Chapter Text
You doubt and you're desperate, you wear both your cross and your hammer
Such beautiful dreams of violence, in them your tongue is made of silver
But we don't fight like animals, we fight like men
No, we don't fight like men, we fight like Gods
When Erik entered his rooms, there was already a bath drawn up, filled almost to the brim with water he knew to be the perfect temperature. Tepid, so as to both cool his overheated body and relax his muscles after the workout they had just been put through. He kicked off his boots and removed his sweat-soaked tunic and trousers, sinking into the water with a blissful sigh.
A small wooden stool had been placed, as was customary, right next to the head of the bathtub, with bath oils, his razor and pot of foam, and a bar of scented soap resting on top. No matter how redundant, Erik still went through the painstaking procedure of making his form more palatable, though he hadn’t been enjoyed in quite a long while. It still wouldn’t do for one of the king’s concubines to wander the palace smelling of anything less than the most fragrant of spices—and thank the heavens for small mercies; at least Sebastian would rather he smell like something exotic than something sweet and feminine, like the oils and perfumes Emma and Angel wore. It set Erik apart, he knew, taciturn, unapproachable, with a sharp scent of amber and clove. The women at least played at being cordial with each other, and the servants existed at their beck and call. With Erik, no one, neither staff nor spouse, bothered.
After he had cleaned and dried himself, he inspected his armpits, finding that he still had a few days before the small stumps of hair demanded shaving. His arms and torso were mostly hairless or covered with fine, blond fluff, unlike his crotch and legs. He hadn’t shaved his groin in almost a year, but his legs were sometimes exposed if he wore the short breeches that fell just below his knee caps.
The hair in his thighs was light and downy, so he left it alone. Anyhow, he could not reach the back, contenting himself with shaving his hairy calves.
The motion of the razor was soothing. Metal scraped over his skin in a pleasant way, never hurting him, never drawing blood. He was mosturized from the small amount of oil he’d poured into the bath, and the glide of the blade was aided further due to the shaving foam. As it was Sebastian’s, he would bet it was the best shaving foam in the kingdom, perhaps in all the neighboring lands.
Just as soon as he had tapped the side of the razor blade to the edge of the tub to flick away the last of the hair-encrusted foam, someone knocked on the door to his room. Erik frowned, finding it strange that a servant had come to dispose of his bath water so quickly after he’d made his way back to his rooms.
“I am not yet finished!” Erik yelled, bending at the waist to inspect the backs of his calves for leftover tufts of hair.
He still had to shave his face, he remembered dispassionately. He’d already delayed it this morning, wishing to start his training early, the sun bright in the sky but not overly scalding.
“Your Highness has just crossed the gates, milord!” exclaimed a muffled female voice through the closed door.
“I’ll be there shortly!”
He heard her steps receding, echoing farther and farther away from the door, leaving behind only a new layer of tension on Erik’s shoulders. Sebastian hadn’t been gone long, but it was still too soon for Erik’s tastes. Though his husband was still a relatively young man, Sebastian often only fought for show, in tournaments and the like, and only where there was no risk of real injury. His real skills were his shrewd mind and ruthless battle strategies, more destructive with a few pawns on the map of his war room than the most skilled warriors were with their choice weapons.
Sebastian’s latest victory was the duchy of Westchester, the last of the resistance of the recently conquered kingdom of Krakoa. The Xaviers had put up a good fight, as far as Erik had heard, but Sebastian was merciless, resourceful, and patient. After a months-long campaign and an extended siege, they had finally caved, and Sebastian had departed a little over a month ago to seal the peace accords.
Erik rushed through shaving his face, running a brush through his damp hair and putting on beautiful clothes that would communicate how overjoyed he was to have his husband back home.
He left his personal quarters and walked the castle corridors toward the main entrance, watching servants scurrying to and fro with a hint of bitter envy in his chest. What he wouldn’t give to be one of them. They weren’t royalty, like he now was, but they were free. Mostly. He was aware of the vulnerabilities of the common man, had suffered them for most of his life, but these people weren’t destitute. Also, they did not have to live in constant fear that their husband, who had lost interest at last, would one day find himself nostalgic and invite himself back into their bed.
