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Hob rolls his neck and stretches his shoulders with a weary groan, wincing as his joints creak and pop. He yawns and shifts his weight from one foot to the other before leaning once more on his halberd. The night is balmy and the air is heavy, charged with the sort of restless excitement that only comes before a battle. Behind him, the campfire crackles and pewter tankards crash together, clinking in time with the drunken songs of his fellow soldiers on what may be their last night alive. Before him, there is only darkness.
On any other night, Hob would join in with the revelry. Tonight, though, he’d prefer to keep his wits about him. Tomorrow they will face the legions of Hell, and it’s expected that Lucifer Morningstar themself will lead the charge. Hob volunteered for night watch duty; it’s boring, but it keeps him alert, and he would rather not go into battle with a headache and ale-passion. Besides, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.
Heavy footsteps crunch behind him, and Hob turns his head to see a squire—Matthew—approaching. Hob nods in greeting as the squat, raven-haired man settles beside him.
“Gadling. I’m here to relieve you. You’re, uh, wanted in the general’s tent.” He emphasizes that last statement as if it’s a euphemism for something sordid, and, well...it is. Officially, Hob is only a foot soldier—he’s got no magical ability, and he’s too low-born to be considered for knighthood, so he’s expendable, lower in rank than Matthew. Unofficially, however, Hob is the protege of General Olethros, Prince of the Endless Kingdom and brother of King Morpheus. It’s an open secret among the troops—the gossipy ones like Matthew, anyway—that the two men are lovers.
“Thanks, Matthew. Perfect timing; my feet are killing me.”
“No problem,” Matthew mutters. “This is exactly what I wanted to do all night while you get laid.”
“Well then, lucky you,” Hob smirks. He claps him on the back and swings his halberd over his shoulder as he turns to make for the general’s tent. It’s set slightly apart from the rest of the camp, on a knoll overlooking the barren valley on the border of the Endless Kingdom (not a literal title, obviously) and the Empire of Hell.
Inside the spacious canvas pavilion, General Olethros (Ollie, to Hob—at least in private) is hunched over a table, brow furrowed as he examines a detailed map of the battlefield. He hasn’t noticed Hob yet, and the younger man takes a moment to admire the view of his mentor and lover. Ollie is an enormous man, more than a head taller than Hob, with a wild mane of fiery red hair that shines in the low glimmer of the lanterns. He is dressed in only a loose-fitting linen tunic and breeches, and Hob can see the dangerous ripple of muscles in his brawny shoulders as he breathes. He looks up and smiles at Hob with sky-colored eyes that radiate warmth despite his reputation as a fierce, ruthless warrior.
“The plan is in place, then?” Hob asks softly, placing his hand atop Ollie’s where it rests on the map. Ollie is only a few years older than Hob, but his skin—though fair and soft, as befits a prince—is already littered with battle scars. Hob traces his finger along a jagged, silver line that runs up the back of Ollie’s hand and disappears beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his tunic.
“Aye,” Ollie replies. “We ride at dawn.” He sounds resigned, as if they’ve already been defeated by the legions of Hell.
“You don’t think we’ll win?”
“I know we will, lad,” Ollie sighs. “And I’d like you to fight by my side tomorrow.”
Hob gapes at him, dumbfounded. “But—I’m only a foot soldier. I’ve never even fought on horseback. And, well, won’t people...talk?”
“Let them talk. I don’t give a damn,” Olethros rejoins. “Besides, they’ll be too busy dying to notice, let alone say anything about it.” He takes Hob’s hands in his own—so gentle, despite their size and strength—and gazes down at him. “And if I have to die out there too, I want you with me. I trained you myself, Hob. I know you’re capable of this.”
Ollie cups his cheek, and Hob’s eyes flutter shut as his mind drifts back to those days in the palace training yard. Why the general had taken such an interest in him then, he still doesn’t know. But Hob, an impressionable young lad from the country on his first day in the royal army, had taken one look at the towering, red-haired man and found himself instantly smitten. If Prince Olethros wanted to train him personally, he certainly wasn’t going to argue, though he never would have dreamed that the general would take that sort of interest in him. Ollie had taught him how to ride, how to fight with swords and axes and polearms. Hob shivers as he remembers the day he’d taught him to shoot a bow—Ollie had stood behind him, close enough that Hob could smell his sweat and feel his breath on the back of his neck as he’d shown him how to position his hands. He remembers how his heart had pounded, electrified at the gentle touch, and before he knew it he had whirled around in Olethros’ arms and kissed him desperately. And, wonder of wonders, the prince had kissed back. That night had ended with Hob bouncing eagerly in Ollie’s lap, impaled on his massive cock. He hadn’t minded that Hob is different from the other soldiers; indeed, he had been very enthusiastic about Hob’s body, so what could Hob do except fall hopelessly in love with him?
It’s not as though people like Hob are uncommon, and among the educated classes, there is no stigma around changing one’s body to better fit one’s soul. In fact, the transformation enchantment is rather fashionable with the nobility; some change back and forth as it suits their fancy (Lucifer is one such individual, and another of Ollie’s siblings is known for updating their gender on a seasonal basis), and it’s an ingenious way of displaying one’s wealth, or magical ability, or both. For the enchantment is not easily mastered by even the most talented magicians, and the ones who can do it charge a hefty sum.
