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"Capture the fae Prince."
The King's command reverberates throughout the imperial court, thunderous and imposing. His somber tone leaves nary a room for even the slightest whiff of protest, and Prince Veritas knows better than to dispute with his father's whims. At least, not at this very moment.
And in addition to the fact that they signed a treaty with the previously mentioned race, the faes, not too long ago… the declaration presents, indeed, an outstandingly thought-provoking conundrum.
"Any fae Prince will not do, Veritas, my esteemed son," the King continues, paying no heed to his internal turmoil, "You ought to bring the Avgin Prince into our fold by whatever means necessary."
A subsequent clamor bursts throughout the deepest recesses of his mind, and rightly so. The Avgins were once harmonious and wise faes, masters of their respective crafts, though some of their kind were rumored to be pundits of deceit and manipulation, able to bend a lesser man’s will into their bidding.
It is most unfortunate that the Avgin clan, never once known for their battle-hardened nature, has been continuously hunted down by the elves and Katican faes– for all three of those species used to share the same territory– until what remains of the once proud Avgin faes is but a smirch in the bloodied annals of history.
What became of the Avgin fae Prince, their kin’s last known descendant, is unknown.
"By all historical accounts, Your Grace," Veritas starts, the makings of a disapproving frown beginning to etch on his lips, "The existence of Avgin faes is no more. They were already deemed extinct almost a decade ago.”
"That is precisely why I am appointing you, the Scholar Prince, this task of much import. Nothing has ever escaped your watchful eyes and wit,” interjects the King, stopping in between labored breaths to wheeze and cough, “Among their ranks, the blood of the High King and the Fairy Queen are easily the most powerful, followed by the blood of their offspring, and the Avgin fae's tears and blood are verily coveted. They are said to possess the ability to cure any kind of illness, no matter the severity.”
“Your Grace, I’m afraid this voyage will no sooner turn into a fool’s errand,” he attempts to reason out, resisting the highly compelling urge to roll his eyes, “No one has seen even a glimpse of an Avgin fae for years– not in Sigonia, our neighboring vassal state, and certainly not in Laurel Wreath, where their purported remaining stronghold was last sighted a decade ago.”
“In dire times such as the present, my son, we are permitted to desire such a thing for ourselves– for the welfare of our subjects, and ultimately for the sake of our nation,” the King chides him, “Records did not mention the fae Prince’s passing, so there is still reason to believe he’s alive and in hiding.”
“We have only recently gone to war, Your Grace, and its negative repercussions can still be felt to this day,” Veritas grits out with poorly-obscured contempt, “Now, more than ever, our mere presence here is paramount to bolster the morale of our people. Sending me out to lead a vastly divergent expedition when I could be staying and helping here to rebuild–”
“Do not infest the throne room any more with your impudence, Veritas,” booms the King’s furious voice, “You will find me the Avgin Prince, or I will be left with no other choice but to charge you for treason, should you insist on defying me.”
-
“You are quite lucky, little Prince,” his gray-haired educator, Mr. Rond, used to say, “Gone were the days of the old where demons and orcs plagued and razed this country, driving us humans away, stealing and killing our livestock, and leaving our once fertile lands barren. The faes, the elves, and all manners of halflings and woodland folk– they, too, were caught in the crossfire.”
His eyes widened in childlike awe, a circus curiosity welling up within him, “What happened next?”
“It had cost us quite a terrible number of lives, but we did win the war,” Mr. Rond said, “We signed a treaty with the elves and the faes to uphold peace, and soon, when you will be crowned King, it will be upon you to safeguard it.”
-
And so this is how Prince Veritas finds himself wasting away the succeeding day– leading a trite expedition deeper and deeper into the forest west of Laurel Wreath in a vain attempt at searching for the mythical fae Prince.
The dilapidated road ceases ahead, crowded instead with thicker evergreen shrubs and abundant woodland wildflowers. The lush beds of hyacinths and bluebells that once befleck the sides of the road eventually taper and are dwarfed by the now denser canopy of verdant greenery, peppered with age-worn oak trees of varying proportions that loom over the distance.
It’s a sight he would have appreciated more, if it weren’t for the banal nature of this merry trip.
It certainly does not help that the King, once again, personally hand-picked one of the Ten Stonehearts– a vanguard consisting of elite warriors far different from the titular knights, and not a knight per se– to safeguard his back and the completion of this skirmish.
By whatever reason, his father is keen on reassigning him this particular Stoneheart for almost every campaign he’s been given so far as of late. That fact is already beyond his comprehension. Though, after observing firsthand Aventurine’s capability and prowess in the battlefield, Veritas has no qualms favoring the man over most of the finest knights their Kingdom has to offer.
“That’s the last of them.”
Aventurine brushes off a stray blond lock from his forehead with the dorsum of his hand– with otherwise not a hair out of place. The Stoneheart glances around, surveying the scene, before pinning his gaze back to him.
“Are you quite alright, my Prince?”
“You have an unorthodox art of swordsmanship,” Veritas instead points out in a casual tone, sheathing his sword back into its scabbard after ridding it of the specks of blood.
He scans the surroundings warily, eyeing the corpses littering the ground and gauging the presence of lingering mana. Aventurine has disposed of and incapacitated at least half the number of bandits who attempted to put their supposed path in jeopardy, as if the Stoneheart learned how to stop Time itself, and finished the others off with a few, calculated strokes of his blade.
Being in possession of such an ability is a most curious but dangerous notion, indeed, but one may be forgiven for daring to entertain such an absurd idea when the evidence almost speaks for itself– clean, nearly identical horizontal slashes to the neck, aimed in particular at the internal jugular vein and carotid artery.
The fight was over before he could even–
“Look out!”
Alarmed, Veritas whips his head to the noise of an arrow being released from a bow– but Aventurine is faster, conjuring a wall of dug earth to deflect it by merely raising his hand. The Stoneheart then pulls a dagger from his sleeve and hurls it towards the direction of the perpetrator with an eerie accuracy.
