Chapter Text
“Your Majesty…”
It worked.
That is the first thing that crosses Veritas Ratio’s mind when he steps foot past the palace gates and is greeted by a wide-eyed knight. The slow dip of his head in acknowledgement is one of many things he offers: hope, stability, relief.
“Aventurine,” he says, cutting through it all swiftly. “Bring me to him.”
The knight’s awed expression falters. A deep unrest starts to root in Ratio’s gut. Eyes narrowing, he repeats his request, this time firmer.
“Your Majesty…” begins the Knight, bowing his head as low as it can physically go. “There is something you should know…”
Darkness looms.
★★★★★
“How is this possible?”
Ratio does not miss the furrow of Sunday’s brow, nor the vein on his forehead throbbing. The man’s wings jutting out from his nape curl defensively in on themselves. Any other time, Ratio would feel a distinct honor that someone views him not only as a capable ruler, but also a fearsome swordsman. Now, there are more pressing matters.
“You are supposed to be dead,” Sunday says, voice wavering. It does not crack, but it teeters on the edge. “Unless… that cretin. Wretched Omega,” he mutters darkly under his breath but somehow still loud enough to resonate off the walls of the throne room.
Ratio continues striding forward. The sword at his side glows a deep purple, fueled by something more than just the troubling sight of King Sunday on his family’s birthright of a throne.
“Do not mince your words. Where is Aventurine?”
Sunday’s laugh is deeply unsettling. It comes out in peels, growing hysteric as he lifts a hand to muffle the worst of it. When it lowers, his golden eyes flash dangerously. Feral. Unwell. He does not move an inch, even when Ratio stands three strides in front of him, sword extended and angled directly at his chest.
“You may have won that battle, Prince,” Sunday says, words suddenly smooth, lilting, “however it is that you managed to pull this all off, but I must remind you. The war is far from over.”
Ratio does not blink. “Aventurine,” he implores. “I am growing impatient, King.”
“That would be a first,” Sunday chuckles, hands joining together at his front. His unnerving smile does not budge. “Were you a few hours later, your kingdom would already be under my control. With both Princes conveniently missing, there would be a need for a ruler. One that could bring peace to a land and unlock its full potential.”
This isn’t news.
“A plan with far too many holes to bother picking apart,” Ratio says, blandly, and then jerks his sword toward Sunday once more. The threat goes unnoticed. “I will ask only once more: where is Aventurine?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sunday’s smile is chilling as he closes his eyes. “He’s dead.”
Deeply unimpressive.
Without further preamble, Ratio swings his sword forward at full might. The tip drags against the front of King Sunday’s jacket but does not break through. Instead, an all-consuming yellow light begins to grow around Sunday. Eyes flash open, pure white now, and feathers unfurl in rapid succession.
“You are a fool, Ratio,” says Sunday as he begins to levitate up from the throne, the light surrounding him increasing in brightness. “To fall for an Omega sent from the IPC? One with the clear purpose of spying on you? I thought you were allergic to imbeciles, dear Prince.”
Ratio lowers his blade but not his guard. He watches as the opposing King floats higher in the room, the energy continuing to gather around him. In a way, it feels warm, musical, like a dream. Ratio fights the pull of it, digs his heels down against the carpet of the throne room and stays.
“This tussle of ours is far from over,” Sunday reminds him from above. “You have squandered your birthright for long enough. I will be the one that reunites our lands, that allows our people to see their wishes come true.”
“A declaration of war,” says Ratio, unsurprised.
“A warning,” Sunday says, smiling, and then vanishes in an elaborate burst of sparkling gold light.
Idiot.
Ratio exhales loudly. He sheaths his sword at his waist and brings his trembling hand to his face. He closes his eyes, and he thinks. A war was not entirely unexpected, given the tumultuous landscape and the mutterings regarding both Penacony and the IPC. That, and with the intel Aventurine had gathered, it seemed that Sunday was opposed to getting his hands dirty directly. Hiding in the shadows, hiring assassinations, keeping his own wings free from blood. That seemed to be Sunday's preferred method. This was a deviation from that.
It is of no consequence. Not immediately.
What matters most is—
His hand falls. The shaking has gotten worse.
“Idiot,” he barks out, voice raw and wobbly as he swallows around what feels like a thousand knives. “Going back on our promise?”
There are many things Ratio has yet to learn about Aventurine. What he does know includes the man’s cleverness, his ability to survive, to face the darkest of shadows and come out as a beacon of warm light. This Ratio knows, has admired, can feel it deep in his bones.
Aventurine must be alive.