It’s just that most people who seek to change themselves do so fully, and are indistinguishable from anyone else of their chosen gender. Hob had planned to get the complete transformation—he’d risked his life stealing the gold, and he was damn well going to get his money’s worth (not to mention the fact that people who stop the change partway are often treated as deceitful at best; at worst, they’re pushed to the fringes of society, and many of them do things to survive that Hob would only do under dire circumstances). But he’d always been ambivalent about that part; his goal wasn’t to have a cock, it was to live as a man. As far as Hob is concerned, what’s in his breeches has nothing to do with that.
Now, a decade and a half later, Hob is rather grateful that fate sought to intervene that day. He’d left home at the age of sixteen and never looked back. There was nothing left for him there after his parents had died and his brothers had all gotten married and moved away to start families of their own. He does miss his old village sometimes—the shire of Fiddler’s Green, in the heart of the realm, is a paradise to most. But isolated, rural communities tend to come with antiquated values, and Hob wouldn’t have dared to live as his true self there. So he ran away, robbed someone with too much money and not enough sense to lock it up properly, and paid a sorcerer to change him. But the sheriff and his men had caught up to him just as the enchantment was taking effect, and Hob had had no choice but to run before it was complete. Or maybe the witch had stopped the incantation—amidst all the chaos and confusion, he’s not sure what happened. All he knows is that he’d come out of it alive, and he had been delighted with his new appearance; his strong brows, his striking chin, and his lush, dark body hair all make him look roguishly handsome, if he says so himself. Apart from his cunt, he now looks the same as any other man—the same as he’s always looked in his dreams. The way he was meant to be.
After drifting for a few years and resorting to banditry when he couldn’t find any odd jobs in the towns he passed through, Hob had traveled to the capital city—the Citadel of the Dreaming—and joined the royal army. There he would at least be guaranteed three meals a day and a warm place to sleep, and soldiering is a decent enough living as long as you don’t die. And Hob has no intention of dying, on the battlefield or otherwise.
Due to the nature of military life, the specifics of Hob’s body are known among the ranks. Fortunately, no one really cares. Unfortunately, it means many of his fellow soldiers are eager to bed him—something Hob wouldn’t mind terribly, if only they weren’t so crass about it. And if he had eyes for anyone but the general.
He emerges from his reverie as Ollie strokes his cheek and pulls him in close. Hob can see the worry writ plain on his face, and it ignites a spark of unease in his gut. Ollie is usually so exuberant, so full of life—before battles he is always raring to go, and he raises the troops’ spirits with his tales of victory and his booming laughter that echoes through the camp. Tonight, though, he looks like a man on his way to the gallows.
“Ollie,” Hob murmurs, “what’s wrong? Please—” Olethros interrupts him with a searing kiss, and Hob is helpless to resist. All thoughts, all worries flee from his mind as he melts under his lover’s touch.
Hob scrambles out of his scuffed leather breastplate, bracers, boots, and greaves, and Ollie peels off his sweat-soaked tunic while Hob shuffles out of his breeches. Ollie soothes his hands down the smaller man’s sides, cupping his arse before grasping the backs of his furred thighs and hoisting him up as if he weighs nothing. A keen gasp escapes from Hob as he wraps his legs around Ollie’s hips and clings tightly to his sturdy shoulders. He loves it when Ollie manhandles him like this; he is turbulent and forceful like a storm-tossed sea, but Hob is only too glad to be dragged under, drowned, wrecked. Heat simmers low in his belly, and he can feel his arousal trickling from his pussy as the general tosses him onto the large, surprisingly soft bed that is separated from the rest of the tent with a richly embroidered curtain.
Ollie captures his mouth again in a frenzied, blazing kiss, then trails his lips down his neck, nipping at his collarbone and raking his fingers through the dense forest of hair on Hob’s chest. He scratches a blunt fingernail over one nipple while seizing the other in a vice-like grip between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting a high, quavering whine of pleasure from Hob. He runs his tongue down the trail of hair on Hob’s stomach, circling the tip around his navel before continuing southward to press his face to the thicket of dark curls surrounding Hob’s wet, leaking cunt.
Ollie inhales deeply and lets out a robust moan of appreciation, after which he slings Hob’s legs over his shoulders and licks a stripe from his entrance up to his clit. Hob bucks his hips upwards involuntarily, needy and hungry for more, but Ollie pins him to the bed with impossibly strong hands and resumes his merciless attack on his cunt. He suckles at it and dips his tongue inside, swirling it and probing at his slick walls, lapping up the fluid that gushes forth. It’s fast and rough and wonderful, and the burn of Ollie’s coarse beard against Hob’s tender folds sends shockwaves of exquisite pleasure-pain rippling through him. Suddenly, there are two meaty fingers gliding into him, shortly followed by a third, and it’s delicious agony as Ollie deftly works him open. He crooks his fingers and brushes against that sweet spot inside while simultaneously taking Hob’s raw, swollen clit into his mouth, rolling it ever so gently between his teeth, and Hob screams as a tidal wave of pleasure crashes over him. A torrent of spend cascades from his pussy, soaking Ollie’s face and hand, and Hob mewls and writhes weakly on his thick fingers. The prince removes his fingers with a wet pop and sucks them clean, and Hob feels another trickle of warm slick dripping from his cunt as it flutters and clenches, yearning to be filled again.
