin around his eyes crinkling. “I will take my leave now. It is late. I understand all of this change must be… frightening. If there is anything you need, anything at all, let me know and I shall have it done. I am the King, after all.” Louis winks. The smirk upon his lips is absolutely devious, and the first real sign of arrogance he has displayed towards his title.
After lowering his body into a sweeping bow, Louis goes to leave, but Harry reaches forward and grabs his hand to try and stop him. The innocent touch sends a spark through his arm, and he drops Louis' warm hand quickly. The hem of his tunic gets gathered into his hands again, nervous.
“Actually, there is one thing,” Harry says. It’s something that has been bothering him since he was taken from the bakery, but he has been unable to voice it until now. “I have a horse. A black one. He is massive, but he wouldn't hurt a fly… His name is Phillipe. He is boarded at the Devon farm, just past the pond, where I was renting a room. He has been alone since I left for work this morn - ”
A wave of a hand cuts him off. Louis' eyes are soft with understanding. “I will let my guardsmen know to go fetch him immediately, and have him brought back to the royal stables.”
“Thank you,” Harry breathes a sigh of relief. “You have been very kind.”
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
When Harry was born, the family rejoiced at the arrival of a healthy baby boy. They already had a beautiful daughter; so now, with the arrival of a son, his parents thought their prayers had been answered.
The happiness they shared didn’t last very long. Despite everyone’s best efforts, Harry’s mother died from childbed fever a few days later. Harry was less than a week old, fragile and motherless. Everybody in Holmes Chapel mourned Anne, since she had been the town's beloved seamstress. Harry’s father, heartbroken over the tragic, untimely death of his mate, had shut himself out from the world. He drank heavily, surviving on a diet consisting of buckets of cheap ale and bread, leaving Harry’s older sister Gemma to raise him. Gemma was a natural, and somehow, with her help and a wet nurse to provide milk, Harry had managed to survive infancy.
Throughout childhood, Gemma and Harry were very close, even though she was eight years older than him. Growing up, they would sit on their shared straw bed, plait each other's hair and whisper stories about dragons and unicorns. At twelve, when he had presented as an omega, instead of the alpha his father expected him to be, Gemma had hugged him close and stroked his hair. He can still remember the sound of her laugh, if he focuses hard enough.
One day, a few weeks after the start of the autumn harvest when Harry was in his fifteenth year and busy working in the wheat fields, Gemma had become afflicted with a hacking cough. Harry, and Gemma’s bondmate Lief, had tried everything to ease her cough, but unfortunately, only days later, she too passed, from what people in town were calling the sweating sickness.
By the time spring came that year, 30 other people in the village had died alongside her, most likely from the same disease, Harry’s father among them. Despite his drinking and emotional neglect, he had never put a hand on his children, and Harry was left mourning him as well.
Life works in mysterious ways. Harry still does not know why he, out of everyone in his family, was spared from death, but suddenly he was an orphaned, unbonded omega no less than sixteen years old.
He would have moved in with Gemma's widowed husband Lief, but that spring, still reeling from the loss of Gemma, Lief left Holmes Chapel to move to London, leaving Harry behind. And so Harry was utterly alone in the world.
Not knowing where to go, or what to do, he had clung to the first person who threw him a lifeline: An eighteen-year-old fellow field worker, an alpha named Amos, offered him a place to stay. He had recently acquired his grandfather's humble cottage, and was looking for a person to share it with.
Amos had promised Harry a happy life, a roof over his head, security. Harry didn't really have a choice, so reluctantly, he had agreed. They were the only unbonded pair within their age bracket in the whole of Holmes Chapel. Everyone else around his age in the village had already matched with an opposite gender, whereas his elusive soulmate was nowhere to be found.
He knows now that his mate was busy preparing to sit on a throne, and learning how to govern a kingdom, but that is hindsight — something he did not have the luxury of at the time.
Harry wonders now, since he has found his soulmate upon a throne, why Amos never had a true mate?
The first few years Harry and Amos lived together had passed by with no abuse. He had even come to have true feelings for the alpha. Sure, people in the village looked at them strangely, since they were living together as an unbonded pair, but Harry could ignore the stares.
They both knew they were not mates because there had been no alluring scent attached to either of them, aside from the fragrance of stale sweat that stuck to Amos' skin after a hard day of working in the field. And when the drinking became a daily occurrence, the lingering smell of alcohol. Omegas and alphas could only smell the unique scent of their true soulmates and pups, and no one else. Not even their own pheromones, in fact. If they are lucky, they can barely scent immediate family members, such as siblings, but that is rare.