It doesn’t ease the sick slosh of his stomach or the way he nearly stumbles with shaky knees out of the throne room to instruct his knights to begin planning for an eventual and potentially imminent invasion.
Aventurine must be alive.
They are not mates, they have not bonded, but Ratio can feel him, can smell the citrus in the air, can see the cocky smile of a person that has so much still to offer to this crooked world.
★★★★★
Aventurine is not in their royal chambers. Ratio, instead, finds a pool of blood staining the carpet.
Suddenly, everything he knows to be a fact, an indisputable truth of the world, is in question.
★★★★★
“Your Majesty—”
“Leave it.”
Ratio brusquely brushes past his advisors as he heads toward the war room where the council is already gathered. A dangerous energy pulses from his entire being and he doubts his scent is any better; an enraged and mourning Alpha. He suspects it would be repugnant to most.
The small comfort he allows himself is that Sunday did not appear to be in possession of his necklace. That Aventurine had somehow seen through to its end.
(His stomach revolts once again, the reminder of straw-colored hair and soft lips ripping him apart steadily, piece by piece. Memory by memory.)
“Were you held hostage? Kidnapped?” asks another advisor as Ratio rounds the corner to enter the room he had feared he would one day need to use during his reign. “Please, Your Majesty. We know you must be distraught, but—”
Ratio sharply turns. “Our advisors remain here. As for the knights? I want each and every out looking for the Prince.”
The man’s expression falls. “King Sunday informed us—”
“Do not believe the lies of a snake,” Ratio snaps, words harsher then he intends. His men have done nothing wrong, they do not deserve the bubbling ire festering inside of him. They are not Sunday. “Dispatch the knights. Now.”
He stands at the center of a room where everyone knows his name, respects his commands, and yet he feels smaller than a child.
He’s failed Aventurine. He could not keep him safe.
He could not give him the chance to choose his own future.
He’s just as bad as all the others.
★★★★★
Facts are supported by evidence. Research is needed to find such evidence. That is what Ratio diligently reminds himself of the remainder of that day as he fights the devastating feeling of abandonment that no Alpha should naturally be hard-wired to feel in the first place.
Aventurine is not dead until proven so. Without a body, there is the possibility he is alive. And until that death has been given evidence, it is not a fact.
★★★★★
Clifford bumps his head against his knee as he works on war plans at his desk.
“Yes,” says Ratio, grimly, lowering his gaze to the small critter. “Your owner has been very reckless. However, we must not lose hope. It is one of the few things we possess that can not be fully stolen from us.”
The cat cake blinks slowly. Its confused little chirp does not ease Ratio’s own instability.
But, he chuckles all the same.
“No, I didn’t think you’d understand. It is not your fault.” He looks to the window, at the stars in the sky, and thinks of the way Aventurine had fit nicely in his arms, tucked against him, on his lap, mouth on his just for a moment and—
Ratio lowers his head. A hot pressure builds behind his eyelids, at the corners of his eyes, and he feels his bottom lip quiver.
How unsightly.
★★★★★
It occurs to him, then, at a quarter til midnight, where Aventurine must be.
With a speed and desperation he would not have known months ago, Ratio goes to him.
★★★★★
The musty smell of the wine cellar does not bother him. In fact, he can barely smell it over the distressed scent of citrus, of a trapped breeze that begs to be free. The warmth of a sunny day that’s locked behind a cloud.
Ratio unlocks the bar on the cellar store and takes a leap of faith.
Curled on his side, wrists and ankles bound together with tawny rope, is Aventurine. There is a significant amount of blood on his shirt and pant leg but the cobblestone remains dry. While his skin appears pale, it retains the warmth only life can give.
Ratio lets go of the breath he’d been holding since earlier that day in the throne room.
Aventurine’s eyes flutter open. Coughing, he turns his gaze to Ratio, gaze glazed over but very much present.
“Took you long enough,” Aventurine chokes out, a worn-out smile on his lips before he erupts into another coughing fit.
“You imbecile,” Ratio exhales, long-suffering, and crosses the cellar in fewer strides than ever before.
He drops to his knees and makes quick work with the rope restraining Aventurine, glaring at the burn marks it leaves behind. Without thinking, he rubs a thumb soothingly over the agitated skin. It rips a hiss from Aventurine as he pushes himself up into a sitting position.
“As sweet as that is, I insist you don’t,” Aventurine breathes out. Despite the aforementioned pain, he does not wrench his wrist away.
“You did beautifully,” murmurs Ratio, thumbs sliding up the expanse of Aventurine’s bare arms, avoiding the tattered cloak and rope marks alike. “I apologize for my tardiness. I did not expect this particular twist.”