(It takes him a little over half a second too late to realize that the other man didn’t even utter an incantation before Aventurine’s magic manifested itself.)
Is Aventurine an elf, perhaps? Or a fae? Only those with an intimate connection with nature can make use of it and be able to wield it without chanting a spell or creating sigils. But Aventurine looks every bit as… conventional as a human, albeit easier on the eye than most. Elves are generally too prideful to disguise their defining features, and faes, well–
It isn’t long before another dead body of a bandit plummets to the ground bearing the same injury– adding to the number of corpses scattered around bathed with blood.
Veritas turns to peer at Aventurine, who has a glassy-eyed look on his expression. It is gone before he can comment on it, however, and a wily smile is already plastered on the other’s face.
It is a sight most unnerving.
The blond mirrors his action, “No more than your average Stoneheart, my Prince, but thank you, nonetheless, even if it was not meant to be a compliment.”
“It is,” he says, curt, as they walk side by side back to where they stationed their mounts, “Pray tell, were you perhaps employed as a hunter or an assassin in your previous vocation?”
“No,” Aventurine responds, “I was quite young when I was taken under the Stonehearts’ wing. Everything you’ve witnessed today, I have learned from them.”
“It must be natural born talent, then,” remarks Veritas, as he presses the ball of his foot on the stirrup. He heaves himself up on the saddle with a soft grunt, “I never did doubt a Stoneheart’s aptitude for battle, but having you here with me does attenuate my unease to a small extent.”
A disbelieving chuckle wafts out of the Stoneheart’s lips, “I never thought I would see the day that Prince Veritas will be confiding in me. But fear not, my Prince, I will give you no reason to worry over the success of this mission.”
He does not miss the way Aventurine’s expression dips down to a subtler simper, the bravado in his voice fading into a more dour tone.
“For the glory of Laurel Wreath.”
Veritas finds himself staring at the Stoneheart, eyes lingering on the brand on the other’s neck more than what is appropriately necessary, and nods in lieu of a vocal reply, nudging his steed towards the direction of their next destination.
-
Sundown broods over the horizon, engulfing the gauzy expanse of verdure with ochre and dusk blue. The frigid breeze starts to blanket over the tranquil terrain, settling deep into his bones– the flurry of air a disquieting lullaby crooning to his ears.
His men– all four of them sans Aventurine– offered to patrol the vicinity once they finished setting up camp.
“If I may be so bold to ask,” Veritas begins, conjuring a spark on the pile of firewood with a few words and a snap of his fingers, “The mark on your neck– was it a curse?”
Aventurine seems to startle at the blunt inquiry, then schools his expression into something neutral.
“You are awfully curious today, my lord,” the Stoneheart lets out a terse laugh, carefully averting his gaze.
For a taut moment, Aventurine does not speak, and Veritas is just about convinced that he’s overstepping the Stoneheart’s boundaries until the latter half-opens his mouth to mumble, “Worse. It was a binding spell.”
“Binding magic is considered inhumane, and has been forbidden by law. It is a heinous crime punishable by death,” Veritas supplies, his brows furrowing in displeasure, “Who in this world would dare cast such a spell?”
Aventurine huffs, “I’m quite certain His Majesty divulged to you the gist of my elven race. And though I am young by elven standards, I’m still ten to twenty years your senior. This stigma has been around just as long, before the law was even etched in stone.”
The King did not, and, in truth, Veritas cared little about who would be joining the expedition.
“I see,” he hums contemplatively, “However, the existence of such a spell placed on you entails that you are bound to someone with considerable authority. Do you wish to sever these ties?”
“Of course,” Aventurine responds, a little too quickly, a wry smile curling the corners of his lips up, “But it’s not that simple.”
Confused, Veritas asks, meaning to probe further into the enigma, “And whyever not?”
A glimpse of hesitation flashes in the Stoneheart’s expression.
“Because I am duty-bound, my Prince,” states Aventurine, “In most of my entire thirty-something years, I have sworn fealty to your house. I know not of the life outside this servitude, and I cannot even begin to imagine what it would be like to be thrown back from whence I came.”
“Someone of royal blood placed the curse on you,” he deduces, eyes narrowing, “It was my father, wasn’t it?”
The Stoneheart merely shakes his head in response, urging himself up on his feet.
“It won’t be long before various beasts might chance upon our encampment, my Prince,” Aventurine deflects, grabbing his scabbard, as he spins on his heel, “It will be more prudent for you to stay inside your pavilion. We’ll take it from here.”
Veritas is left alone with a phantom sensation gnawing at him, a harrowing need to know more about this particular elf, but he strives to keep it at bay lest it gets the better of him.
-
Aeredale is their first destination. It is– or was– a lush, small city nestled deep within the forest that boasted of elegant, intricately woven abodes furnished from stones quarried from the nearest mountain and living wood. It was surrounded by springtime blooms and water forms that were once full of vim and vigor.
Records stated that it was the first city the Avgins founded when they were banished one by one from Sigonia after the Avgins’ High King was slain in battle. Now, though, the sylvan city is an echo of the past. Aeredale was ransacked by the Katican faes and other greater demons, and was all but razed to the ground.
As they stroll past the dismal edifices on their mounts, Veritas notes that the city is glaringly devoid of any manner of life forms, as though a blight has come into being and has taken control over the land. Even the slightest whiff of mana concentration is absent.
“My Prince,” Aventurine starts, voice lowered, as he impels his steed to trot closer to him, “What will you do to the last Avgin fae once we find him?”
“That will be up to me,” he replies pointedly in a quiet voice, “I am not so wet behind the ears to just blindly surrender an unassuming fellow to the likes of my father.”
“Careful, my liege,” Aventurine manages out, every syllable drawn-out and honeyed, “If any of your men catches wind of what you’ve just said, they’ll accuse you of treason.”
“Good. Perhaps it will serve them well to think for themselves, for once,” he ripostes without missing a beat.