Maybe there was something wrong with Harry's nose, and Amos actually noticed a scent associated with the omega without telling him… That was the only explanation Harry could think of. Maybe Amos had forgotten to tell Harry that his omega scent smelled like daisies, or honey, or freshly baked bread. And so, he had asked the alpha.
“You smell like nothing to me,” Amos had slurred, drunk.
That was the first time he had hit Harry, striking him across the cheek so hard it stung. Harry should have left immediately, but he had only stood frozen in shock, then gone back to baking his apple pie, tears flooding his eyes and hands shaking. The next day Amos had been overly affectionate, and even mentioned adopting an orphaned pup so they could raise it together as a family. And so the cycle of abuse had begun, and would carry on for years.
He remembers this all now, as he pulls on the traditional bonding ceremony gown, skin prickling from the memory, because he wants to ask Louis tonight after they bond, what scent clings to his skin. He has waited years to know.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The main hall of the castle is packed full of courtiers and various people of noble rank, mingling about in their finest attire. There must be hundreds of people at court tonight, all here to celebrate the bonding ceremony between their beloved king and his newly acquired mate. Whispered gossip passes between the attending guests, including a rumour that the omega the King matched to is a peasant.
As guests talk and share this scandalous news, a beautiful melody floats through the room. A musician sits playing a harp in the corner of the room; the notes are gentle and light, and come with each swipe across the strings. The happy music is nearly drowned out by all the eager chatter, but the music does not cease. It mainly fills the remaining pockets of silence.
On a massive table, a mouth-watering suckling pig sits served on a silver platter, roasted to a deep brown over a fire until the skin has blistered and cracked. Surrounding it is a hoard of various other foods: boiled potatoes, loaves of bread and butter, softened cabbage, quail eggs, a board aligned and stacked with various kinds of cheese...
Sitting at the head of this massive buffet table, Harry gingerly touches his neck. He winces at the contact. It is still stinging, and tender to the touch. Louis sits beside him, his body dwarfed by a massive throne. A similar fresh bond mark graces his neck too, perfectly placed beside his jugular vein. The bonding ceremony went well, even though Harry was very nervous leading up to it.
After Wagner had said a few words about commitment, it was over very fast, simply a seconds-long bite on each others’ necks to lay claim. There is a part of Harry that is a little miffed because he wanted Louis' lips on his skin, teeth sharp, a little longer.... While biting Louis' neck had been lovely, Louis biting him in return had felt absolutely divine, borderline sinful, but it was over much too quickly.
The fact that they still have to sit here and entertain all these guests, instead of going straight to the bedroom, is torturous.
Caught staring, Louis smirks at him and raises his goblet in cheers, winking. Harry blushes and hastily picks up his own goblet, fingers gently wrapping around the golden stem. There is no doubt it is made out of real gold. He glances down into it and swirls the funny-looking liquid around. He sniffs it, curious. The liquid is not ale, nor goat’s milk, or even mead, a fermented drink made out of honey that farmers in his village treated themselves to on occasion. It is a deep purple colour and smells like nothing he has drank before.
Slowly, Harry brings the rim of the goblet to his lips and takes a small sip. The flavour is dry, if a drink can even be described as such a word, but pleasant on the tongue. It almost tastes like fruit.
Louis leans over to him and whispers in the shell of his ear, breath hot. "That is wine. Have you had it before?"
"No," Harry says with a frown, shaking his head. Once again, their difference in rank is blatantly obvious.
Louis' expression is kind and, thankfully, not pitying. Leaning back on his throne, the alpha smiles. "It is imported from Spain."
Harry's eyes widen in shock. Spain? He has heard of such a place. People have told him it is very hot there, and barely rains, but that is all he knows about it...
After taking another sip of what he now knows is wine, Harry turns to Louis fully. "Have you ever been there?"
"Once, with my father, when I was fourteen," Louis answers. "We went there to help strengthen relations, and build diplomacy. Maybe I will take you with me next time."
The words must have somehow carried over the noise in the hall. Queen Jay, who had been busy mingling through the room and talking to guests only moments ago but is now standing near their table, eavesdropping on their conversation, scoffs.
"Omegas do not go on diplomatic adventures, Louis. They stay in the kingdom and raise the next heir," Queen Jay argues.
