That night, Reardon thought the king sounded out of breath when he opened the door to lead Reardon into his chambers.
Eager to see him, Reardon hoped.
They kissed and touched and lay together, writhing as one with tangled limbs and inelegant, hurried enthusiasm. Reardon loved nights like that as much as any other ways they were together.
Afterward, they continued to lounge in bed, while the king read the next chapter of Pillars of Virtue . Usually Reardon did the reading, but oh, the king’s voice was lovely and lyrical.
Reardon thought his planned singing seduction might no longer be needed, with how attentive and sweet the king was being, but when the chapter concluded, Reardon was still pushed out the door.
The next night, he had no more excuses, because Nigel was ready with his tale and had made Reardon promise that he’d perform his too—even if the only person who’d know would be the king.
Anticipation made the day inch by. Reardon’s thoughts were distracted when he was with the king that morning, and far worse once they parted. Dinnertime came too slowly as well, though once it did, Reardon felt inspired when he looked at Branwen and Caitlin sitting together hip to hip.
The sun had already set, so the pair had entered the banquet hall together. Each iteration of the experiments in the alchemist tower brought Reardon closer to discovering the potion that had killed his mother—and Caitlin’s husband—and with that success, it seemed the ice maiden was melting just as Reardon hoped to melt the king.
Ten years Caitlin had been tethered to a ghost, called “widow” like a lifelong title, but with the mystery soon to be solved, perhaps she was finally letting go and opening her heart to Branwen.
Reardon relaxed as he watched them with a growing smile.
Just as Nigel arrived in a flurry, literally dragging Zephyr behind him.
“I’m not hungry—” Zephyr tried to protest, but Nigel tugged him along anyway.
“Yet I, my love, am hungry for the room!” He let go of Zephyr only after they were in the center of the hall and jumped straight up onto one of the empty benches to get onto the table, commanding everyone’s attention. “I have the most epic of tales to tell today. Unparalleled and dramatic and spanning ages, this story is one of heartache, deceit, and love conquering all.
“Who cares to hear it?”
The usual chorus of cheers and encouragement rose at the thought of Nigel telling one of his tales, while Zephyr tried to hide his amusement by scowling and crossing his arms.
With leave to begin, Nigel started a slow stomp on the table to get the crowd pounding out a beat, and the trill of a harpsichord filled the hall. Everyone turned, Zephyr looking especially stunned, to discover Wynn sitting at the instrument in the corner—which was usually up in the music room.
Josie stood from where she and Barclay sat across from Reardon, revealing her lute tucked beneath the bench. As she joined in Wynn’s song, Reardon and Barclay rose as well for their parts that came later, and Nigel began his verse to the continued beat of the crowd.
“The lovers yet to know their path begin our tale quite broken: a scoundrel found to hide his ears—” He tapped his own pointed tips. “—and a spy with wants unspoken!”
Zephyr turned his head to hide a laugh .
“The spy was once of noble blood and meant to give an heir, but hence he was sent from his home for craving broader fare.” Nigel winked, spinning about with his usual flourish. “So too the scoundrel once was jeered at if his tricks were proved untrue. Then sent away as magic-born, a half-elf given due.
“And oh, what luck!”
Reardon and Barclay picked up the tale by singing in harmony, “No greater love—than the first to fall!”
Laughing outright then, Zephyr was clearly smitten, despite the embarrassed color growing in his cheeks.
“The spy was happy to be such to twist his foes about, now free but caged by skeptic’s scorn that love would e’er be found. So, scoundrel came to grace his eye and maddened him for years, but madness takes so many forms and ended here in tears.”
Nigel spun once more and hopped down from the table, speaking right to Zephyr as the music swelled.
“Without a captive crowd to con, the scoundrel had no call, and spy took pity with his touch to soothe him by his thrall.
“And oh… what luck.” He softened, and Reardon and Barclay sang softer too.
“No greater love—than the first to fall.”
Nigel slowed his progression toward Zephyr. “One night of passion only, the spy swore to the scoundrel, but now he’d known the taste of love and heeded not his counsel. The scoundrel sought the spy for days and weeks to come, declaring love at every turn at night and in the sun.
“He said it till his love believed that what they had was true—” The music stilled as Nigel took Zephyr’s hands in his own. “—and to this day he loves him still—‘I love you, dear, I do.’
“And oh… what… luck.” He kissed Zephyr to a pause of silence—and then a roar of applause.