Aventurine’s gaze, tired but sparking with amusement, glues itself to him. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t think he’d have the guts to try and assassinate me in our own bedroom.”
“There are few things that are below him,” mutters Ratio, grimly.
His hands, now at the dips of Aventurine’s elbows, linger. Ratio holds him delicately, as if afraid any further pressure will cause him to break. It’s a foolish thought—Aventurine has proven time and time again how strong he is. Yet, Ratio regards him with a fondness that is reserved for the softest of things in this world.
“I still have it, if you’re wondering,” Aventurine says, lifting one of his hands to drag fingertips over a bloodstained part of his chest. “A shame Sunday didn’t do a full-body inspection. Maybe if he had, he would have found what he was looking—”
“You fool—”
Ratio has heard enough. Strong arms wrap around Aventurine and pull him closer. He rests half on Ratio’s lap, half on the uncomfortable stone of the cellar floor, but is close now. Is alive. Is here—
“—It is not the stone I am concerned about.”
Ratio buries the last of his words into the messy locks of golden hair. He breathes for the first time in days.
Aventurine relaxes against him. The distress of his scent finally fades and he presses his cheek against Ratio’s collarbone. Ratio does not dare speak. He wishes Aventurine would.
With hands rubbing slow circles into Aventurine’s back, Ratio thinks how little he has done any of this with anyone before Aventurine. This easy comfort, this trust. Intimacy. Aventurine could have easily betrayed him at any point, changed his mind and given himself over to someone that promised him the world or his forever safety. Yet here Aventurine remains, in a dusty wine cellar, bloodied and bruised and Ratio’s.
No, that isn’t quite right.
He is Aventurine. He is his own.
But Ratio is irrefutably Aventurine’s.
“What’s on your mind?” laughs Aventurine against his shoulder, a little louder, life flooding back into him. “Your scent is going wild, dear.”
Ratio snorts a laugh at the sarcastic pet-name. He doesn’t find he minds it too much. Sighing, he presses another kiss to the crest of Aventurine’s head and breathes him in. The citrus is so wonderful.
“That stone,” Ratio finally explains, words muffled by hair, “is capable of healing. It seems that it has come through for you in the end.”
“Well, that certainly explains why I survived being stabbed through the heart,” Aventurine says, a bitter laugh rippling through his body as Ratio continues to hold him. “You should have seen it. The melodramatic monologue about how doomed I was and how you never loved me. It was something straight out of a cheap theater production.”
Ratio hums. “Yes, that does sound rather trite. And inherently flawed. I care for you deeply.”
Aventurine’s laugh is nervous, small. “Haha. That wasn’t the point I was making, Veritas.”
Ratio presses the tip of his nose against the top of Aventurine’s ear. He plants a kiss shortly after to the same spot. “Kakavasha,” he whispers, voice warm, “do not strain yourself. Allow me to bring you back to our chambers and help you clean up. You ought to rest.”
“Not awfully romantic,” Aventurine whistles as he begrudgingly pulls his head free from Ratio’s chest. There’s a light in his eyes. It makes Ratio ache. “But who am I to refuse you?”
“You are Kakavasha,” Ratio reminds him, a hand moving to cup at Aventurine’s cheek. “Your past does not matter to me. Your designation as an Omega is inconsequential. It is your brain, heart and soul I am interested in.”
Aventurine closes his eyes and laughs. Again, the sound is weak, but this time, it's warm at its edges. “Okay, much more romantic. Cheesy, but I’ll accept it. I—”
Ratio kisses him.
There is only so long he can resist, after all. He tastes the blood on Aventurine’s lips, the sweat at the corners of his mouth, but he does not mind it. The swell of Aventurine’s scent, the needy way he clings to Ratio’s cloak and presses his mouth back against his is worth it. The slotting of their lips, their labored breathing, the knock of their noses as Aventurine tries to deepen the kiss and climb fully on top of him—
Ratio pulls away and presses a finger to Aventurine’s kiss-swollen lips. “Later,” he tells him. “First, rest.”
“You’re really an enigma, Veritas,” says Aventurine, shaking his head but still grinning. He kisses the finger at his lips. “Fine, fine. Carry me in your arms to safety and then, only then, will I allow you to ravish me.”
Ratio quirks a brow. “What on earth was that?”
Aventurine gets to his feet with a hand warmly pressed to his that offers its strength and support. “Eh. I was trying to outdo Sunday, but I don’t think that’s possible.”
Ratio laughs. It fills his entire being, a glow to every cell, a feeling he had no name for before this.
He is in love.