Invite, and not force. Sebastian would never force his way into Erik’s bed—it was an impossibility. How could he, Erik thought, hands shaking, when it was rightfully his?
He balled his hands into fists to stop their trembling. It was unbecoming to quake in his boots at the mere thought of one's husband. Weak. There was nothing to fear, no monster under the bed. Sebastian would simply do as he always did nowadays, poke at Erik until he bored himself with the broken toy. It never took long; he was a boy king, his nursery was full of dolls for him to amuse himself with.
Erik was the last to arrive to wait for Sebastian. Angel and Emma already stood side by side just outside the large front doors, on the left side of the stone stairs. On the right, the children were arranged according to height, the smallest at the front and the tallest at the end. Four in total, three of them Angel’s, all standing prim and proper in their little dresses and bows and cravats.
The gates of the palace opened up, but it took a long few minutes for Sebastian’s entourage to walk into the grounds. They were all moving slowly, and Erik thought only half of it must be due to the difficulties of moving that many people through the narrow streets, dozens of horses and warriors and chests filled with, doubtlessly, Westchester treasure. The other half of it was surely Sebastian’s always present need to reaffirm himself, now prancing around the capital like a cockatoo with too showy a crest for how little brains it had.
There were around sixty, maybe seventy men crossing the gates. The bulk of the war effort had been left behind in the training camps just outside of town, the thousands of men who’d made this victory possible, all gathered in the barracks where Erik had once belonged.
Finally, Sebastian jumped off his horse, slighly stiff with the all too familiar ache of riding too long astride a horse. It was equal parts ridiculous and infuriating to see signs of it on the king. Sebastian was always adamant he rode ‘with his men’, as if that would make anyone forget the fact that he did not fight alongside them. Many kings didn’t, that was par for the course, but Sebastian was the only one cynical enough to pretend otherwise. Worst of all was that Erik knew that there were fools who fell for it. A few years ago, he had been one of them.
A couple of carriages came to a stop next to the king, and he approached one of them, opening the door with a hand behind his back in performative gallantry. The entrance to the carriage was obscured by diaphanous fabric, so Erik could not catch a glimpse of whomever it was Sebastian was performing for, but a pale-skinned hand slipped through the gap, coming to rest on Sebastian’s gloved, waiting one.
It was followed by a green-clad arm, then a head of short chestnut hair, and an unfamiliar body, as the person inside the carriage stepped out of the concealing fabric and into the sunlight. A man, Erik noted with a strange and turbulent mix of emotions. One more, making the king’s harem a round and pleasant four. Two of each.
To Erik’s own surprise, he realized that he hated it, the thought of being replaced. It burned in his chest like slow-acting poison. Found lacking, unworthy, then discarded. Though he’d never felt an ounce of desire for Sebastian, and the only affection he’d mourned the loss of was that nurtured between a mentor and a protégée, there was no running from the truth that so loudly demanded his acknowledgement: he still, and always would, crave Sebastian’s approval. The loss of it—even approval of something as inconsequential as his body—stung.
It had been an idle thought, but one that comforted him. Maybe, Erik had thought, maybe he does not truly desire men. Erik had been a whim, a pleasant-enough face, but the reality of it, of hard surfaces and stubble and cock, instead of curves and breasts and yielding warmth, had proved… lackluster. By then, Erik had fantasized, Sebastian had already trapped himself, Erik a concubine, legally wedded for the rest of their lives. Sebastian probably didn’t want to appear weak, by whatever twisted, convoluted definition of weakness he held, rotten as he was by years manipulating public opinion. It wasn’t, anyway, as if the king’s coffers were so empty that he couldn’t afford the expenses of a concubine who spent all day training and reading, whose only luxuries had to be forced upon him. Might as well keep him, Erik imagined Sebastian thinking.