Zephyr pulled away with a sputter at all the attention. He was used to being mostly invisible all day and slipping around unseen, now made the center of attention. Yet he laughed and didn’t draw back from Nigel’s touch, that went from his hands to cradling his face.
“No greater love,” Nigel sang, not usually able to hold a tune, but this much he could manage, “than the first to fall,” and he kissed Zephyr again .
Not many loves got to survive beyond a single lifetime, but though doubts may ebb and flow, Reardon truly believed, even before the display he was witnessing, that true love was constant and unconditional.
“Now,” Nigel said, louder to those watching, “if you’ll excuse us, as my love said, he’s not hungry yet, so I think we’ll spend our time elsewhere.”
Zephyr was still blushing, easy enough on his pale complexion, and several snickers and hollers arose as Nigel dragged him away, just as he’d dragged him in. They seemed blissfully young and happy and giggly, like they truly were the age they looked instead of centuries old.
Reardon turned to Barclay and Josie, but they were sharing a kiss now too. Wynn came over from the harpsichord to pat Reardon’s shoulder. He knew that it was Reardon’s turn to weave a tale, though his stage would be smaller.
“Have a good evening.” Reardon patted Wynn’s arm in turn, glancing once more at Barclay and Josie, at Shayla and Liam not much farther down the table, and at Caitlin and Branwen, less obvious but still entranced with each other, before he took his leave.
No greater love….
He just hoped the last to fall would be as magical.
Jack
Reardon had said he’d be late again but that he would indeed darken Jack’s door before the night stretched on. Each day that passed, Jack knew their time grew shorter, because Reardon and the others were close to solving the recipe for that awful potion that had killed the Emerald Queen and Caitlin’s husband.
Perhaps Reardon would be able to use it to find justice, but changing the hearts of his people would require a miracle—like the breaking of a curse—and as warm as Reardon made Jack feel, he didn’t believe that was possible.
The knock at his door and the sight of Reardon on the other side, blindfolded as always, for the briefest of moments, still made Jack wonder….
“Majesty,” Reardon said when Jack led him inside, “I would like to request something tonight.”
“Oh? ”
The prince was often a bundle of contradictions, equally self-assured or bashful depending on the circumstance. He was nervous tonight. Jack could feel it in the tremble of his fingers and the way he bit his lower lip. Still, he didn’t let that defeat him. “I would like to lead, if you would set the stage.”
“Then lead, little prince. What do you want of me?”
“Bring us to the bed, undress, position me at the foot of the bed facing it, and then lie back.”
“Does the no-longer-virgin prince wish to take his king?” Jack smirked, already complying as he pulled Reardon into the bedchamber.
“I-I… hadn’t thought that far.” Reardon flushed brilliantly scarlet. “But I wish to prove my affections for you.”
Jack didn’t need anything proven, but love wasn’t some magic spell—or an end to one. “Then lead,” he said again, skeptical though he may be, “and I’ll follow as far as I can.”
It was Jack who had to lead in the beginning, bringing them to the bed and leaving Reardon at the foot of it. He slipped his trousers and shirt off and climbed onto the bed as asked, lying upon his pillow and watching his prince.
“The stage is set,” he said, wondering what Reardon had planned.
Reardon smiled, nervous still, but seemed bolstered when he started to hum, and nimble fingers pulled on the ties of his doublet.
“The noble prince went on his quest To become a greater king,”
Reardon sang—to its own unique melody—the verses he had taken from Jack’s desk.
Jack tensed, though he’d known a reckoning was due.
“Than those before who’d shamed their lands And bards denied to sing.”
Drawing the doublet open, Reardon let it drop from his shoulders, slowing feathering his fingers down the center of his chest to the edge of his trousers, where he tugged his shirt free.
“He traveled far to learn abroad How other kings reigned just,”
Reardon gripped the bottom of his shirt and drew it over his head without losing a beat.
“But for all he found who’d earned their crowns, Men made beasts ruled thus.”
Sliding a careful distance back, Reardon began untying his trousers, ensuring Jack saw every coil of those ties around his fingers.
Jack spread his legs as he looked on and reached between them, surprised, though pleasantly so, when Reardon sang a chorus not previously written.
“Ever was, ever more, Love can conquer any lore.”
Down the trousers dropped, Reardon already twitching to hardness while Jack pulsed to life in echo, barely needing the aid of his leisurely strokes. Reardon stroked himself too, once, twice, and reached forward to begin climbing up the bed.