The mention of pups, and heirs, ignites Harry's cheeks like crimson flames, and a flush starts to spread right from the bridge of his nose down to his collarbones.
"Well, MY omega mate will accompany me," Louis counters, a touch of finality in his tone. Queen Jay frowns in response, but does not continue the discussion.
It feels nice to be fought for, which is something Harry is not used to.
Harry also knows that Louis must have talked to his mother about her rude behaviour the other day. Before the bonding ceremony, while Harry was busy getting dressed, she had come into his room in the west wing unannounced.
After a brief discussion about the weather, she offered Harry a beautiful pearl ring, telling him King Mark had given it to her on their tenth bonding anniversary, as a statement of his love for her; she told Harry that she wished for him to have it now… It was her way of welcoming him into the family.
He had tried to protest, but she had insisted, murmuring that she wanted him to have it, that it was a gift she was honoured to give.
After the pearl ring was slid onto his finger, Harry and the Queen Mother had embraced, although it had been a little awkward and stiff. It may take time —years even— but Harry hopes that someday she will come to accept him and see him as a son as well.
Where Queen Jay had been tense and judgemental towards him, Louis' younger sister, Princess Charlotte, was a different story.
Already nervous about the bonding ceremony happening in a few hours, and emotional after Queen Jay's unexpected visit, Harry had become overwhelmed when, in the middle of getting his hair done, a footman announced the Princess was on her way to his chamber now too.
Unlike the Queen Mother, who had wandered in out of nowhere, the princess at least had the decency to warn him before her arrival...
Thankfully, his worrying was not at all needed, because upon meeting Harry, Princess Charlotte had instantly pulled him into an emotional hug. She was just so thankful that Louis finally found a mate. With tears in her eyes, Princess Charlotte had told Harry she did not care where he came from, or what his position in life had been. The only thing she cared about was her brother's happiness. Before parting, she had implored him to call her Lottie, as now they were family.
Louis' happiness is why, when the alpha leans over and asks him if he wants to dance, with brightness in his blue eyes, Harry tips his goblet back, swallowing the last of the wine for some much-needed courage, then nods his head and says yes.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The celebration lasts well past midnight, until Harry and Louis are finally ushered into the King's bedroom and surrounded by courtiers, who observe them as they are changed into their sleepwear. Any attempt to remain modest is ignored, and so Harry allows Mathildah to do her job and remove his gown, dressing him in a thin chemise afterward. As he climbs into the King’s bed, Harry assumes he will never see the west wing, or the room he stayed in last night, again. Joining Louis under the blanket, Harry realizes this is his place now, beside the King, until death do them part.
Once they are in bed, over twenty nameless faces stare at them, silently waiting. Harry looks at Louis, nervous. Surely these people are not going to watch them mate???? The omega is not familiar with any such royal protocol…
Luckily, the expectations placed on them only involve an innocent touching of their bare feet together, which signifies the consummation of their bond. Once the courtiers watch their feet touch, Wagner announces the bond is complete, and they are finally left alone for the first time since their brief meeting the night before.
Rolling onto his side, Harry shyly glances at Louis. This would be the perfect time to tell the alpha about Amos, and his past. Instead what comes out of his mouth is “I really like wine,” followed by a hiccuping giggle.
The alpha snorts, but his mouth is tugged into a lopsided grin. “I can tell. Almost drank me whole cellar dry.”
Pouting, Harry whines. “I did not.”
“It’s okay,” Louis answers, his voice soft and quiet. “We will just have to go back to Spain and get some more barrels.”
“We? You would really bring me with you?” Harry whispers, prepared for Louis to dismiss him and say he did not mean what he said earlier.
“Of course. You are my mate, why wouldn’t you come with me?”
Pleased by the answer, Harry moves to unbutton the alpha’s nightshirt. Despite his shaking hands, he manages to undo a few buttons. Before he finishes undoing the fourth one, Louis’ hand darts out and encircles his wrist, stilling him.
“I will not lie and say I do not want to bed you, because I do,” Louis says. The admission sends a trickle of slick out of Harry's hole. “But I think we should wait.”
All of Harry’s plans to get f*cked by his newly bonded mate go up in smoke. “Wait?” he asks, confused about why he has been rejected, and by his mate no less.
The alpha nods and brings his stilled hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss onto Harry’s knuckles. “I think we should get to know each other more first. We only met yesterday, and I want our first mating to be special, when there is deep love between us.”