But the arrival of this man meant something else. He was a few inches shorter than Sebastian, who was in turn a couple of inches shorter than Erik, and even from this far Erik could see that he was pretty. He felt suddenly like a blubbering fool, with his large hands and feet, with the solid build he was so proud of, not because of how it looked, but because it was serviceable, because it meant he was still as sharp a blade as he had been when Sebastian had plucked him from the army and made him into a pampered spouse. He’d never seen reason to think ill of his size, of his proportions, but for a moment he loathed them so intensely he was almost certain this male minx could feel the heat of Erik’s self-hatred all the way from the carriage. Some of it was even directed his way, at the man’s brown hair tinted auburn in the sun, at his thick, rouge-painted lips. He filled his embroidered jerkin, tunic, and trousers like one of the paintings Sebastian had in the hallways of the palace, of one of the mythical young men of old. Narcissus, Adonis, Ganymede. All of the dozen young men that Sebastian had used to spout poetics about, back when he had been, allegedly, training Erik to become a knight, and unofficially courting him, in a less than subtle hint that he saw Erik as one of them. A beautiful mortal boy who drove gods to madness with lust.
Still holding the young man’s hand in his, Sebastian walked up the stairs until he was standing in front of his family.
“Charles, these are my beloved children.” To the children, he said, kind but stern, “When I say your name, step forward and greet Charles like I taught you, hm?”
Up close, the man, Charles, was even better-looking. The most striking feature of his face, followed closely by his mouth, were his eyes, an unnerving, electric blue the color of a cloudless morning. His face was pleasant, if a little bland—soft jaw, unremarkable nose, cheekbones not particularly prominent—and, in fact, he retained a small amount of baby fat to his cheeks that would probably never go away, judging by his age and the fact that he was otherwise quite thin. Erik could also imagine whisking him away from the earth up into the Olympus to have him pour Erik wine for all eternity, just to be able to rejoice at the sight of that face.
There was something otherworldly at the play of soft and hard in this Charles. The undeniable male in him, juxtaposed with his enticing allure. Erik had never thought that he was meant for attraction, sex with Sebastian had been a chore and an inconvenience, the women that the other soldiers had used to joke about were uninteresting in their unifaceted femininity. Charles, shorter than Erik, with milky, unblemished skin, large knuckles, a flat chest, and a cock between his legs, Charles made Erik’s stomach swoop with a cold-hot sensation that Erik wasn’t sure bode well for him. It could just as easily be the herald of his damnation, the harbinger of the end.
“Winnifred,” prompted Sebastian, and Emma’s little girl, a gap-toothed blonde in a blue dress, stepped forward and lisped through her greetings.
“Pwe-pleathed to make your accointence, mithter Chales,” Winnifred said, shyly ducking her head.
Erik’s breath caught in his chest as an idea lit up in his mind like a struck match. The harbinger of the end, indeed. Maybe that was what Charles was. Maybe Erik had been looking at this with the wrong eyes entirely, shortsighted and prejudiced. Hasty in his dismissal. The harginger of the end… Would it be so bad, for it to finally end? Perhaps Charles was his replacement, but whatever that meant regarding Erik’s value as a spouse and a bed mate, it could work in his favor. Erik’s petty vanities often took up so little space in his mind and in his heart as to go unnoticed. What really mattered, his true life purpose, could be accomplished if only Charles took the place that was Erik’s, that of the male spouse, and did it so thoroughly that Sebastian finally saw fit to let Erik go. He could prove his worth as a soldier again, not a knight, for he would never again aspire to so much, and would really rather keep his distance from the royals. But to fight without concern for his desirability, to get to avenge the death of his mother—he could wish for nothing more. Train long into the day, train with people who were neither forbidden nor afraid for their lives should they harm the king’s property during a spar. Sleep in the barracks, eat rationed meals, let his armpit hair grow two fingers long.
Erik could be free once again, and one day spill his enemy’s blood with his bare hands.
“... and Nicholas, my firstborn, Nicki,” Sebastian was saying.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Charles.”
Nicholas bowed, the perfect little gentleman.
“Oh, no need for such formality. Charles is no one’s lord anymore, now, is he?” Sebastian laughed like he was sharing in on a joke, but, if so, it was one of extreme bad taste. A stranger though Charles was, it left a bad taste in Erik's mouth.
Countless of Charles’ compatriots had surely been murdered not a month ago, if not by the soldiers, then by the famine caused by the siege. If nothing else, it was indecorous to disrespect his grief so soon.