“He pitied one such beast To turn him from his ways In hopes that tenderness might win And pierce the heart that strayed.”
Reardon crawled to Jack until he arrived at the spread of his legs, first rising onto his knees to feel up his own chest, and then down his hips to rake blunt nails across his thighs and stroke himself again.
“Hearts made of ice aren’t made for melting, But the prince did burn so bright,”
So bright, and next he fell forward, found Jack’s thighs, and raked his nails there too.
“That he reached the wayward beastly king And found him in the night.”
Find him he had, feeling up Jack’s body as he’d felt down his own. It was so rare that Reardon touched Jack more than fleetingly. Jack was the one who guided, who initiated, but now….
Reardon dragged his nails back down Jack’s chest, found his hand on himself and pushed it aside to hunker low and replace that hand with lips and tongue. He could only feel his way through what he was doing, but he barely trembled now, no hesitation as he licked—
Jack gasped!
—and then continued to sing.
“Lips and hands and hearts did touch Knowing pleasures lost before,”
He licked again, swirling his tongue up Jack’s shaft and over his head, but then sat up to crawl forward, making Jack shake and clutch at him, drawing the long, lean prince atop him and spreading his legs farther to let Reardon settle between them.
“And the prince did reach the king at last As the beast became no more.”
He kissed Jack, holding his face in possessive palms and rocking his hips to slide their lengths together.
“Ever was, ever more,” he sang softly, “love can conquer any lore.”
“You stole those words,” Jack whispered.
“The chorus is mine,” Reardon countered, looking quite comfortable atop Jack, circling his thumbs along Jack’s cheekbones.
“A dreamer’s refrain,” Jack said, though without the bite he might have used before. “And I think I’ve read a similarly tantalizing seduction.”
There, finally, came the blush that had faded. “You may have. Do you believe your own words, Majesty? It was beautifully written.”
“Reardon….”
“I love you,” Reardon said, hastily but earnestly spoken—what he’d implied so many times but hadn’t yet said aloud—and reached for the blindfold to slide it from his eyes .
“ No .” Jack snatched his wrist to stop him, seeing the instant disappointment and sorrow that marred Reardon’s face. “But… you may take your king, my prince,” Jack conceded, drawing Reardon’s hand away from the scarf and down between their legs, lower than their connected hardness to where Jack was willingly spread and inviting him in. “You may yet change my mind.”
Reardon trembled once more as his fingers grazed the puckered skin.
“The oil is at your right,” Jack said. “Make all the mess of me and my bed as you wish.”
However Reardon had hoped his performance would end, Jack knew it hadn’t been this, but he took what he was offered, found the oil, and coated his fingers.
There was many a stable boy, nobleman, or passing nobody who’d had Jack bent or folded and begging for it. Demanding it, more like, since Jack had rarely if ever been sweet or needy when with others in that manner. With Reardon, however, he gave what he’d so often been given by his plaintive prince—the quick breaths and pleasured moans that meant, Yes, this is what I want and what I need —and let Reardon lead.
Reardon had poured more oil than needed, but that merely made the slide easier and the stretch respond faster, as his tentative but strong fingers found Jack’s entrance, circled his rim, and pressed inside. Reardon knew from experience now the right pace, the right depth, and every few moments, when he asked, “Is it all right? Is it enough?” he only pushed Jack closer to catching the pleasure he chased at having Reardon inside him.
Not ready for Reardon to see him, he’d thought this would be impossible, but Reardon didn’t need to see to feel Jack and bring him to the edge. He had two fingers scissoring inside Jack when he dipped down to lick up Jack’s length again.
“Is it—”
“ Yes. I won’t break.”
Reardon’s confidence resurged with a wicked chuckle. “I wish I could see you… spread open and sprawled for my viewing. The feel of you….” He kissed Jack’s tip as he continued to stretch him with harder and faster thrusts, and then sucked him in as far down his throat as he could.
Jack’s cry caught on his tongue.
“Mmm… the broadness of your shoulders….” Reardon licked Jack’s cock again. “The lean firmness of your muscles… it paints an appealing picture, Majesty, and one day you will let me see it. ”
Sliding his fingers free, Reardon returned with the push of his head, slick from the extra oil on his fingers but with a wonderful added stretch that Jack hadn’t felt in ages, the stretch of his own fingers or any salacious tool he used as replacement never able to compare.