Hob sinks, heavy limbed, into the fuzzy afterglow of his climax, his mind pleasantly cloudy. A sudden thought zooms just past his consciousness, like an arrow missing its target by a mere hair—what if this is the last time—
And then it’s gone as Ollie shucks off his breeches and positions himself above Hob, leaning down for a fierce kiss as he sinks his ruddy, engorged prick into Hob’s aching pussy. Ollie moans into Hob’s mouth, a low thrum that reverberates through his skull and down his spine. Hob pants and keens as Ollie immediately settles into a brutal rhythm, pounding vigorously into his cunt. As Hob reaches his peak for the second time, it occurs to him that there is very little he would not do for this man. He shivers at the thought. He can’t say why, but this realization feels...dangerous. Destructive.
Ollie groans and sucks a bruise into Hob’s shoulder before abruptly pulling out and rising to his knees. Hob recognizes the cue and sits up to take his cock into his mouth. As much as Hob would love for Ollie to spend inside his cunt, it would not do for him to get with child. It would end his career as a soldier and bring scandal on the prince, and in any case, Hob takes almost as much pleasure as Ollie does in using his mouth on him. Ollie sinks his fingers into Hob’s hair with a grunt as he begins to fuck his face, slowly at first, then accelerating to a savage pace. Hob whimpers as Ollie tugs on his hair, tears streaming down his cheeks as his mouth stretches around his lover’s massive prick. He savors the taste of himself, mingled with the salty musk of pre-come, as he relaxes his throat to take him as deep as he can. Hob loses himself, succumbing to the sensation and allowing the general to use him as he will.
With no warning save for a stutter of his hips and a ferocious cry, Ollie spills down Hob’s throat, unleashing a flood of hot seed that Hob swallows down with an enthusiastic moan. Then he is wrapping Hob in his powerful arms and pulling him down to rest his head on his broad, well-muscled chest. This part is always Hob’s favorite; there is nowhere he feels safer than in Olethros’ embrace, and Hob shuts his eyes, lulled by the soothing pulse of his lover’s heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
The prince cards his fingers through Hob’s sweat-damp hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“Hob,” he whispers. His voice rumbles softly, like a distant thunderclap.
“Mm?”
“Run away with me.”
Hob was beginning to doze, but at those words he jolts awake and jerks his head up to look at Ollie. A high, nervous laughs bursts from him, but Ollie frowns at him with a look of profound sadness in his brilliant blue eyes.
“What—you’re serious?” Hob asks incredulously.
“Yes.”
“You mean after the battle?”
“Tonight. We could go now.” Hob has never seen him so somber, so devoid of his usual mirth.
“And—and just desert everyone? Abandon them?” He can’t believe what he’s hearing—where is this coming from?
“I never wanted this, Hob. I’m tired of this life. I’m tired of all the killing. Aren’t you tired?” Ollie does look tired, Hob thinks. Illuminated only by moonlight and the flickering glow of the dying lanterns, he looks old—threads of silver glint in his beard, and his eyes are sunken and hollow.
Hob reaches up to brush Ollie’s hair back from his face, tucking a coppery strand behind his ear. “I...I don’t want to be a soldier forever, but to just leave? The night before the biggest battle of our lives? I’m not a coward, Ollie. And neither are you.”
“It’s not cowardice,” Ollie insists, not meeting Hob’s gaze. “It’s mercy.”
“Mercy.” Hob repeats flatly. “On Hell.”
Ollie heaves a forlorn sigh. “We could start over somewhere else. We could finally, truly be together.”
Hob stares at him, lost for words. He can’t believe Olethros would just abandon his army, his kingdom. He also can’t believe that he wants Hob to come with him. And, may the gods help him, Hob is tempted. There is very little he would not do for the man, but this—this is wrong.
“We can’t, Ollie,” he says gently. “And we need you here. We can’t win this war without you—last I checked, no one else in this army can conjure fireballs, or—or blast our enemies to pieces with a mere thought.”
“That’s the problem, love. Every battle we fight, we decimate the enemy. I leave nothing but destruction in my wake, and I don’t want to—I can’t do this anymore.” Ollie sounds so distraught, and it’s a blade through Hob’s heart to witness him like this.
“Don’t you care about your troops? About your kingdom? Your brother’s kingdom?” Hob’s voice is small and trembling as he makes a final, desperate plea for him to reconsider. “Don’t you—don’t you care about...me?”
Ollie blinks at him with wet, shining eyes as he inhales sharply. “You’re right, my lad. I care. Of course I care. Forget I said anything. Let’s get some sleep; we’ve a big day ahead of us tomorrow.” He gathers Hob closer and runs a broad, calloused hand down his back.
Hob nestles into his hold, but he cannot sleep. His mind races as their conversation plays over and over in his head. If there was ever any doubt that he loves Ollie, it’s gone now—he was so close to saying yes, to leaving this all behind, and damn the consequences. But it’s deeply unsettling to see this side of the man he loves; Hob understands, he empathizes—he’s seen the horrors of war too, and it’s not as if he wants this for the rest of his life. But to do what Ollie spoke of… How can that be anything but cowardice? Still, the simple fact that Hob didn’t storm out of the tent in disgust at the idea, that he’s still here in Ollie’s arms, only proves the depth of his affection for the man. He is, for better or worse, irrevocably in love. He finally falls into a fitful slumber just before the first embers of dawn ignite the sky.