Erik gathered, by the quick interaction, that Charles was the Lord of Westchester, which meant that he had come to Genosha as spoils of war. To live one’s entire life in the lap of luxury, expecting, certainly, to someday marry, maybe build his own harem, only to be stripped of fortune, title, freedom, and country, and be forced to join another man’s harem instead. Erik was not one to pity the rich, but the whiplash alone must be devastating.
Done with the prince and princesses, Sebastian turned to his spouses with a broad and slightly wicked smile. That usually meant he was thinking lecherous thoughts, and it was unnerving for how long—far too long and still not long enough—it had been since it had last been aimed Erik’s way. Or, more accurately, he and Emma and Angel’s way.
“These are my lovely spouses. My Angel, my first concubine and mother of Beatrice, Adelaide, and Nicholas. It was love at first sight, and I’ve continued to fall for her ever since.”
He reached out playfully, like he could not bear to be apart from her a second longer. She, laughing, grabbed something invisible in the air—Sebastian’s longing, Erik figured—and held it against her breast in a tender hold.
“I’ve missed you, husband.”
“And I, you.
“Erik,” Sebastian moved on, and Erik froze on his tracks as Sebastian’s and Charles’ gazes both turned on him, “was less abrupt, near snuck up on me. He was a soldier, do you believe, all bright-eyed, wanted to be a knight.” He said it as if it were some sort of joke. If the punchline was because Erik was unfit for knighthood or because he'd been born a peasant, Sebastian had never clarified, not now and not in the countless similar jokes he’d made at Erik’s expense in the past.
Erik curled his toes inside his boots to keep from reacting in any outward way.
“Too handsome for the lifestyle, I found,” concluded Sebastian almost insouciantly.
And he moved on to Emma.
As he introduced the queen, his pride and joy, princess of an allied kingdom to the south known for temperatures as chilling as Emma’s temperament, Erik thought that Sebastian’s brief introduction of him summed up their relationship perfectly. There was none of the fiery passion Sebastian felt for Angel, nor of the awe he regarded Emma with. Erik was uneducated, like Angel, so he was not viewed as an appropriate conversationalist, nor as someone with anything worthwhile to say. However, unlike Angel, Sebastian no longer desired him, and, as a man, he didn’t even have children of his own to offer. All he had was his body and that was all Sebastian had ever deemed valuable. Not even his carnality, but his appearance—the perfect specimen of Spartan masculinity, Sebastian had once called him. If Angel and Emma and Charles were what he desired, however, Erik could see plainly how he was lacking, how he fell short.
Erik imagined that Sebastian would be much happier were Erik a sculpture. Just a life-sized block of polished marble built for Sebastian’s viewing pleasure, there waiting, perfect and hairless, for the moment Sebastian would find himself in the mood to contemplate the male form again. Uncharitably, Erik thought that maybe Sebastian saw himself in Erik, as he maybe had been a couple of decades ago. Maybe it was not desire but narcissism and nostalgia which drove him to marry Erik, and his compliments to Erik’s looks were self-aggrandizement instead of genuine appreciation.
“Of course,” Sebastian was saying, “you and I will not have a whirlwind romance like Angel. A more measured courtship, I think, is in order, if that’s agreeable with you. It wouldn’t do to treat a former-future archduke with the same flippantness one treats a commoner.”
It was a crude, transparent jab, concealed by the pretense of good humor, and it was just Sebastian’s style. But Charles was not its only target. Erik turned to Angel almost on instinct, seeing her flinch before she hid it with an even larger smile.
Erik had never known what to make of Angel, though he knew her story as well as the next person. One’s heart, however, was out of reach for even the most dedicated gossips.
Did Angel love Sebastian? Despise him? Desire him? How deeply were her claws sunk into the court, how numerous were her allies among the courtiers? The fierce drive in her, was it aimed at maintaining a status quo that favored her and her children, or was there something else she was aiming for?
Angel was the first of the spouses, which granted her respect in the palace. However, the fact that she had been a poor merchant’s niece before the marriage was a sore spot, catching Sebastian’s eye by chance and managing to hold back her virginity only by virtue of his grace. Sebastian had once regaled a dining table with the story, narrating that a young and spunky Angel had said her maidenhood wasn't for sale, and was in fact being saved for her wedding night, for her husband. Had he been offended, she would have either had to yield or face dire consequences, but, instead, an amused Sebastian had agreed on a whim to make her his concubine thirteen years prior.