“The way feels smooth….” Reardon panted, one hand guiding his cock, knuckles grazing Jack’s cheeks, and the other gripping the back of Jack’s thigh as he slowly pushed in. “But….”
“ Reardon .”
“I-I… I can’t tell if you cringe, Majesty. I don’t want—”
“ Take me ,” Jack echoed what Reardon had first said to him, because Jack was no virgin, and he lifted just enough to grip the wrist of the hand on Reardon’s cock to squeeze and let him know he meant it. “You won’t hurt me.”
The bulb of Reardon’s head pushed deeper inside Jack in answer, and the rest of his shaft widened where it sunk in farther, until Jack felt undeniably full.
Then Reardon pulled back to thrust inside again.
Jack moaned—and for one wild unchained moment, he wanted to tear the scarf from Reardon’s eyes and let him see him.
He couldn’t… he couldn’t. Soon, he truly couldn’t, as Reardon’s thrusts sped up, the hand on his cock no longer needed and falling to Jack’s thigh like the other, tilting back his hips to sheathe in deep and make Jack incapable of anything but mewling pleas for more.
Jack wished he could see Reardon’s eyes in all their beautiful emerald green, but the flush to his cheeks and sweet part to his lips as he took Jack as expertly as he’d ever been taken was still breathtaking.
Reaching between his own legs again, Jack started pumping himself to the rhythm of Reardon’s rocking. Reardon must have felt/heard/sensed it, because his brow scrunched, and he asked, “Majesty, I can—” but the hesitation to reach for Jack meant his thrusting slowed.
“No,” Jack huffed. “Keep on. It’s everything I want. Don’t stop.”
Reardon listened, keeping his attention singularly focused, as Jack did the same—only Jack had the pleasure of a view. Witnessing his prince take him with such powerful force, the tingling burn growing hotter inside him and building his release quickly, made Jack cry out when he finally came, spilling over his fingers.
Hearing him finish spurred Reardon to go harder, faster, intensely claiming and thriving in it and eventually ending with him spilling hotly inside Jack too, a surprised, embarrassed look overtaking his features that Jack read all too well. Reardon hadn’t warned him or asked, but Jack didn’t care. That warmth was not something he would ever want to go without.
“Well done… my little prince,” Jack soothed. “You are a man of many talents.”
Reardon snorted, relieved as Jack wanted, and then pulling away to pitch to the side and lay exhaustedly beside him. “I would offer to wipe away our mess, Majesty,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t see.”
Brat , Jack thought with a snort of his own, both of them tumbling into laughter. Jack wanted to let Reardon see him but also didn’t, and in the end, he was too afraid to say yes. “Let me catch my breath… and I can still clean us.”
Reardon nodded but couldn’t dismiss his frown.
The guilt Jack felt most days was so much stronger when he made Reardon look like that. Whatever love truly was, its pull was as strong as magic and hurt just as much too.
Jack cleaned them in silence but didn’t pull Reardon into a bath. He collected him in his arms and held him on the bed. He couldn’t give Reardon what he wanted, but he didn’t want to let him go either.
“May I ask something, Majesty?” Reardon said.
“Yes?”
“You enjoy reading romance, but you didn’t know more than carnal pleasures in your youth?”
“Do I have any lost loves, you mean? No. I didn’t allow myself that. It was only later, after the curse, that I began to realize what I had gone without and would never have.”
“Jack,” Reardon said, catching a gasp in Jack’s throat at it being uttered so plainly for once, “I do love you.”
Closing his eyes, Jack squeezed Reardon tighter against him. “Sometimes, my prince… I believe you.”
Reardon
Reardon woke slowly, confused at first by the large bed beneath him and the darkness when he opened his eyes. It was like waking while still within a pleasant dream.
Warm arms were wrapped around him as he lay on his side, a firm and even warmer chest against his back. Reardon smiled as he realized he’d gotten his wish and slept in the king’s bed again, but this was so much better than sleeping alone, with the presence of the king not yet having turned to ice with morning.
Morning.
The surge of joy Reardon had begun to feel receded, replacing the warmth of the king with increasing cold.
“Majesty!” Reardon cried, realizing what was about to happen and struggling to get away and rouse the king before—
“Hm?”
—the sun finished rising outside the castle walls, with Reardon left scrambling to escape, blind and desperate and feeling the worst pain of his life crack like whips across his back, so cold it burned .
Reardon screamed.