“We haven’t had the chance to talk about this in length since we left the castle grounds, but what do you know of the last Avgin fae?” asks Aventurine, breaking the thick silence that has befallen on them once more.
“I only know of him from certain anecdotes, and some from hearsays. Faes would go to great lengths to protect the secrecy of their internal affairs, especially against other races, so it stands to reason that humans don’t know much about them,” Veritas states, “Though records did say that the Avgin fae Prince was born a bastard– half-mortal and half-fae. His father was the High King of the Seelie Court, but his mother was very much human.”
“Oh?” Aventurine breathes out, one eyebrow arched.
“I can only deduce what happened to him from thereon,” he continues, heaving out a sigh, “His origins stirred quite an unrest amongst the Avgin faes, who valued pure blood above everything. After the High King fell in battle, the fae Prince was exiled by his own blood, but his exact whereabouts thereafter were unknown. It seems he was banished right before the Avgin clan’s extinction.”
The Stoneheart grows uncharacteristically hushed, then, and Veritas has half a mind to comment on it when Aventurine jabs a finger at the direction of the city gate– a living arch formed by two overgrown trunks of redwood trees saturated with fog.
“That was an interesting tale, my Prince,” Aventurine notes, unsheathing his blade. From one corner of his vision, he sees his knights do the same, “But it appears we have company.”
An ear-splitting growl thunders through the air, and the ground quakes beneath them, causing a fissure to form. The horses begin to panic, their nostrils flaring and their tails tucking down.
“Prince Veritas, we must go!” someone barks out, but it is Aventurine who reaches out to grip his forearm, steadying him, as their steeds almost collide with each other.
As the fog disperses gradually, it reveals the eyes of a dragon.
Regaining his focus, Veritas tugs at the reins and attempts to goad his steed towards the opposite direction–
Except, in a split second, the earth fractures directly underneath him, and the last thing he sees before the cavern threatens to devour him whole is the sheer dread on Aventurine’s expression. Veritas finds himself free falling in the next moment, and Aventurine, without a moment of hesitation, leaps from his position and grabs him by the waist.
What are you doing? , he means to ask, but the air current– or lack thereof– is maKing it impossible to speak.
They both plunge further and further into the hollow, and his wits scramble about to search for an incantation he can wheeze out that can , at the very least, soften their landing.
-
“Avgin faes, in general, were able to conceal their true appearances with mortal veneers– a trick of glamour, it is called,” his aged educator, Mr. Rond, used to say, “There is one thing all of them were incapable of hiding, however. A physiologic reaction unique to them. Do you know what that is, Prince Veritas?”
He pursed his lips together in contemplation, later shaKing his head when he came up with nothing.
Mr. Rond chuckled softly.
“When the Avgin fae feels the most at peace, they shine, and they cannot hide it even from themselves.”
-
When Veritas comes to, he finds himself resting on… the wall of a cave, it seems. In the darkness, he tries to flex and extend both his hands, and then the toes of his feet, feeling oddly nothing out of the ordinary.
He mutters a spell under his breath and materializes a flame on his palm. His gaze darts ahead as he straightens his posture, attempting to make more sense of his surroundings, and sees–
Aventurine, lying on his side with his back facing him. His right sleeve is torn and caked with dried blood, and there’s a conspicuous gash on the fabric covering his backside.
Distraught at the sight, he immediately approaches the Stoneheart.
“Aventurine–”
“Finally,” the other exhales, having the nerve to stretch both of his arms and yawn as he sits up. Aventurine appears unusually chipper despite what just transpired, “Welcome back, Prince Veritas. How was your journey down these depths?”
He scowls at the Stoneheart, unamused, and with the most acerbic tone he can muster, he says, “I am absolutely delighted you made it out alive.”
“Hey,” Aventurine huffs, “The least you could do is thank me, my dear Prince, and anyway, you trust me too much. What if, on a whim, I decided to kill you right here, right now?”
Veritas observes the Stoneheart warily, scoffing, “You do not believe I can best you in combat? I have been trained on sorcery and swordsmanship since I was able to read and hold a blade.”
Aventurine makes out an absentminded hum, “Well, consider my interest piqued, then.”
Veritas narrows his eyes in suspicion. Something does not quite add up.
“Let me examine your injuries.”
“What? No, they’re–”
Before Aventurine can retract his arm, he wraps his fingers around it and pulls it towards him gently.
Save for a slight discoloration on the Stoneheart’s skin where the injury should be, nothing would ever imply that he’s taken quite a fall and– seeing as Veritas is practically unharmed– cushioned them both.
Impossible. There is simply no way of surviving that mishap without sustaining a grave wound, at the very least.
He inspects the man’s back next, eliciting a yelp of protest, and also sees nothing worthy of note.
“They have all healed,” he remarks with no small amount of wonder in his voice as he brings his attention back to Aventurine, “What, exactly, did you do?”
In theory, among humans, only Grand Mages and Archmages are capable of healing magic of this scale. And while it‘s plain as day that Aventurine is anything but a human at this point– even among the ranks of elves and faes, from his experience, he can count on one hand the beings who possess such powerful healing magic.
“Nothing. I–”
“Aventurine, this does not seem ‘nothing',” Veritas snaps back, irked, “Such high level mastery can only be seen in elves or faes who dedicated years to study the art, or in those of noble upbringing who are endowed with such a talent from birth, among other things.”
“I’ve witnessed you wield earth magic without chanting a spell,” he continues to enumerate, leaning closer, “No elf has ever shown an aptitude for both earth and healing magic at such a young age. And by elven measure– as you’ve told me– you’ve been alive in this realm for no longer than thirty-something years. Your seemingly endless capacity for these marvels baffles me to no end.”
“I do not doubt your intelligence, of course, as you’ve demonstrated that countless times in my presence thus far, but this is an entirely different matter. You–”
“Prince Veritas,” Aventurine words out in a manner that acutely puts a halt to his spiel– softlike and whispery, with a tinge of embarrassment to it, “I didn’t think my true race was something you would agonize over, and for that, I apologize. I am not an elf. And I learned how to perfect my glamour and utilize it as a second skin since I was, well, taken in by the Stonehearts.”