It is a romantic gesture, and if Harry was sober and not suffering from years of abuse, he might have swooned. But tonight, all it does is make him frown. Is there something wrong with him? Does Louis know his hole is not a virgin one? The question he planned to ask Louis swirls in his brain. He tugs his hands free from Louis’ grasp and nestles further under the blanket.
“Louis… what… What is my scent?” Harry swallows hard, fighting the urge to puke. Visions of fists and bruises flash in his mind.
Louis' voice is surprisingly gentle, tinged with unexpected kindness. “Wine.”
Harry’s eyebrows furrow. “I meant my omega scent…”
“I already told you. Your omega scent is wine,” Louis teases, blue eyes sparkling. He props his head up with his hand, wrist bent as he stares down at the omega. “I went to Spain with my father when I was fourteen, as you know. I had not presented with a secondary gender yet… Everyone was very worried, as most pups present before their thirteenth birthday,” Louis explains.
Harry’s eyes widen, and he nods. It is almost unheard of for a pup to pass the age of 13 without presenting as a secondary gender.
“The first time I smelt a barrel of wine in Spain, I presented seconds later. I guess your scent was only available in Spain, which is why I presented so late… I hadn’t smelled it yet. I did not know it was something I needed to crave.”
Tears gather on Harry’s eyelashes, and one spills down onto his flushed cheek. The alpha uses his thumb to wipe the tear away, gaze lingering on his face. “I am very glad I found you, Harry. You saved me, but why do I get the sense we saved each other?”
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Weeks pass, and Harry’s life at the castle gets easier the longer he stays within its walls. He spends most of his time grooming Phillipe out in the Royal stables, embroidering, and gossiping with his newly assigned ladies-in-waiting. He also helps Mathildah and the other maids in the kitchen (to Queen Jay’s horror and displeasure, but to Louis’ enthusiasm, since he comes to really love Harry's apple pie).
While gossiping and embroidering are fun, most of his days are spent being tutored by Louis’ personal advisor, Niall. On their first meeting, Harry recognizes Niall as the blonde Irishman who had tried to redirect Louis the first night he stayed in the castle.
Already schooled by his sister Gemma in basic reading and writing, Harry begins to learn Latin and Spanish and French. Harry and Niall get along well, and he learns the languages quickly, but is not fluent yet. Some days they get off-topic and talk about Ireland and how much Niall misses it, or about the pranks he has played on Louis over their years of friendship.
After a month or two of Harry focusing mainly on languages, Niall adds lessons on diplomacy and military action to his already full itinerary. Deprived of knowledge, Harry greedily absorbs and learns anything he can.
The day Queen Jay learns of Harry being taught military strategy, she expresses her displeasure. She announces her opinion of omegas learning such topics, but Louis supports Harry’s educational endeavours wholeheartedly, and tells his mother so.
The alpha is another issue entirely. The thing is, there is nothing really wrong with him at all. He is kind, funny, charming, and understanding. He is the perfect mate for Harry in every sense of the word. But he has still not bedded him, and all the waiting is making Harry frustrated and impatient.
One night a few days ago they had shared a few heated kisses. Encouraged by their shared panting, both their hands had wandered south until release. So there has been progress, but in Harry's opinion, it is not enough. His hole is needy for a knot.
There is also the looming oppressive truth that hangs over Harry's head, following him like a grey cloud threatening to rain. He still has not shared the truth of his past. With each day that passes, he struggles to utter the words caught in his throat more and more. The longer he avoids telling Louis about Amos, the harder it becomes to do so.
After a sunset ride on Phillipe through the castle's lush grounds with Lottie, Harry dismounts and hands the reins to one of the stable hands waiting there to untack him. Usually, he untacks Phillipe and cleans the stall himself, but tonight he is in a rush. Beside him, Lottie gingerly dismounts from Lennie, her small, chestnut quarter horse, hair unkempt and skin flushed from exhilaration.
During a conversation a few weeks ago, Harry had become aware Lottie did not know how to ride a horse, so he had taken it upon himself to teach her. Since then, they have shared countless rides together. Luckily, Queen Jay is unaware of their secret escapades, since she avoids the stables like the plague, but there is no doubt that she will learn of them soon enough.
Linking their arms, they make their way to the castle. Despite his protesting, Lottie escorts him through the labyrinth of stone corridors, the damp walls adorned with flickering torches on one side. Though he won’t admit it, he is glad Lottie is escorting him. Even after two months of living here, all the halls look the same to Harry, especially after nightfall. Only a few days ago, he had taken a wrong turn and gotten lost, and that had been in the daylight.