Angel wore her seniority like a shroud, a badge of honor, but what use is light if there’s no darkness to contrast it with? There was no one for her to lord it over. Erik was barely a member of the harem, uninterested in taking part in any sort of power struggle, and Emma was the de facto wife, powerful by virtue of her position in the household. Angel could not compete. Emma was royalty, Emma’s future son would be the king, Emma sometimes—not often, but sometimes—was sought for political advice. She was unattainably gorgeous, sensuous in a mysterious way, with an air of confidence and refinement that the likes of Angel and Erik could never hope to emulate. If one was not born with it, then at the very least they were brought into it, groomed from the cradle into the sort of sophistication Erik also recognized in Charles.
All in all, their household was not given to the kind of residential drama and harem intrigue that people gossiped about, regarding other kingdoms, lords, and rich masters. As far as Erik was aware, the women did not fight for time in Sebastian’s bed, and no assassination attempts, against another spouse or against a child, had ever occurred. All of the children so far born, though none the heir, already had a duchy to their name in the vast land of Sebastian’s empire, and would surely marry other nobles or even royalty from other countries when they came of age.
How much of that civility was a facade Erik had never bothered to find out, but he did know that Sebastian found it entertaining to pit them against one another. Not Erik, though; he usually left Erik alone. If he couldn’t get a reaction out of you, he soon lost interest.
“As Your Highness wishes,” said Charles.
“A long courtship, yes, and then a grand festival to commemorate the long-lasting peace between our two kingdoms.” He clapped his hands together. “You’ll be a fitting addition. Just look at you next to dear Erik.” Sebastian took a step back and regarded them, side by side in his line of sight. He smiled broadly, sighing in ecstatic pleasure. “Like a painting of Apollo and Hyacinth. I ought to hire someone to paint you two, just like this.”
There was some tightness around Charles’ eyes that Erik hoped was not reflected in his own face. Erik had grown used to controlling his facial tics a long while ago; Charles, however, needed to adapt fast. Humiliation would be a constant companion now, Westchester was a long way from here. And the Westchester of Charles’ memory was as distant as Erik’s mother was. A lifetime away.
Erik had to figure out how to get Sebastian to divorce him, to cast him aside, favoring this beautiful man instead of Erik. He needed, more than anything, to be freed to go back to the army, so this whole marriage ordeal could be put behind him like a particularly distasteful, years-long hiatus on his search for revenge.
That Sebastian would rather have Charles was evident, but Erik needed Charles to want Erik gone, and to plead to Sebastian with all of his blue-eyed red-mouthed charm, full of youth and novelty, until Sebastian, besotted and drunk on lust, agreed. It would not take much, Erik was barely an ornament most days, and Charles could be very convincing, he was certain.
They made their way inside, Sebastian retiring to settle back into his rooms, Emma off to refresh before lunch. It wouldn’t be in any way a banquet—that would be reserved for tomorrow evening, since the kitchen staff hadn’t had the time to prepare for today, and suckling pigs took too many hours to roast to be ready any sooner. Yet, it was still the first meal the king would partake in after his return, which imparted an air of solemnity to the occasion. Tomorrow evening would be a lavish affair, a banquet to formally welcome the king back home, and Erik was bored and aggravated already, at the mere thought of it.
Meanwhile, Angel had offered to show Charles around, holding him by the crook of the elbow. She most likely wanted to sway the new concubine to her side, rightfully imagining that, with the new arrival, the scales would tip one way, and aiming for it to be in her favor.
She probably thought she had only Emma as a contender for Charles’ esteem. To discount Erik—that was her first mistake. The first mistake of many of the courtiers, of Emma, of Sebastian. A soldier, could you believe, wanted to be a fighter, a knight rather than a bed-warmer. There was more to him than they thought.
Erik figured that, were he to attempt to rival Angel for a place in Charles’ affections, he would eventually have to beg for Charles’ help in being relieved of his husbandly duties—a grating thought, groveling, but a route he would endure if it seemed the most feasible. Sentimental men were often driven to do foolish things for their loved ones.