“Glamour?” he articulates slowly, “You are a fae, then?”
Aventurine draws in a sharp intake of breath, “Yes. It’s just– I didn’t feel comfortable walking around the city as a fae.”
“But–”
A burst of light singes Veritas’ vision, putting a halt on his words. They both immediately turn towards the direction of the source, seeing thousands of wisps of light, akin to fireflies, floating and convening to form what seems like an exact but ghastly replica of Aeredale.
“In Memoria,” Aventurine murmurs under his breath in wonder, standing up and stumbling forward to approach the mirage.
His eyes pulse wider in recognition. In Memoria is a phenomenon induced by will-o’-wisps reenacting a certain being’s most important memory. By themselves, they are harmless enough, but there were anecdotes portraying them as great masqueraders, misleading travelers and sometimes guiding them to their deaths.
Regardless, however, this is certainly not his memory. He has never been to Aeredale before in person, so it can only mean one thing: this is Aventurine’s memory being played out right before them.
Without another word, Veritas trails after Aventurine, who stops right before what he assumes to be the High King’s halls— as evidenced by the protection runes interspersed around its entrance and the colossal stone doors guarding its secrets.
In that moment, in that incorporeal condensation of endless possibilities, the wisps’ light bathes Aventurine in bluish silver– a delicate, innocent little thing– setting the fae aglow with lambent starlight.
Underneath the dimming luminosity, Aventurine’s eyes are mellow and soft, bereft of the desolation that seems to follow his every waking moment.
No mortal can ever hope to hold a candle to his beauty.
Time does not flow as monotonously as it should; instead, every second seems to follow the brisk cadence of his beating heart, rhythm by rhythm.
The next moment, however, finds Aventurine trembling. The gale enshrouding them is subtle, a sweet caress; it makes little sense for the Stoneheart to feel the cold at this very moment.
Wasting not a second longer, however, Veritas divests himself of his coat and wraps it around Aventurine’s shoulders.
Aventurine looks up at him, face carefully devoid of any emotion, as the Stoneheart half-parts his lips to echo his own query once more, “What will you do to the last Avgin fae once we find him?”
Veritas holds the other’s stare for a long, drawn-out moment.
“The fabled Avgin Prince, the last of his kind,” he starts, his gaze softening, “Is you, isn’t it?”
“And here I thought I could hide it for a moment longer,” Aventurine remarks, chuckling self-deprecatingly, “I am only sorry you had to chase me around like this, Prince Veritas.”
Veritas grants the other a wooden nod, afraid that he’ll shatter the fragile quietude of the moment with the wrong utterances.
“Now, my Prince– would it be preposterous of me to demand more of your time to hear my tale? While those hearsays do have some truth to them, well, it’s not how the story went per se.”
“You may,” Veritas assents, more curious than anything.
“Indeed, I was born a halfblood. My kind viewed me as a terrible omen, a harbinger of calamity. When my father, the High King, soon fell in battle, I was exiled,” Aventurine begins, taking his hand in his and leading him further inside the wisps’ maze, “I lived with my mother and my half-sister in a small human village in Sigonia for a couple more years until they, too, succumbed to death when the plague laid waste on our homeland.”
“No fae was sane enough to take me in, and humans and elves hunted me down like prized livestock— all because of my blood. I spent a good half of my first decade of life running from my pursuers, and ended up half-dead in your royal garden one day.”
The Stoneheart stops in his tracks, turning to gaze up at him. For a brief moment, Aventurine has such a forlorn look on his face— his mouth downturned, his brows furrowed— that Veritas finds himself tempted to reach out and embrace him.
“Meminisse. To remember,” Aventurine supplies, grimacing, “This sigil– the binding spell was cast by the late queen, your mother.”
His eyes pulse wider.
“Your mother took me in and cared for me like she would a son, but she did not tell your father, for fear of my Avgin nature being exploited,” Aventurine recounts, dragging the folds of his mantle closer and tighter around his body, “She cast the spell on me, both as a means of protection and a warning, to ensure my subservience to the throne.”
“I was still a fledgling, then, no more than fifteen years of age, when the queen fell ill immediately after she gave birth to you, the only heir to the throne. Your father employed the aid of the best healers in the nation and scoured the heavens and the earth for a cure– all for naught, as the story went.”
Aventurine reaches out to grasp his hand, hoisting it to the direction of his neck that bears the sigil. Veritas lets him, for once rendered speechless not to acquiesce, his attention still fixated on said mark.
“On her deathbed, your mother told me that she would entrust the crown Prince’s safety to me. She handed me over to the Stonehearts soon after I was able to handle myself, and the rest is history.”
“That must be the reason why you keep coming to my rescue, then,” he points out, a sense of unease clogging up his throat, “From the very start, you had no choice in the matter, because your hand was coerced to do the spell’s bidding.”
The Stoneheart’s gaze flicks back at him, a weary look dimming the vibrance of his eyes, “Yes. Only then did I realize that the binding spell was for you . My allegiance, my devotion— they were all bound to you the moment you were born.”
As soon as his palm comes into contact with the other’s skin, he feels an irrational lurch in the depths of his stomach and a prickle of throbbing warmth that tingles underneath the pads of his fingers.
Entranced, Veritas steps closer, seeking more of the warmth that surges beneath his touch. He brushes his thumb along the mark in an almost soothing manner, with an unspoken reverence. His mouth falls half-open, his delicate observation already dancing on the tip of his tongue, but Aventurine grips his wrist a notch tighter– a telltale warning.
Snapping out of his reverie, his gaze steers back to the other man and notes, with no small amount of fascination, the way the tips of Aventurine’s ears are burning pink.
“Aventurine,” he breathes out, wresting his hand away from the other’s hold gently, “Allow me to ask you once more: do you wish to sever the binding spell?”