They finally arrive at the door of the King's chambers; the torchlight from the corridor flickers across both of their profiles. They had eaten earlier in the day, after hosting an afternoon banquet for a visiting Duke and duch*ess, so most are in the process of retiring to their rooms, or have already. Lottie gives Harry a quick hug and tells him to give her regards to her older brother. Pushing through the heavy door, Harry sighs. He is alone in the room, which means Louis must still be busy visiting with the Duke.
Unwilling to wait for Mathildah, Harry decides to undress himself, then uses his comb made out of bone to work on detangling his curls. After a couple of passes, he sets the comb down, nerves starting to fire when he decides tonight will be the night. He needs to tell Louis about his past. He cannot keep it secret anymore.
As he waits for Louis to join him, a variety of scenarios enter his mind. The worst one is that maybe Louis will be so enraged by the deception that he will break their bond. Is that even possible?
These nagging thoughts fade the second Louis enters the room. The cedar of his scent, tinged with a hint of spice, comforts Harry, albeit only a little.
“How was your ride with Lottie?” Louis asks. Unlike his mother, he is aware of what she and Harry do in the stables; while he is nervous about horses due to his accident, he is always supportive.
Harry sniffs, looking away. “Wonderful. She sends her regards, even though she just saw you a few hours ago.”
The alpha snorts. Unwilling to wait for his own maid to arrive, he begins to undress. Some of Harry's peasant habits have rubbed off on the King, and it makes Harry smile. For a moment the only sounds in the room are the soft crackles and pops produced by the fire in the hearth on the far wall.
“Louis… I need to talk to you.”
His mate looks at him from across the room, face furrowing. “What’s wrong, love? Did me mum find out about Lottie riding?”
After holding it in for months, it all comes out in a rush, said with a shaky breath and wide eyes. “I have laid with an alpha before. I am no virgin.”
Harry’s heart knocks against his ribs, and there is a weighted silence that passes between them. This is it. Louis will banish him from the castle, maybe even hang him for treason.
The alpha takes a few careful, measured steps, before placing a warm hand against Harry's cheek, thumb caressing his jaw. “I thought so, but I did not want to assume wrong and cause offense.”
The omega struggles to absorb what he had just heard. Trying not to fidget, Harry places his own hand against the rough stubble there on Louis' face. “You knew? This whole time?”
Louis nods. “I used to have a dog, and it would flinch whenever a certain footman got close. The flinching used to confuse me, until I learned this specific footman would abuse the dog, hit him and kick him when he thought no one was watching. You act like that dog sometimes, though I will admit it has improved.”
Emotion clogs Harry’s sinuses. This is not how he envisioned the conversation going. His eyes flutter rapidly, willing the tears to stop. “You are right… Amos…” he pauses. “Well, he was a very bad man. He hurt me…”
When Harry looks up again, Louis’ blue eyes have hardened with the knowledge that his assessment was correct. “So you admit it? He abused you?” Louis snarls.
“Once he even broke my finger after I used a shilling to buy a ribbon from the market,” Harry comments softly, finger throbbing from the painful memory.
Shocked by this information, unprepared for such level of abuse, Louis pulls him into a tight embrace. “I can have him killed, you know. One word and my guards will hunt him down,” he warns, voice breaking with emotion.
Forehead falling to press into Louis' neck, he buries his nose in the alpha's neck and breathes. “You are not mad I am not a virgin?” He whispers the words carefully, so nobody overhears and spreads the information. He wants to minimize any further stains upon his character.
“I would rather pluck my own eyes out than think about any alpha laying so much as a pinky on you, either in pain or pleasure, but I will not judge you for your past. We are together now,” Louis assures him. “That is all that matters. The only thing I am thinking about right now, is how to erase those years you spent in pain.”
"Make me feel good," Harry suggests. Harry nuzzles his face further into the crook of Louis' neck, breathing in his mate’s scent deeply. "Remove any memory of him being in me, by placing yourself there instead. Cover the places where his bruises were with the sweat of our lovemaking."
"Lovemaking? You love me?" Louis asks, almost breathless, in complete awe.
Harry nods, ducking his head in an attempt to hide his deepening blush. "Yes... how could I not? You have been wonderful. I love you Louis, with my whole soul."
They crash their bodies together, their mouths pressing together in a searing kiss. Louis' lips are dominant and unyielding against his own, yet soft and loving. Their feet carefully dance across the animal fur rug, maneuvering through the room until they tumble horizontally into the bed, limbs boneless.