How exactly Erik would carve a place for himself in Charles’ heart was trickier; he had not been loved in so long he had forgotten the feeling, and especially forgotten how to inspire it in others. Had his parents been won over, or had they loved Erik at birth, a blood imperative? Erik’s only experience with friends had been in the army, and he doubted whatever he’d learnt with a bunch of battle-hardened commoners would be of much help with a foreign lord.
And if Charles was not as tender-hearted as he appeared, if it came to fit Erik’s perception of Charles’ character, Erik would love nothing more than to antagonize him so utterly that he would attempt to sabotage Erik’s marriage… playing right into his hand instead. Yes, that felt much more agreeable, he thought.
Until that was decided, Erik would bide his time, assess Charles. What type of a man was he? Would he resentfully hate Sebastian for what he’d done, or would he fight tooth and nail to remain in his good graces, out of fear and self preservation? Erik still had at least a couple of months to go before the lordling was to be wedded, after all. Plenty of time.
Lunch was a strained affair, the atmosphere stretched as taut as a bowstring.
Like silence, which whispered a subtle, buzzing noise in the absence of sound, the unease in the dining room emitted a faint hum. Tension was poised to snap, audible to those who listened closely.
On each of the ends of the long, glass-topped table, sat the reigning monarchs of Genosha, Sebastian and Emma. The latter had changed into a structured white dress with an intricate bust and translucent sleeves. Never a hair out of place, the queen consort. The concubines, sitting to Sebastian’s left in order of seniority, were still in the same clothes they’d been wearing to greet their husband not an hour ago. Halfway through the meal, Sebastian reached to grope at Angel beneath the tablecloth, the woman giggling breathlessly and whispering, far from discreet, “Not here, dear!”
Charles, as the soon to be fourth spouse and third concubine, sat to Erik’s left, tucking into his food with impeccable manners. The pieces of meat that he cut were so small as to be barely chewable, and he didn't fumble once with the dozen types of cutlery. Erik had, during every single meal for the first several months of his marriage, to Sebastian’s endless amusement. Erik had failed to see what was so funny about drinking soup with the dessert spoon, or spearing a grape on the meat carving fork.
Charles presented himself as entirely self-possessed, though Erik was yet to see how he'd fare when faced with prolonged exposure to Sebastian’s particular brand of vicious. It was quite possible that it would not pose a challenge at all. Charles was a nobleman himself, most likely well acquainted with his own country's courtiers. And if those were anything like Genosha’s, who were, in turn, nearly as unpleasant as its king, Charles was sure to be quite acclimated already. Unlike Erik, who, once used to the straightforward military men, had been left reeling by mind games and the near-intangible danger that weighed every interaction.
Of course, maybe imagining Charles a victim of circumstance simply because he was a fellow man taken unwillingly as a concubine, and because he'd also lost all he held dear to the expansion wars, was a projection—one likely inaccurate to Charles’ character. What did Erik know? Charles could very well have that same streak of callous arrogance and wanton cruelty, be every inch Sebastian’s younger and prettier counterpart. A face like Sebastian’s, rat-like and scheming, made it easy to distrust him. In a way, the facsimile of innocence was even more dangerous, for it made one lower one's defenses. Erik vowed not to be swayed by the guileless eyes of this stranger.
Apart from the king and the royal spouses, the king’s advisor and a few knights were also in attendance. Not only were they immune to the rising tension, they actively contributed to it, chatting about the conquest of Westchester and raising glasses of wine again and again in a procession of increasingly facetious and redundant toasts. It was crude and strangely out of place, the rowdy celebration under the broad daylight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It would have looked more at home in the half darkness of a cheap tavern. It was even more jarring juxtaposed with the king’s spouses woodenly tucking into their food, unable, due to the rules of propriety, to acknowledge the conversation. Worst of all, Charles was there, while they boasted about the Westchester treasure vaults, the Westchester beautiful women, the Westchester ‘sweet surrender’.
When they were in the final course before dessert, Sebastian addressed his female spouses, asking, “What of the children? How did they fare this past month?”