☼☼☼
Hob awakes with a gasp, his heart thudding furiously as the hazy remnants of a nightmare drift from his mind like clouds of smoke from a scorched battlefield. Bleary-eyed, he glances around the tent.
He is alone.
His stomach drops as he spies a scroll of fine, soft paper tucked beneath the pillow beside him. He takes it with a shaking hand and slowly unfurls it. A freezing wave of horror washes over him, sweeping him up and threatening to drown him as he begins to read:
Hob—
I never meant for it to go this way. Please know that I do this only because I must. This war—all war—is cruel and pointless, and I am so tired of fighting. Our lives are but fleeting things, and I cannot have my time on this mortal plane defined by bloodshed and murder. I am sorry, Hob. I truly am. I told you before that this is no act of cowardice; perhaps I was wrong, for the fear of losing you consumes my thoughts. To watch you meet your death in battle would be tantamount to cutting you down with my own blade. I wish you could have come with me, my dear lad. We could have had such grand adventures together. If you despise me for the rest of your days, I would not begrudge you that. But I beg of you, know this: I love—
Hob does not bother to finish reading. He tears the letter in half with a growl and crushes it in his grip. A shuddering sigh escapes him, and he clenches his eyes shut against the burning tears that spill forth.
Foggy images float, unbidden, across the insides of his eyelids—a cherished memory, one that will forevermore be tainted, of Ollie sitting beside Hob in a dim halo of candlelight. A blazing heat down the side of his leg where their thighs press together. Ollie’s calloused finger tracing over the symbols in the book on his lap, showing Hob how to harness their arcane magic. Reading and writing are not necessary skills for a common soldier, but Hob had expressed interest in the few battered tomes that the general had brought with him on their first campaign together, and so Ollie had dedicated many long evenings to teaching him. That he would leave Hob with this note—it only adds insult to injury. Hob picks up the pillow, presses it to his face, and lets out a long, muffled scream of anguish.
He is dizzy with rage. His chest heaves and his vision whites out as he leaps from the bed, hastily dons his gear, and storms out of the tent, where he barrels headfirst into Matthew the second he steps outside.
“Gadling—whoa—have you seen—” the squire begins, grabbing Hob by the shoulders to steady them both.
“He’s gone,” Hob interrupts. His tone is flat and harsh, and he hopes that his face does not betray any of the myriad emotions that are currently competing for what’s left of his heart.
Matthew stares at him, slack-jawed. “Gone?”
“Gone,” Hob repeats as he pushes past Matthew and heads for the wagons at the other edge of the camp, where soldiers are already gathering their weapons. He turns back to glance at the squire. “Are you just going to stand there? We have a war to win.” Matthew nods and follows him, though it’s clear he’s holding back questions that Hob is not ready to answer just now.
☼☼☼
Hob couldn’t say what happened after that—everything was a blurry whirl of blood and dirt, steel and leather, smoke and gunpowder. The screams of soldiers and horses; the ghastly, guttural howls of bat-winged demons; the snarls of gruesome, misshapen beasts—all form a cacophonous drumfire that throbs in his head and drowns out all thought.
Somehow, they had emerged victorious. Lucifer had surrendered, and the troops had pronounced Hob a hero and paraded him about the camp. Hob has no idea what he even did—evidently, in his blind fury, he had viciously fought single-handedly against the Morningstar, but the details of the battle elude him. When he’d returned to his senses, he had been standing in the wreckage of the battlefield, ankle-deep in blood and viscera, surrounded by his fallen comrades. They had lost many of their soldiers, but Hob had stumbled away with only a few scrapes and a broken heart.
All but Hob are in high spirits as the army rides back to the capital. Hob can’t see how they consider this a victory; it’s as though they haven’t noticed that their general is missing and they’re returning home with less than half of their men. Fragments of his last conversation with Ollie echo through his mind. “I leave nothing but destruction in my wake.” Hob scoffs bitterly. Well, he was right about that. The destruction carries on with or without Olethros, and he’s only increased it tenfold by leaving.
Hob considers going after him, taking a horse and stealing away from camp in the night, but what’s the use? Ollie took his swiftest steed, Barnabas, and regardless of whichever direction he took off in, he’s long gone by now. Hob wouldn’t know where to begin looking, and even if he were to find him, it’s not as if they could go back to the way things were. And besides, he doubts he’d get the opportunity. The other soldiers won’t give Hob a moment’s peace; he can’t even take a piss in private without some stupid sod asking him yet again to recount how he defeated Lucifer (how many times does he have to say “I have no bloody idea” before it sinks in?).
They arrive in the Citadel of the Dreaming after what felt like a century of trudging across the countryside, through villages and towns where everyone greeted them with jubilant cheers and children gazed up in awe and reverence. Hob could not muster up the energy to grin and wave at them, as he’d done when they rode out to the border weeks ago (or was it hours ago, or decades? Time has lost all meaning to Hob as he flounders in the fog of despair).
As they pass through the Gates of Horn and Ivory and into the citadel proper, Hob recalls the first time he had seen the capital. It was when he’d come to join the army, along with a throng of other fresh-faced young soldiers—most of whom, Hob surmises, are currently being devoured by vultures. He had stared in open-mouthed astonishment at the magnificent palace, with spires reaching up to the heavens, and the three guardians perched above its colossal doors—a wyvern, a gryphon, and a hippogriff, all carved from marble and enchanted to move and speak. Hob has never been inside the castle; the closest he’s come was standing on the bridge, held up by gargantuan stone hands, that connects the palace to the surrounding town. The place had inspired him, filled him with wonder and hope, and reaffirmed his resolve to serve his king and country.