“I stand before you, my Prince, in hopes of you hearing my plea,” answers Aventurine, his resolute expression betraying nothing, “Only someone of the same royal blood can break the spell. In exchange for my loyalty, I yearn for my freedom. I intend to give you anything you ask of me, so long as you grant me this favor.”
“Your true name,” Veritas blurts out, instead, “I need to know your true name in order to undo the spell once and for all.”
“Very well,” Aventurine concedes resignedly, “Surely you know how sacred true names are to us faes, Prince Veritas. I trust that you’ll keep it to yourself, and only yourself.”
“Though it is a necessity for the completion of the ritual– it is something born of a selfish desire of mine,” he articulates faster than he can stop himself, closing his eyes, “I wish to carry your namesake with me in my memory.”
“This is not goodbye, my Prince. Did you not hear what I just said?”
“That your existence can be known at any given moment is a danger in itself, Aventurine. I cannot even begin to fathom why you would insist on returning to the very hand who enslaved you, and will continue to do so come hell or high water,” he says through gritted teeth, opening his eyes once again, “I will travel back home, and talk my father out of it. I only need to present concrete proof that the Avgin Prince is well and truly dead. Furthermore, you will have my vote… should you choose to retire from the Stonehearts discreetly.”
“And,” he words out slowly, as though it physically pains him to do so, “You want to live for yourself therewith, do you not? There is simply no room for debate. Regardless of your origins, your status– to deprive you of that right is the most abhorrent thing one can possibly do to any living being.”
Aventurine raises his hands to palm both of his cheeks.
"Kakavasha," the fae offers, "My true name."
Veritas leans down, shutting his eyes close and grasping the back of the other’s hand with his. He knocks his forehead against Aventurine’s gently, and begins to recite the words.
“I, Prince Veritas Ratio, hereby release you, Kakavasha, from your vow of servitude. From this day forth, you are free to live your days as you wish.”
As soon as his gaze falls on the column of Aventurine’s neck, the mark has disappeared.
The tender smile on Aventurine’s face puts the many sunbursts in Laurel Wreath to shame.
“Thank you, Prince Veritas.”
He clears his throat, gingerly avoiding the other’s gaze.
“Let us depart from here.”
-
By the time they left the cavern, a gust of strong wind was already billowing through the dense grove of trees, and storm clouds were already gathering in the murky skies ahead. With all possible haste, they head towards the nearest village a couple of miles east of the cave.
The first few splatters of rain begin to descend upon them, followed by a deluge, immediately drenching them to the bone.
Veritas decides to take shelter momentarily and spend the night in a modest inn. This far from the capital, no one seems to have recognized him.
“Now is as good a time as any to use a drying spell, my Prince,” Aventurine comments in jest, “If you have any.”
He heaves out a sigh, “I do not. I can conjure up a flame to hasten the process, however.”
They hang a makeshift rack near the fireplace, suspending their soaked clothes and accessories in the air. It’s doubtlessly a good thing the inn offered them a set of plain, dry frocks before they were ushered into their room.
As soon as Aventurine emerges from the bathhouse, almost swimming in the loose white fabric– the smaller of the two frocks– he’s wearing, Veritas chuckles warmly.
“Laugh all you want, my Prince,” Aventurine scoffs, “Let us see how well your Highness will fit in these garments.”
That night, he urges Aventurine to sleep on the same bed with him. They slip under their shared quilt, conversing about the most mundane things until they fall deep in slumber.
-
“Prince Veritas,” says the disembodied voice, jostling him awake, “You were shouting in your sleep.”
Veritas sits up abruptly, his dazed stare downcast on his hands. And then he shifts his gaze back at Aventurine.
“One of our Sages’ ravens visited me in my dream,” he rasps, his voice gravelly, “It informed me that my father is in a coma, on the brink of death.”
Aventurine favors him with an eerie smile, almost inhumane in the manner it graces his youthful face.
Realization dawns on him, then.
“You planned this,” Veritas fires out, his intonation gradually rising with anger. He clenches his hands into fists as his eyes narrow at the fae before him.
“Do not look at me like that, my Prince. It’s not very becoming of you,” Aventurine grouses in half-jest, “I did mean to flesh out and exact my revenge, yes, but this is an outcome I did not expect to come to fruition so soon.”
“I knew of your father’s illness– a malignancy with no known scientific cure. He had no choice but to resort to magic, but even the best mages in the land could not cure it. Employing the help of the elves and the other faes could only delay the inevitable. He was dying a slow, painful death.”
It feels as though the Avgin fashioned his own words into a knife and twisted it in the wound.
“I planted the seeds of curiosity in the minds of his subjects and his medical advisors– that only the blood and tears of an Avgin can sufficiently treat his malady. That was why the King, the madman, forced you to seek me, the last Avgin fae.”
Veritas– stares at the Avgin, with only the unfamiliar sensation of the acrid bile rising up his throat to accompany his misery. Betrayal has never tasted this bitter before, carving a gaping abyss in his heart that will never be filled again.
“Did you also tell my father to choose you out of all the Stonehearts to journey with me every time?”
“I volunteered,” Aventurine supplies, “You, my Prince, were the last missing piece of the puzzle. You’re too cunning and perceptive for your own good. That was why I had to make certain that you won’t be there when the King finally succumbs to his disease. Additionally, it was a ploy to get closer to you, because I knew you alone could reverse the binding spell of your own volition.”
Vaguely, he knows what he must do in this situation– and what he’s capable of– yet his limbs feel like lead, numbed, as though someone has pulled the carpet from under his feet. He finds himself falling, falling, to unfathomable depths.
But he can only stare at Aventurine, with all the force of his yearning and his affections threatening to consume him. He feels no different from his father, a lunatic, someone Aventurine had used as a means to an end–
Hundreds of miles away from their current location, his father is on the verge of drawing his last breath.
And yet, there must be something equally wrong with him, because in the next moment his thoughts are no longer clouded with anger. Instead, they take the shape of a desire so deeply-rooted and primal that he finds himself helpless in the face of its arrant weight.