Angel spoke up first, always eager to praise her firstborn. “Nicholas has improved in leaps and bounds on horse-riding, and Mr. McCoy,” the royal tutor, “says his arithmetics are coming along nicely.”
“What of his training?” Sebastian pressed, impatient. “When I left, he could hardly hold a sword aloft or hit a practice target with an arrow.”
“Eh…” the boy was too afraid of his own shadow to ever be of much use in battle, to Sebastian’s frustration and chagrin.
As the eldest male son and non-heir, there were expectations for the mantle he would assume in the kingdom. Leader of military forces and advisor to his future brother were among the chief responsibilities, none of which young Nicholas appeared to be a promising candidate for.
Last Erik had heard, Nicholas had figured out which end of the sword was the pointy one, and that was as far as he'd gotten.
Angel stammered, “He is—I mean—”
“Nevermind that,” Sebastian dismissed, sounding none too pleased. “And the girls?”
Though she looked like she wanted to protest, Angel replied obediently.
“Learning how to embroider. Adelaide is reading well.”
“And Winnifred?” Sebastian asked Emma.
The queen answered, breezy, “Losing teeth faster than she grows them back.”
She sounded much more unaffected than Angel, her position not nearly as precarious. Where Angel was desperate to please, Emma was icy self-assurance. But she was not as unflappable as she would have people believe, as Sebastian was quick to remind her.
“Your menses, have they come this month?” was the crude inquiry.
For how many children he had, none of them were the heir and future king. With a simple royal decree, of course, he could make Nicholas his heir, but he seemed to want a son born from his queen. Not to mention that he despised Nicki's softness, his disgust written all over his face whenever Nicholas’ lack of accomplishments came up.
Emma's jaw tensed in some emotion that could be embarrassment, could be anger. It was a terribly uncouth thing to ask in front of the knights, in front of the other spouses.
“Last week, my liege.”
Sebastian clucked disapprovingly, but made no further comment.
“How is the running of the castle?”
He addressed Angel, who was in charge of managing the household and the higher ranked staff, such as the steward and the housekeeper. It was not mandatory that she assumed the role, but she seemed to relish every inch given, every task amassed, like she was trying to make herself indispensable. Erik did not see what all the fuss was about; the place of the scorned spouse was comfortable. He personally hated it, of course, but he’d hated the place of the new spouse even less, having to welcome Sebastian into his bed nearly every night until Sebastian grew tired of him, until the novelty wore off. And the scorned spouse had plenty of the security that Angel seemed to crave. If it was the humiliations that she dreaded, well, they were hardly any greater than those suffered by a favored spouse such as herself or Emma.
Angel launched into an animated and meandering tale of food supplies on the palace pantry, the latest shrub trimming, and the menus for the next couple of weeks. Bored, Erik tuned her out after she started on the new batch of blue roses planted on the eastern side of the castle; chose instead to examine the other people on the table, starting with the one he knew the least about.
Charles was staring at Angel with a polite and concentrated look, like he was hanging onto every trite word out of her mouth. He could not be all that attentive, however, since he turned Erik's way when Erik glanced at him for the briefest of seconds. Charles raised an eyebrow, like a gauntlet, and Erik looked away. If it were a challenge, it was one that, as of yet, Erik was unwilling to rise up to meet.
He let his eye fall on the king's entourage. Like Charles, the knights were also staring at Angel, but their focus was less on her words and more on the cleavage that her corset compressed and almost made spill into the air, to be devoured by their hungry gazes. Sebastian either didn't notice or, more likely, fed on the attention, smug with the knowledge that that which was his was coveted. It was just like him to get off on that. The knights and every other man in the country knew better than to touch, anyway, if they wished to keep their heads.
“How is the construction of the temple?” asked Sebastian, Erik only half-listening. “Who is the artist again?”
“Janos,” supplied Emma. “Quested.”
“Like the god?” Sebastian’s eyes lit up in that specific way they always did when the topic was ancient religions.
“With an ‘o’, I'm afraid.”
“Oh. Nevermind that. Is he any good?”
“My king can always accompany me to check on his progress tomorrow, or maybe later this week. I am due for a visit.”