Now, as he crosses the bridge again, he does not even look up at the sights that had once captivated him so. He feels like he’s being marched to his death, despite the raucous fanfare and the blood red poppy petals (the symbol of King Morpheus, depicted on the royal crest) tossed at his feet by rosy-cheeked maidens.
All he wants to do is crawl into a dark corner of the nearest tavern to lick his wounds, but all eyes are on Hob as he is ushered into an immense, opulently appointed hall crowded with courtiers who look to be well into their cups already. Someone—a knight, much higher-ranking than Hob, whose face he recognizes but whom he couldn’t name if his life depended on it—is putting an arm around his shoulder and regaling the lords and ladies with tales of Hob’s feats on the battlefield. Hob tries his best to bow and nod and smile, but the droning chatter of their ceaseless questions is like a barrage of arrows in his chest. He comprehends none of it, and he does not even have the presence of mind to politely excuse himself before wandering off in search of wine, or ale, or anything in which he might drown his sorrows.
He settles into a spot at the side of the hall with a flagon of mead, hoping to avoid more attention on himself, but he is dimly aware of the steady procession of people who approach to shake his hand and thank him for his service to the king. Later, he will recall the few who make any impression:
For one, there is the Grand Duchess Lucienne, a handsome, bespectacled woman who is apparently the royal librarian and a trusted advisor to the king. Then there is her lady in waiting, Nuala—a shy, slight, elfin girl whom Hob had seen earlier, blushing and giggling while she sat on the lap of an athletically built woman and tugged playfully at her black-and-white streaked braid. Lord Gilbert, the Duke of Fiddler’s Green where Hob hails from, had greeted him especially enthusiastically, with heartfelt thanks and a bone-crushing handshake. He remembers Lady Gault, mainly for her sumptuously embroidered gown—enchanted to show swirling, spiraling visions of the cosmos. She stood in stark contrast to the Duke of Nightmare, Lord Corin, a dashing blond with an uncannily wide grin, dressed all in ivory and cream. Hob had noticed him earlier too, huddled in a heated discussion with the slimy-looking Lord Burgess and his son.
He recalls the comforting smile of Princess Teleute, whom he had actually seen just after the battle—a renowned healer, she tends to the soldiers’ wounds and eases the suffering of those who die for her kingdom. She is the only one of the king’s siblings in attendance tonight. Olethros’ absence is, of course, a hot topic at the moment, and the youngest princess is apparently away at school. The eldest, Potmos, renounced his rightful claim to the crown to live as a monk—he is a seer, constantly besieged by visions of the future, and it’s said that he rarely leaves the monastery where he has dwelt for decades. Hob does not know or care where the other members of the royal family are, and at the moment he can’t even remember their names or how many of them there are.
Curiously, the king himself is nowhere to be seen. Apparently, his majesty couldn’t be bothered to make an appearance and greet the people who fought in his war, for his kingdom. People who loved him—who loved his brother—enough to face the wrath of Hell for them. Hob huffs into his drink.
Eventually, the novelty of meeting the humble peasant who defeated Lucifer seems to wear off, and Hob is finally, blessedly ignored. As he steadily drinks himself into a stupor, he catches snippets of conversations about the cowardly, traitorous general and the brave soldier who stepped up to lead them to a miraculous victory. He wants to stand up and shout at them, to grab them by their stupid frilly collars, put his dagger to their throats and dare them to say it again. None of them knew him like Hob did, they have no fucking right—but he only stares down at his boots and sighs. He simply doesn’t have any fight left in him.
The atmosphere in the room is suddenly stifling. The crowd, the music, the roars of laughter and revelry...it’s maddening. Someone places a plate in front of him, piled high with roast venison, herbs, cheeses, and exotic delicacies that Hob could not name. After months of living on meager army rations, he ought to enjoy it. But one look at the feast sets his stomach roiling, and it’s so hot here in the great hall, and he can’t breathe—
Hardly anyone notices the loud scrape of Hob’s chair across the stone floor as he shambles gracelessly to his feet, sloshing mead down his front as he turns on his heel and makes for the nearest door.
He finds himself in an empty courtyard, where he leans against a wall and gulps down lungfuls of cool, still night air. The noise of the party is muted and distant, and Hob sinks to the ground where he stands. As he peers up at the stars with tear-glazed eyes, another bittersweet memory floats to the forefront of his consciousness. It had been a crisp summer night, just like this one, and he and Ollie had lain in a grassy meadow—still green and flourishing, not scorched and riddled with smoking craters as it had been when they left it the next day—and looked up at the night sky. When he closes his eyes, Hob can still hear Ollie’s words, can still feel them booming through his chest as though he is once more bundled safely in his lover’s arms.
“I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend… I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Wars come, and wars go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and kingdoms and empires are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend.”
Hob hadn’t known what Ollie meant at the time, but he had been enamored of the poetry in his words. Now, though… Now he sees them for the sign that they were. If only they could have kept pretending. If only Hob had woken up that night and stopped him. If only Ollie had woken him and asked him again to come with him… Hob thinks he might have said yes. This is all his fault, he thinks. How can they treat him like a hero after all that he’s done, after all that he’s failed to do?