That very notion is what compels him to break free from his spiraling illusions as he leans forward with renewed vigor, grabbing the scruff of the other man’s neck and pulling him closer. Their lips meet in an unceremonious, starved manner, their teeth clacking against each other, as he presses their bodies seamlessly together until they are no longer distanced by a rift.
“My–”
Caught by surprise, Aventurine moans something pained into his mouth, to which he responds with a low growl, though the fae surges forward to match his fervor with a kiss of his own. Veritas uses this to his advantage, angling his neck and deepening the open-mouthed kiss, sweeping his tongue inside the other’s mouth in an exploratory manner.
They draw apart again, a transitory reprieve, as Veritas finds himself ever chasing after the sultry promise on Aventurine’s tongue, instead settling for a retaliating bite at the bottom lip before pulling away.
“My Prince–”
The Stoneheart has the gall to chortle airily as he raises a finger to his lips, putting an abrupt halt to his ministrations.
Veritas narrows his eyes, squeezing the other’s waist in petty retribution. The action does nothing to douse the off-putting elation clearly written all over Aventurine’s expression.
“You may use me as you wish,” Aventurine purrs, his tone deliberately sex-sweet, his eyelids drooping half-mast, “I can warm you up. You may roughen me up a little. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”
“No,” he says indignantly, wrenching the finger away from him– only to hoist the back of Aventurine’s hand to his lips, smoothing a feather-light kiss along the skin, “I do not intend to merely use you.”
The Stoneheart seems to jolt at the minute gesture, but otherwise makes no move to deter his advances.
“I still do not know what you want to hear from me, Aventurine, after your grand admission of guilt,” he confesses, his voice gravelly, “You did not infringe on any law, hence I cannot punish you by any legal means. But that does not fully absolve you of your crime.”
Veritas traces his thumb along Aventurine’s lower lip, nudging it down to pry the other’s maw half-open.
“Do I have your permission to continue?”
Aventurine rewards him with an eager nod, darting his tongue out by impulse to moisten his thumb.
A muscle on his jaw tensed. The cord of his sanity is slowly beginning to unravel, thread by damnable thread.
“Have you finally lost your voice, my gem?” Veritas sneers darkly, testing the waters further by pressing down on the meat of the Stoneheart’s tongue, before retracting his drenched finger–
Aventurine encloses his lips around his thumb and gives it one final suck just so, peering up at him through his long lashes, and what little that remains of his restraint snaps almost audibly.
Veritas compels the Stoneheart onto the center of the bed with the sheer weight of his body, clutching his arm and meeting Aventurine’s lips halfway with a taunting kiss. He works his mouth slowly over the other’s, catching the vermillion of the other’s upper lip and sucking on it lightly. Aventurine swathes both of his hands over his shoulder blades and kneads the skin there, spreading his legs to accommodate him.
“I saw you in my dreams,” he says, hauling himself off Aventurine’s body and doffing his garment over his head, “Gone was the raven, the herald of death, and all the sorrows it brought me–”
He drops the fabric on the floor uncaringly. Aventurine does the same with mounting urgency.
“In its place, you stood before me, but you were unreal, intangible,” he continues, entangling his fingers with the rumpled locks of the fae’s hair, “You were fading away from my sight and I could not make you stay.”
“But I’m here before you, my Prince,” Aventurine remarks, a saccharine smile playing on his kiss-bitten lips, “So very real and ripe for the taking, and— for the remainder of the day— yours.”
“Mine,” Veritas echoes his assent, his eyes glinting with voracity, “But it is not merely dominion over you I seek.”
“I want you to be mine to hold,” he starts, shifting his lips southward until he reaches the base of the other’s throat, bestrewing faint kisses along his path.
His hand travels up to tease the other’s nipple between his fingers, and he hears Aventurine exhale sharply.
“Veritas–”
He roams his lips further downward, brushing them along a nipple. He nibbles on the sensitive flesh tentatively before sucking on them, drawing out a stuttering moan from the other man.
“Mine,” he breathes out, lifting his lips off a swollen nipple and looking back at Aventurine with hooded eyes, “To worship.”
Veritas pauses, then drags himself up to loom wholly over Aventurine.
“And– should you choose to grant me this one mercy,” he breathes out, “Mine– to spend my every waking moment with.”
Upon the blatant admission, Aventurine grows flustered, his previous hold dropping to his bicep.
“Veritas, that’s–”
“I will bide my time,” Veritas whispers right into the shell of the Avgin’s ear, grazing a kiss beneath it where his pulse thrums the loudest, “Kakavasha.”
He coasts a searching hand down between the other’s legs, prying them apart further, and discovers, with ill-concealed intrigue, the presence of a clit there. Veritas takes his mouth with his in another open-mouthed kiss, tracing the slit and inserting a finger shallowly inside the entrance– and then leisurely retreating to find it absolutely drenched .
“I will take you apart–”
Without another word, he plunges a finger back inside, immediately setting a rhythm that has Aventurine whimpering into his mouth, his hand completely relinquishing its hold on his bicep– instead opting to grip the sheets beneath him.
“Piece by piece.”
Veritas angles the ball of his palm to ram against the other’s clit as he adds another finger in, spurred on by the Stoneheart’s labored breathing.
“Carve a void in your heart only I can fill.”
“Veritas, I’m–”
Aventurine arches his back, a wanton, wet moan rushing from his mouth. He swallows it with a searing kiss before drawing back to settle his head in the crook of the Stoneheart’s neck and increasing his pace.
“Until there will no longer be a piece of you that will not belong to me.”
The Stoneheart’s grip on the linen beneath him strains into fists, his quim acutely spasming tight around his fingers and his legs quaking. One hand flies up to feebly shove him away, and–
He’s just about to acquiesce, wondering in dismay if he’s stepped out of the line, but then he feels the telltale sensation of something sodden pooling around his fingers and the sheets below.