Emma, as queen consort, took on the mantle of patron of art, religion, and culture, sponsoring the decoration of palaces, temples, and public areas alike. Erik was far from the sophisticated sort, but even he could see that she had good taste.
As a matter of fact, both the female spouses excelled at their incumbencies, the palace running smoothly, Genosha a haven for cultural innovation. It was only Erik who was useless, wasting away all day in his courtyard. He was no closer now to avenging his mother than he had been ten years ago, and the only positive impact he could attribute to himself was on the lives of a handful of royal birds. He had nothing of true importance with which to fill his endless routine, thus nothing to say for himself now as Sebastian caught up with his spouses, so Sebastian paid him no mind. Even Charles was briefly addressed, Erik the only spouse not spoken to during the whole meal. It was quite the deliberate slight on Sebastian’s part, one not meant to go unnoticed.
“Don't mind if I do, darling,” said Sebastian. “I have to see about commissioning a painting, and I need the best of the best.” His greedy eyes shone on Erik and Charles both, lingering particularly on the latter. “Have you ever been painted, Charles?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Sebastian laughed in good humor.
“Silly me, I forget who I'm talking to. Of course the great Xaviers of Westchester would not have their heir go, what, twenty, twenty-one years without—”
“Twenty-five.”
Everyone at the table stopped what they were doing to watch the king and his newest concubine, shocked at Charles’ boldness. Interrupting the king like that, in the middle of a sentence… Even the knights seemed to be holding their breath.
After long seconds of a dangerous standstill, king and former lord staring at each other with the haughtiness of the highborn, Sebastian diffused the tension by laughing.
“What a feisty one! Tell me, dove, how did a well-bred, beautiful creature like yourself end up unmarried at such an age? You should have had your own harem by now.”
Charles took a measured sip of his wine before he replied.
“I wished to become archduke before I gave marriage any consideration. I did not wish to split my attention.”
Sebastian hummed thoughtfully.
“You had the makings of a fine lord.”
Charles inclined his head in silent thanks. Erik thought the way he spoke, refusing to react, delaying his responses, was the perfect recipe to get under Sebastian’s skin. It gave Erik a sick sense of satisfaction, but Sebastian could not be pleased about it.
“I can't say I find issue with your political scruples. Ultimately, they've benefited me greatly.” He smiled, suggestive. “I do like them unspoiled as the first snowfall.”
Due to their proximity, sitting side by side, Erik could see Charles gritting his teeth. Still, he did not react to the words; said only, “Your Highness,” in polite acknowledgement.
Sebastian sighed, unamused. He did not enjoy it when he failed to draw blood.
“Emma,” he said abruptly. “I almost forgot. I got you a new handmaiden.”
Emma blinked, surprised.
“From… Westchester?”
“She belonged to the former lady Xavier, the gods rest her soul, and I was told she was quite skilled in hairdressing. You're in need of one, aren't you, after the last girl left to,” he did a vague gesture, “you know, live with the family in the countryside.”
It was an open secret that Sebastian had gotten Emma's last handmaiden pregnant. The girl had been thrown in the streets with little more than the clothes on her back, and no one could say whether Sebastian or Emma had been the one to do the throwing.
“I appreciate it, my king.”
Erik was certain this new girl was as good-looking as they came, and spared a brief sympathetic thought to her. Through no fault of her own, she was doomed regardless. It was the way of the powerful and the penance of the powerless. If she refused Sebastian, he would make her life a waking nightmare, maybe even find a way to hurt her. A myriad of possibilities ran through Erik’s mind in a split second. Rape, accusations of theft, imputations of treason, even ordering one of his subordinates to beat her. He’d always had a taste for watching young women get whipped bloody.
If the girl yielded, she would deal not only with Emma's considerable wrath, but also with all of the dangers that came with a potential pregnancy. Sebastian did not want any bastards, and Erik doubted that the truce Emma and Angel had regarding each other's children extended to the bastards of serving girls.
This handmaiden and Erik, they had quite a lot in common. She was about to step into a nest of poisonous vipers, putting herself into dangers she probably couldn’t even conceive. Erik, in turn, was about to take a gamble which could give him his life and freedom back just as easily as take them both away for good.
The gods bless their souls.