Hob is startled from his rumination as something soft brushes against his hand. He looks over to see a beautiful black cat with a sleek, glossy coat sitting beside him, twitching its tail and tickling the back of his hand. It has strikingly blue eyes (like Ollie’s, he thinks with a stab of grief) that glitter in the starlight and suggest a level of intelligence far beyond that of a mere beast.
“Hello there, little fellow. Aren’t you gorgeous?” Hob murmurs, holding out his hand. The cat sniffs it before rubbing the side of its face along his palm with a sonorous purr. “I’m afraid I haven’t got any food for you, but I’m glad to keep you company. You’re much nicer than those rich wankers inside, aren’t you?” The cat trills in agreement and blinks slowly at him, then butts its head against his palm. Hob scratches its chin as the cat purrs enthusiastically.
There is a sudden commotion from inside—a deafening thud and an ear-shattering clangor of breaking glass, followed by shrieks of laughter. The cat hisses at the disruption and scampers away into a hedge. Never let it be said that noblemen don’t know how to have a good time, Hob thinks with a roll of his eyes.
Hob sighs and leans back against the cool stone, draining the last of his mead. He sits there, lost in thought and mired in regret, as the party grows ever more lively on the other side of the wall. Eventually, his arse goes numb and he urgently needs to take a piss, so he rises on shaky feet and stumbles into the manicured garden in the center of the courtyard. The hedges cast menacing black shadows, and Hob is startled more than once by statues that seem a bit too lifelike in the dim light of the crescent moon. Fortunately, the place seems to be deserted—Hob doesn’t even see any sign of the cat—and he finds a suitable bush behind which he can discreetly relieve himself.
Afterwards, he traipses towards the marble fountain in the middle of the courtyard, wobbling and dragging his feet as he goes. When he peers around the hedge, his heart nearly stops—someone (who was definitely not there just a moment ago) is sitting on the edge of the pool, dragging their fingers through the placid water. Hob rubs his eyes and notes the golden diadem set with an impressive ruby that glints in the moonlight, as well as the black velvet cloak embroidered with enchanted flames that dance along the hem. Fuck. Well, that solves the mystery of where the king is tonight.
Hob falls to his knees and lowers his head, praying that his appearance belies his intoxicated state. “Your Majesty. My deepest apologies. I did not see you.”
“Arise, Robert Gadling.” Hob shivers at the sound of his voice—it’s soft and deep and melodious, so unlike Ollie’s thundering growl. When Hob looks up, the king is standing before him with his hands behind his back. Hob has never seen the king up close before, and he breaks out in goosebumps as he stares up at him, wide-eyed. The man is absolutely breathtaking, and all the indignation that Hob was feeling earlier evaporates as he drinks in the king’s otherworldly beauty.
He looks nothing like Ollie, but he is just as beautiful (more beautiful, supplies a treacherous voice in the back of his mind)—his only resemblance to his brother is his stunningly blue eyes. If Ollie’s eyes are a clear summer sky, then King Morpheus’ are a frozen lake in winter—icy and impenetrable, with profound secrets hidden in their crystalline depths. His alabaster skin has an ethereal glow to it and it looks so soft that Hob must physically restrain himself from reaching up to cup his cheek and kiss his full, crimson lips. His hair is the deepest dark of night, falling around his shoulders in lustrous waves that call to mind the black cat that Hob met earlier. Indeed, the king has a rather feline air about him in all respects; he is lithe and graceful, with an aloofness that suggests his affection must be earned. Hob would do anything to earn it (and the piece of his heart that belongs to Ollie screams at the betrayal).
“I see my reputation precedes me, Your Highness,” Hob mumbles, rising to his feet and ducking into a quick bow.
“Indeed. It is well that I met you here tonight, for I wish to speak with you.” Hob’s face falls, and a prickle of dread creeps down the back of his neck. The king’s tone is gentle, but his face is neutral, as stony and inscrutable as the statues that haunt the courtyard. Perhaps he knows that Olethros’ disappearance was Hob’s fault. Perhaps this entire celebration was a ruse, perhaps he is to be imprisoned or exiled or—
King Morpheus halts his spiraling thoughts with a placating wave of his hand. “Peace, Master Gadling. I wish, first and foremost, to commend you for your bravery in battle. What you have done is no modest feat; you have restored peace to the kingdom, and you shall be rewarded handsomely. You are to be knighted on the morrow.”
“Oh—I—er, thank you, Your Highness. Er—please, call me Hob.” Hob can feels his cheeks reddening as the king nods graciously. Knighted? Really? He was not expecting to hear that, and he cannot accept such an honor; perhaps if he had managed to talk Ollie into staying—that would have been a feat worthy of knighthood. But it would be a grave offense to turn it down, and Hob is not sure what he should say or do now, and—any remaining vestiges of coherent thought dissipate from his brain when he looks up to see the king staring at him with a tiny smile on his impossibly beautiful face. When Hob meets his eyes, the king quickly glances down and Hob thinks he detects a hint of pink blooming on his high, perfect cheekbones. Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad. Hob recognizes the feeling that’s currently seeping into his blood and reviving his trampled heart—it’s exactly the way he’d felt when he first met Ollie. Like he would gladly devote his entire being to the man before him—worse, he thinks he’d willingly wait for centuries just to kiss the king’s hand. He’d build temples to him and worship at his feet and—oh, Hob is in trouble, isn’t he? He’s always been one to fall hard and fast, and he’s never been able to separate lust from love, but this is wrong. So soon after Ollie left, and his own brother no less? But Hob finds that his shame does nothing to smother the passion that threatens to grow to an inferno within him.