His cock twitches at the indecent display– Aventurine’s chest heaving with effort, his golden hair mussed, and his two-toned eyes misted over. Utterly blissed out, and it’s all because of him.
“That was,” Aventurine begins between strained pants, a faint smirk evident in his voice, “That was… quite middling.”
“Oh? Just middling?” Veritas parrots after the other, readily accepting the unspoken challenge head-on. He breathes out a simper, dipping nearer to sink back two fingers inside his entrance and stretching it, “That was quite a statement, seeing as you’re the one dripping between the two of us.”
“Veritas,” the Stoneheart hisses through clenched teeth, and Veritas chuckles breezily in response. He does, however, withdraw his fingers, and pushes himself down to line reverential kisses along Aventurine’s chest and the plane of his abdomen.
The heat of his mouth wanders further down the soft, unsullied expanse of Avenurine’s thigh, trailing kisses in its wake. The Stoneheart reacts with an oversensitivity that’s unseemly of him– quivering underneath his fingertips upon the faintest touch.
Veritas heaves himself up by a notch, grasping the hollows of the other’s knees and slinging them over his shoulders– almost folding the other in half and earning himself a bewildered grunt of protest.
“What–”
In a swift motion, his mouth descends on the apex between Aventurine’s thighs, the flat of his tongue flitting around the clit and laving it down his moistened vulva.
Aventurine keens, his hips canting upwards to chase after his own pleasure. The fae’s hands tug on his hair, frenzied, his fingers digging into his scalp and hurtling pleasure-pain down Veritas’ spine– and it only serves to egg him on. Veritas reinforces his grip on the other’s thighs so that the fae will have no other way out as he puts his mouth and tongue to work.
“Please,” the Stoneheart manages out with a debauched exhale, “I want you inside me.”
Not even a siren’s song will ever sound sweeter than Aventurine’s plea.
Veritas pulls back abruptly, and before Aventurine can utter anything else, he turns him over, his upper body crashing into the mattress.
His own length is jutting up and leaking pre-cum as he glides it over the other’s perineum. Veritas leans forward to cup Aventurine’s chin and hold his glazed stare with his, his chest eclipsing the other’s back.
“And when the day comes that you will wake up from this dream–”
He guides his cock inside the entrance– a gradual, measured drag– and then slams it almost all the way to the hilt without warning, coaxing a strangled moan and a garbled word that might have been his name out of Aventurine’s throat.
He groans, low and guttural, at the velvety heat engulfing his length.
“You will come back to me.”
Veritas continues his onslaught, releasing his hold on the fae’s chin and seizing both sides of his waist, instead, as he grinds his hips flush against the other’s before steadily withdrawing.
Aventurine lets out a shuddering moan and another pitiful attempt at calling out his name, throwing him a faint glare over his shoulder, “ Veri–”
Smirking, he shoves back in with little resistance. He leans down to brush a kiss along the other’s shoulder blade, steadily building up his rhythm as he thrusts in and out of the other’s slick entrance.
After a few more cycles of rocking back and forth but never really amplifying the pressure, Aventurine shoots out a hand to grasp at his forearm.
“What did I tell you, my Prince? You may roughen me up,” huffs Aventurine in between breaths, his faux veil of bravado snapping back into place, “You are, decidedly, not doing a very good job at it.”
“Interesting,” he muses airily, grabbing the other’s chin and hoisting it to his level. From this view, the tears threatening to dot Aventurine’s lustrous eyes are unmistakable.
“You would do well not to provoke me,” he growls, tensing his grip into something bruising. And then, with a taunting edge to his tone, he murmurs coarsely, “My Prince.”
The velutinous heat tightens at his incitement as he pushes in once more, wrenching a rumbling groan out of him. He snaps his hips forward without another word, burying his length further inside the pulsating walls.
“Ah–!”
He yanks the other’s rump flush against him, earning himself a choked groan from the fae, as he thrusts all the way to the hilt, his genitals pressing against the other’s perineum with an obscene smack.
“Just like that.”
Aventurine pushes his hips back to meet his thrusts halfway with equal enthusiasm, clenching and unclenching his hole teasingly around his shaft. Veritas grunts with effort, angling his hips up and pounding relentlessly into Aventurine with great force, coaxing a short-winded string of wheezes and gasps from the fae.
“Yes, yes–!”
All at once, Aventurine screams, his back curving sinuously and his quim twitching around his cock. Clear liquid gushes out of his cunt, spilling onto the already sodden sheets below. Veritas’ rhythm stutters briefly at the sheer force of the other’s orgasm coating his own length and thighs.
“Inside–” Aventurine rasps brokenly, interrupted by a punched-out moan after one particular hard thrust, “ Inside me—”
He can feel his own pleasure cresting , urging him impetuously to the precipice of his climax. His vision blurs, most of his thoughts melting progressively into nonbeing– and all he can think of is the welcoming heat of Aventurine’s insides and what it would be like to yield to his baser instincts and drench them with his virile spend–
He grits his teeth together, hissing out a harsh “Kakavasha” in warning.
Aventurine, as though heedful of his carnal thoughts, throws him a weakly impish smirk over his shoulder, blindly lowering a searching hand in between his legs until he finds his genitals and begins to knead them–
And that, embarrassingly, was Veritas’ undoing.
Rearing back almost completely– and then ramming his shaft all the way back in as hard as possible with a choked groan, he comes, flooding every crevice of Aventurine’s warm insides with his spend. Vaguely, he hears Aventurine heave out a content sigh, still kneading his genitals until he’s thoroughly milked dry.
Veritas cups his chin and tilts his head upwards by an angle, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips, proprietorial and wanting.
Outside, the storm still rages on, echoing the tempest in his thoughts.
Veritas knows he had just dismissed Aventurine from his vow of servitude, and that he has no more reason to dwell any longer in the human realm– not after the injustice his kind has shown Aventurine.
But what is a plea, if not a prayer only the most devout and destitute can utter?