Once situated, Louis settles his body above Harry's. He lets out a pained groan when their hips brush together. He chases the groan with his tongue, running it along the seam of Harry’s lips, prompting him to open his mouth and allow the alpha to suck gently on his bottom lip.
They pull apart, and Louis peppers soft kisses down the column of his throat. Harry tries not to whine, but fails. “I love you too, Harry. So much. You are the reason I breathe,” Louis whispers against his skin.
Louis leans back on his calves and pulls Harry’s hands to his smiling mouth. Harry watches with hooded eyes from his place near the headboard as the alpha places a tingling kiss on each finger, starting at his pinky, then ring finger, middle, pointer, and thumb; before moving to do the same to his other hand, no doubt wanting to replace the memory of the broken finger. Now when Harry looks at his fingers, he will see the pearl ring, and remember these kisses—nothing else.
Overwhelmed with love, Harry reaches for the alpha and he threads his tingling fingers through the strands of the King’s hair, pulling him back down to his mouth, kissing him again.
As they kiss, Louis pushes the hem of Harry's thin chemise up over his bare thighs, hands slow and confident. The fabric bunches and gathers above Harry's pelvis, exposing himself to the alpha.
Slick has already gathered and dampened the crease between his arse, but being splayed out naked underneath the alpha, makes more seep out of his clenching hole. He whines, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths; Louis easily swallows the breaths with his mouth.
Any of Harry’s prior emotions of shame or embarrassment about his past are replaced by the overwhelming desire for Louis to knot him, to claim him.
“Please,” Harry begs, tearing his mouth away. “I’m so empty it hurts.”
Louis pants, chest heaving. “I’ll fill your tight little hole, but I want to taste you first... Be patient.”
A probing finger traces around his wet rim.
"So wet for me," Louis hisses. When the finger leaves, Harry almost starts sobbing. The alpha brings the slick-coated finger to his own mouth and licks it, savouring the sweet taste that’s gathered there. Upon tasting Harry’s slick, Louis lets out a strangled moan.
Eyes roaming his body, Louis is nearly drooling at the sight of him, and Harry has never felt more powerful, or more vulnerable, in all his life.
It all happens very fast after that; so much for patience.
Louis rushes to settle in between Harry’s open thighs, his hands possessive and rough on Harry’s hips. Harry sighs at the comforting weight of his mate, and reaches up blindly, pulling the alpha close. He likes it like this, with Louis’ warm body covering his and caging him in.
Louis’ co*ck nudges the cleft of his ass, and Harry manages to snake an arm down between them to help spread himself open further. The head of Louis’ co*ck catches on his rim, then enters him slowly.
It feels like heaven. The alpha entering him makes Harry feel as if his soul is being coloured in from what was once only a line drawing of his silhouette. It is almost as if an artist is turning a rough sketch into a masterpiece. Like two different colours of paint being blended together to make a new hue on a boring palette. This must be how clay feels, when it is sculpted and shaped into something beautiful and worthy of awe.
Maybe Louis was right about waiting to do this until feelings developed.
Once they are flush together, pelvis to pelvis, Louis’ co*ck seems to swell within Harry, shifting his girth to fill the void. He begins to hump, rocking his body forward.
"If it was not already clear, I love you too," Louis murmurs, voice hushed.
He moves against Harry, f*cking into him slowly, setting a slow rhythm that is tender and maddening. Harry's body feels like it is on fire.
“Louis,” he breathes, pressing their foreheads together.
The alpha smirks, and his grin is nearly feral. “Mine. You're mine, Harry.” He emphasizes the possessive statement with a few brutal snaps of his hips, making Harry gasp.
Before Harry knows what is happening, a gush of fluid rushes out of his hole, some of it splattering on his milky-white thighs. He throws his head back and moans. That has never happened before, but the way Louis smirks down at him, fingers petting through the puddle of slick on his thighs, makes Harry forget to feel embarrassed about it.
Harry is on the edge much too soon. When Louis begins to stroke his neglected co*ck, pulling him off, his balls tighten without warning, and then he is coming with a shout. He stiffens beneath the alpha, back bending and mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Ribbons of cum coat Louis’ hand, hot and thick. His body shudders, heaving with tension over and over again until he is boneless, shaking in Louis’ arms.