“Hob,” the king repeats softly, his smile broadening almost imperceptibly. Then he schools his features, once more a mask of regal detachment. “There is another matter that I would discuss with you. After my brother—after Prince Olethros’ untimely departure, it has become known throughout the realm and beyond that the Endless Kingdom is now without a general to lead its army. There have been whispers that he has defected to Hell, or that he was captured by the Morningstar.”
Hob clenches his teeth and nods, willing his face to remain impassive. He cannot, of course, tell the king the truth, but Hob hopes that the other man would not think so little of his brother as to believe that.
“Needless to say, those rumors are just that—rumors.” Hob relaxes a fraction as the king continues, “However, the entire affair has made the kingdom appear weak. It would doubtless appear to outsiders that there is...unrest. In the royal family. The chances of an assassination attempt are high, and I have been advised that there is a need for. Increased security. In the palace.” King Morpheus does not sound very enthusiastic about that idea, and Hob doesn’t blame him, although it does sound sensible when it’s put that way.
“Indeed, Sire,” Hob nods. He’s not sure where the king is going with this, nor what it has to do with him.
The king seems to struggle for words momentarily, and when he speaks again his voice is stilted and awkward, a jarring reminder that he is a mere mortal and not the divine, angelic creature made of dreams and stardust that he appears to be.
“I have no need of—” he begins, then sighs, shakes his head, and starts over. “I have a loyal and skilled bodyguard, Dame Jessamy. Until now, her service has been more than sufficient. However. My closest advisors, as well as my sister, have impressed upon me that it would be. Wise. To employ another who is...capable. Of defending the crown. Should the need arise.” He meets Hob’s eyes again, and Hob is so mesmerized that it takes him several long moments to understand what the king is saying.
“Oh—I—Your Majesty, you are too kind.” Hob bows low in hopes of hiding the bewilderment that undoubtedly shows on his face. He wants to tell the king he’s not worthy, he wants to throw himself into his arms and kiss him, he wants to tell him to take his knighthood and shove it, he wants to run and hide, he wants—he wants a break from it all, honestly. And staying in the palace (so near the king, you would see him every day, that treacherous voice pipes up) sounds a lot less exhausting than heading back to the barracks and waiting for whatever stupid war he’d be sent off to fight in next.
“It would be my honor to defend you, Sire. But—” before Hob can stop himself (damn his big, drunken mouth), he blurts out, “it’s just that—I have been trained for the battlefield, My Lord; I fear I am too rough for palace life. And I can’t even do magic, and...well, Oll—er, the general—was my...my mentor, and if there are rumors of, er, unrest as you said, then would it not arouse further suspicion for you to take me on as your bodyguard?”
The king’s expression turns sour, his rose petal lips twisting into a scowl. For a moment, the glamour that had so enthralled Hob falls, and he sees before him no dazzling fey beauty—he sees King Morpheus in all his cold, terrible glory, his eyes boring into Hob like he means to reduce him to a pile of ash (and at this moment, Hob rather wishes he would).
“You would do well not to ask foolish questions, Master Gadling. I do not know how General Olethros comported himself among his ranks, but I will not have my authority questioned. As for your qualifications, you saved the kingdom; your competence is not in dispute. You will report to Dame Jessamy immediately after the knighting ceremony.”
Hob bows again, chastened but unafraid. “Of course. I beg your pardon, Highness. And I humbly thank you for your grace and benevolence.” The king says nothing, merely nods and turns to leave. The ire that had burned in Hob before meeting the king is beginning to flare up once more, and it’s locked in battle against the multitude of other emotions currently raging through him—shame, guilt, regret, lust, and (gods help him) love. But all of those are unexpectedly defeated by sheer, foolhardy audacity.
“Your Majesty?” The king stops in his tracks but does not turn around to face Hob. “Will you—er, are any measures being taken to find the prince?”
King Morpheus turns towards him, and Hob flinches, expecting the worst. But the king’s eyes brim with unshed tears, and he looks profoundly weary. “My brother had his reasons for leaving. He desires his privacy, and I respect his wishes. We will not find him. Goodnight, Master Gadling.” He turns to leave once again, glimmering flames trailing in his wake as his cloak billows behind him.
Hob freezes where he stands, dumbstruck. He doesn’t know what kind of response he was anticipating, but that was certainly not it. He’s getting the impression that the “unrest” in the royal family is more than a mere rumor, and that it runs deeper than he ever guessed based on what Ollie had told him of his family. Hob is beginning to understand Ollie’s disloyalty; with a family like this, who needs enemies? Ollie, my love, I’m so sorry, he thinks, missing his lover desperately. He is unsure what exactly he’s apologizing for—everything, he supposes.
How can the king be so callous, so cruel? Was the tenderness that Hob saw in his eyes minutes ago just a trick of the light, a mirage brought on by wishful thinking and foolish lust? Ah, but it’s more than lust, try as he might to deny it. The king is a maddening enigma, as frustrating as he is beautiful. Hob heaves a tremendous sigh. He may have brought peace to the kingdom, but he suspects his own turmoil is just beginning.