He realizes, with startling clarity, that he is willing to worship every god until the end of his days if it means he gets to keep Aventurine by his side.
He can’t. He shouldn’t.
Instead, with his eyes closed firmly, he settles with murmuring his supplication against the other’s skin.
“Stay with me.”
Aventurine answers him with a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
-
Veritas wakes up to the muted sound of rain still dribbling against the windowpane. The intensity of the deluge, however, is abating.
Groggily, he shifts his gaze to the side, searching for his companion, and finds Aventurine gone.
-
It has been two months since the King’s passing, and two months since Veritas last saw and heard of Aventurine. Despite his cautious and reticent needling in his spare time, no one was able to provide details on the Avgin Prince’s whereabouts, as though his presence has entirely left this mortal realm.
He tries to force his misery back to the deepest recesses of his mind. There is no need to agonize over it, not when the palace is bustling with activity in preparation for his coronation.
Certainly. No need.
(And if he finds himself fretting over the fae’s condition as he is wont to do– well, that is nobody’s business but his own.)
-
On the day of his accession to the throne, however, he sees Aventurine entering the banquet hall with measured steps.
Aventurine elects to no longer hide behind the mortal shell crafted by his glamour. The fae strides into the center of the hall, wielding his confidence and charm like a weapon, with a virtuosity that borders on something enviable.
Aventurine’s raiment bleeds of midnight black– a bespoke surcoat dotted with golden lapels and accents. Laurel Wreath’s coat of arms is embroidered on his breast pocket. A velvet-like pelisse, whose collar is rimmed with woolen fur, is swathed over his shoulders, which only served to further accentuate the Stoneheart’s true fae features.
The fabled eyes of an Avgin— they are as deep blue as the unclouded skies of evenfall. His hair is longer, cascading a little past his shoulder, those flaxen locks framing his face like finespun gold.
In the closed confines of the assembly room, in the liminal space between the monotonous seconds, the minutes, and the hour, amidst the ensuing clamor that has broken out amongst the crowd, his subjects– as far as Prince Veritas is concerned, no one else in this room exists.
Aventurine’s gaze finds his, and for a terse moment he cannot– he cannot look away.
-
“You had no reason to come back, and yet you dared to waltz in and demand my private audience during the celebration of my coronation,” Veritas barks out as soon as he closes the door to his own chambers, “Did you not, for a second, consider the consequences of your actions?”
“Of what? Me, an old friend, attending your coronation?” Aventurine retorts, his two-toned eyes gleaming with a familiar hint of defiance.
“Spare me your falsehoods, Aventurine. Your audacity and blatant disregard for etiquette and for your own safety beg the question: what is it that you want?”
In the next moment, Aventurine does the unthinkable: he kneels in front of him.
“I ask for your forgiveness, my King.”
“To what end?” he snaps back, then steels himself with a weary sigh–
“I ran away. I couldn’t bear to live with my guilt,” confesses Aventurine, having the decency to act the part, “It was the most cowardly thing I have ever done.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You did your part, as I did mine. The late King was terminally ill; there was simply no methodological way of curing his disease, whether you had a hand in it or not.”
“No, my apology is not my only cause. I have set out to make amends with you, and–”
Aventurine wets his lower lip with his tongue, evidently high-strung.
“And to court you.”
“Aventurine,” he manages out with an exasperated sigh after too long a maddening pause, feeling the sudden weight of exhaustion seeping into his marrow, “Humor me; did you come here to humiliate me further?”
Veritas turns his back on him, fixing his attention instead on the window sill.
“No,” says Aventurine quickly, with dogged firmness, “I came here not as Aventurine, but as Kakavasha, the last of his kind– he who was lost now intends to find his way home again.”
“Kakavasha,” he calls, relishing the way the true name rolls off his tongue in spite of everything, “Stand up.”
Kakavasha does as he’s told. Veritas bodily faces the other man, a grave expression marring his features.
"In those two months, I sought the warmth of a home," says Kakavasha, "I never did find it. I kept on circling back to Laurel Wreath in hopes of finding you, but I couldn't bear to face you as I am."
He needed to know.
“Answer me, I beg of you," he says, an ounce of despair laced with his tone, "Do you love me?”
A trace of vulnerability clouds the already crumbling surefire expression on Kakavasha’s face.
“I love you,” Kakavasha grits out, a wretched sound escaping his trembling lips.
The Avgin casts his gaze down on the carpeted floor, as if ashamed, and a torrent of words, unbidden, begins to gush out of his mouth.
“I knew I loved you when I let you touch the mark on my neck. I knew it the moment you asked me if I wanted to sever a binding spell I did not want. I knew it when my goddess demanded from me a prayer and I answered with your name on my lips.”
Veritas does not need to be told more. He closes the distance between them with quick strides.
“I wished for you. I had nothing, but I craved you like a madman thrice scorned, and, goddess, I knew you will ruin me in the worst ways possible–”
He dips his head down, stopping short only when the fae braces a palm on his chest.
“And I will let you,” Kakavasha murmurs, ghosting over his lips– a warm, hitching breath fanning his skin.
“Then you know not even a quarter of what I feel for you,” he says, easy as breathing, as he catches the hand on his chest and entwines his fingers with it, “I have loved you from the start, and it has consumed me every night to know that it will never be requited.”
The fae widens his eyes, stunned.
“But I have returned,” Kakavasha remarks, pulling a face, after regaining his composure, “You do not have to brood over it any longer.”
“That may be so, but you have to permit me to right my wrongs henceforth,” he offers, his thumb caressing the other’s cheekbone, “If truth be told, you deserve an entire lifetime’s worth of me making amends to you. I will remind you every day of those words until you grow tired of hearing them.”
Muted pink taints the apple of Kakavasha’s cheeks at the implications.
“Are you asking for my hand in marriage, my King?” the fae quips, a sunlit smile gracing his features.
He hums in mock-contemplation, unable to fend off the same smile playing on his own.
“Perhaps, Prince Kakavasha.”
-