Still eager for a knot, Harry’s hole clenches pitifully around Louis’ co*ck, wanting to milk him and make him feel good too. Louis moans, pressing his co*ck deep into Harry’s ass, then collapses. Harry can feel the steady pulse of Louis’ cum filling his ass; then the knot he so desperately craved expands, and they are finally stuck together, his hole stretched around the alpha's knot. They are both sweaty and panting. As they wait for the knot to pop, their fingers trail over each other's heated skin in lazy patterns.
Harry's chest begins to vibrate, and he realizes he is purring. Louis joins him in a deeper octave, purring too, until the room is filled with the sound. It takes a while, but eventually Louis’ knot dissipates. Still, they remain clinging to each other, hands petting and caressing each others’ bare skin, unable to let go.
“Is there anything you miss from your past? Anything at all?” Louis asks, nuzzling his face into Harry’s neck.
Harry is silent for a moment, thinking. Mentioning his dead family would be too easy. Finally, he nods. “Petunia. She was our dairy cow back in Holmes Chapel. I helped her enter the world. She was born breech. When it looked like her mother had given up, I used a spare rope I found in the barn to pull her out, and used my own hands to clear the mucus from her nose. She used to follow me everywhere.”
Words struggling behind a yawn, Harry continues. “I miss her a lot.”
It is not long before they both fall asleep, tangled together.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
A few days later, Louis sits at the head of his massive table. Beside him sits the beautiful mate who saved his life, and who he has grown to love deeply. They are having breakfast, and a few courtiers are mingling throughout the great hall, voices hushed. Louis’ mother and sister sit at their own table, drinking tea, eyes still heavy with sleep. Niall, his personal advisor, stands hunched over beside Harry, a stack of loose papers in his hands; they talk about his next Latin test, set to happen later that afternoon.
It is a normal morning at court—nothing out of the ordinary. Glancing down, Louis stabs his silver fork into his meat pie. While he is distracted, there is a commotion and a shout within the hall. He looks up, only to see his sister Lottie struggling in the arms of a great brute, a sharp dagger pressed against her throat. Barely even registering the massive, filthy alpha wielding the dagger, Louis panics and rushes out of his seat, signaling for the guards.
“You send the guards, and I will Cut. Her. Throat,” the alpha threatens, foamy spit flying out of his mouth.
The edge of the dagger nicks Lottie’s skin, leaving a small cut. A trickle of blood seeps out. Lottie’s eyes widen, and she claws at his bulging arm desperately, but it is no use. The alpha only tightens his grip. The stench of his body odour is heavy in the room, and Lottie gags, on the verge of vomiting.
Who the hell is this alpha, and how dare he do something so brazen in front of the King?
A wave of ten armed guards comes rushing into the room, but Louis quickly orders them to stand down. They fall back to the entrance, waiting for him to advance them forward. Louis says nothing; he cannot risk harm to his sister when she is in such a compromising position.
“Amos?” Harry looks as if he has seen a ghost.
Louis hears the name and recognizes it. Anger burns the back of his throat, and rage stains his vision red. So this is the asshole Harry escaped from—the asshole who had abused him for years.
Amos ignores Harry, turning to address Louis instead, his eyes so bloodshot they are almost red. “Are you aware, Your Majesty, that your mate is spoiled, and has laid with another alpha?” His words are venomous, bathed in disgust.
Murmurs fill the hall, and the people who are watching this exchange widen their eyes at the words.
Harry stands from his seat, body shaking. “How… How did you find me?”
Amos sneers, finally turning his attention to Harry. “Elsbeth’s brother. He said the King of Doncaster had found a mate, and it happened to be a curly-haired peasant.”
In his peripheral vision, Louis notices Mathildah, Harry’s maid, standing off to the side. Her face becomes pale and she scurries out of the room, not unlike a rat. Louis wonders if it was her spreading the gossip. Irritation bites at Louis’ stomach. This situation has gone on long enough.
“Let my sister go,” he snarls. He takes a few steps towards the alpha. “What is it you want? Money? Land?”
“I am here to negotiate.”
“For my sister?”
“No,” Amos spits. “For the omega.”
Harry gasps and collapses back into his chair. Louis almost laughs, shocked by the absurdity of the demand. He and Harry are bonded, and have bite marks on their necks as proof. This alpha is clearly delusional.
“What are your terms?” Louis asks.
“A fight to the death.”
"Swords? Daggers?"
"Hand to hand," Amos answers. "Fists only. The winner gets Harry."
Truly cornered, Louis considers his options. Amos does not appear to be someone who would be willing to negotiate, and his sister is still standing with a dagger digging into her neck. The guards cannot advance because there is no doubt in his mind that Amos will follow through with his threat, which means his sister will die.
He remembers a few nights ago Harry had told him Amos was a drunk during their time together, an alcoholic, and judging by how he sways on his feet, he is already somewhat sloshed right now. He decides to use that to his advantage.
“Louis, you can’t,” Niall tries to stop him, obviously can tell what he is about to do, but Louis ignores his friend. He walks up to the massive alpha.
“To the death,” Louis agrees.
Amos growls, and then tosses Lottie and the dagger aside. She staggers from the force, almost toppling over, but Louis is unable to see if she is alright. Distracted, he’s surprised by a cheap punch he was not expecting. It catches him right in the jaw, and rattles his teeth. He spits, droplets of blood landing on the stone floor. Wow, this guy really is an asshole. They square off, circling around one another before rushing forward.
The fight is dirty, the dull thumps of impact are gross and echoing in the room. Amos lands most of his punches, and they will definitely leave bruises. But Louis manages to hold his ground, and uses his speed, and sobriety, to gain the upper hand. Eventually, there is blood pouring out of a deep gash above Amos’ eyebrow, and he falls back, arms raised in a futile attempt to defend himself against blows, while Louis advances for the kill.
“Stop!” Harry pleads, rushing to force his body between them. “Stop this right now!”
Louis manages to get one more punch in, and Amos falls into a heap on the floor, disoriented.
Harry uses a cloth to clean Louis’ blood off his chin, eyes full of tears. He wipes it along Louis' bottom lip, staining it red. “Let him live… please… I know he is a bad man, but he was there for me when no one else was. I do not want his death to be at your hands! Let his death be caused by the bottle, or at the end of a sword wielded by a soldier, not by your fists.”
All Louis wants to do is grab the dagger on the floor and slice Amos’ throat, but Harry’s calming pheromones, and his tear-stained cheeks, convince him to have mercy. Not to mention that since Amos now lies unconscious and harmless on the stone floor, killing him now would be dishonorable, lacking in valor.
“Take him to the dungeon,” Louis orders, voice rough with hatred. His mouth tastes like iron. He pulls Harry into an embrace, a bloody hand combing through Harry’s tangle of curls in an attempt to soothe. “When he heals we will ship him out in our army.”
Let someone else kill him instead, have his death be their doing. A few guards grab the alpha and drag his heavy, unconscious body out of the room.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
A gentle kiss is placed on Harry’s lips, and though half-asleep, he smiles out of instinct, then rolls over in the bed.
“Five more minutes,” he groans, tugging the blanket up and over his head.
“I have a surprise for you, my love,” Louis murmurs above him, voice soft.
Usually Louis is the one begging for more sleep, so Harry is definitely suspicious about this surprise. He removes the blanket and peers into the bright eyes of his mate. The bruises that were left on Louis' face by Amos a few weeks ago have healed, and along with them, any lingering doubt about Harry’s place in Louis’ heart.
After Amos was thrown into the dungeon, everyone had rallied around Harry. Even Queen Jay had supported him, telling the omega that only Louis’ true mate could have stopped him in the middle of a fight like that, and she realizes that now.
Lottie, albeit very traumatized from the whole ordeal, had kept her distance, but yesterday they went on a ride together and their relationship is almost back to how it was before Amos bribed his way into the castle.
And Louis… Seeing Louis fight for him, take punches for him….. It really solidified their bond. No, Harry did not need the fight to happen in order to know for sure that Louis loved him, but now Harry knows Louis would die for him. That is a level up from love, in his opinion. When the love of your life offers to die for you, it adds a little perspective to things. There is no doubt left, only pure love.
Though he grumbles, Harry allows himself to be pulled out of bed, and dressed without complaint. He won’t admit it, but he is excited to know what the surprise is. Once dressed, Louis takes his hand, and they walk through the corridors of the castle.
At first, Harry is confused when they begin to head in the direction of the stables. Louis rarely goes out there, especially since his jousting accident. He is still a little hesitant around the horses, but it is a work in progress. But then when they get close to the paddock, Harry spots his surprise. It’s the brown jersey cow that he knows so well: Petunia.
Tears flood his eyes. “You found her?” he sniffs.
Louis smiles, eyes crinkling in the early morning sun. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” Louis asks him, smile widening. “I am the King of Doncaster, after all.”