☼☼☼
Months into his new vocation, Sir Robert Gadling finds himself bored and restless much of the time. He is still heartbroken, still angry, still wallowing in regret—there’s plenty of time to wallow when one spends most of their days standing outside closed doors and staring at empty walls. He still finds the king disagreeable, even if he is ludicrously attracted to him. And despite his frequent irritation with the man, Hob still finds himself falling in love.
He doesn’t know what to make of the king; ordinarily, he ranges from politely distant at best to disdainful at worst when he is in Hob’s presence. And he’s so unattainable, so laughably far out of Hob’s reach (but so was Ollie, says the little voice that seems to grow louder and more insistent every day); Hob feels utterly pathetic as he pines for him. But then there are other times—usually when they’re alone—when the king seems kind, almost fond, like he was when they first met, before Hob opened his stupid mouth. When he had called him Hob, something he has not done since. It’s Sir Robert now, as they must maintain proper decorum in court (but oh, how lovely his true name had sounded on the king’s lips—Hob revisits the memory more often than he’d like to admit). Still, Hob is certain he is not imagining the way the backs of their hands sometimes brush when he escorts the king about the palace, nor the way he catches the king staring at him, then blushing and looking away when Hob smiles. Then, in the blink of an eye, he’s back to his usual frosty, aloof self. It’s adorable, and it’s aggravating, and perhaps it’s all some twisted game that King Morpheus is playing with him, but Hob lives for those little stolen moments.
Perhaps this whole state of affairs is a game meant to drive Hob mad—a punishment for allowing Olethros to leave. For the life of a royal bodyguard is even less glamorous than it sounds; it mostly consists of standing around for hours on end, and Hob itches for something, anything exciting to happen. Hell, he’d even welcome an assassination attempt, just to give him something to do. The king rarely leaves his chambers, and when he does it’s usually only to speak privately with Lady Lucienne, so the walks to and from the library are often the only exercise he gets all day. He counts himself lucky when he gets to stand behind the king at meals (on the rare occasions when he takes them outside his rooms, that is), and even when he stands at the side of the throne for the long, tedious hours when the king receives audiences.
That bit, Hob must admit, has been rather educational, and he’s learned a thing or two about diplomacy. For one, he’s learned that it’s a load of horse shit. The disputes that the king deals with, the wars that his subjects petition for—they’re all so petty, so bloody stupid, that Hob is beginning to see why Ollie left. These dukes and counts and all the other posh knobs who prance about the court are so blatantly corrupt; it’s no wonder Ollie couldn’t bear to fight for their ignoble causes any longer. Yes, Hob is still angry with his former lover, and yes, his wounded heart is locked in a constant tug-of-war between Ollie and Morpheus. But time and newfound understanding have caused the blistering rage that he felt when Ollie left to diminish to a dull ache. He bears no ill will towards the prince, and he hopes that he is safe, wherever he is. Hob recalls the king’s words that first night: “My brother had his reasons for leaving. He desires his privacy...” Hob does not know the history behind those words, but he is slowly, grudgingly coming around to the king’s way of thinking. And perhaps his memory deceives him, but when he recalls the king’s face, his voice when he spoke—Hob thinks there had been a touch of envy in those words.
For that is the other thing Hob has learned: that the king is being crushed under the burden of his duties. He tries so hard to be fair and virtuous, to act in accordance with justice, but it’s plain to see that it’s killing him. He looks so tired and miserable all the time, but he is unwaveringly dedicated to his work and his kingdom, at the expense of his own health and happiness. This whole experience has been both enlightening and disillusioning, and Hob’s heart aches for his poor, stoic king (even if he is a bit of a prick). He finds himself thinking he’d like to ask King Morpheus to run away with him, to leave all this behind and be free from the shackles of their allotted roles—and yes, he is fully aware of the irony of that, more to his shame.
It’s a foolish thought, he knows. He’s making an awful lot of assumptions, and perhaps he is only projecting his own desires onto the king. For despite being his personal bodyguard and being within twenty paces of the king at any given time, Hob knows next to nothing about the man. He knows about the king, yes, but he knows nothing of Morpheus the man. He has surmised that his favorite color is black, that he likes to read, and that he prefers solitude over the company of others (save for his elder sister and Lady Lucienne), but he has not gleaned much else. No one else around the palace seems to be comfortable talking about him; it’s said that the king can be vengeful and even downright cruel, and none of the other palace staff are willing to risk being sent to the dungeons to satisfy Hob’s curiosity. The only ones who don’t seem to be afraid of him are Lady Lucienne and Dame Jessamy, although the latter finds it funnier to keep Hob guessing and not answer any of his questions.
Hob has gleaned that the king can do magic, but he has no idea what his abilities are. Ollie could manipulate fire, Princess Teleute is a healer, and Prince Potmos is a seer, so King Morpheus’ powers could be anything. One of the younger members of the royal family can purportedly ensnare anyone’s heart just by looking at them, and Hob is not convinced that the king does not have the same ability. He is torn between being intensely curious about the king and intensely annoyed with himself for that curiosity. The king doesn’t want him (doesn’t he, though?), and Hob knows he is a fool for loving him. Perhaps this is all some divine punishment, some cosmic retribution for all his misdeeds. Perhaps this love is its own punishment; it’s probably only fair that he do penance for the treason he has committed in his heart.
Hob blinks and shakes his head. That’s probably enough wallowing for today, he thinks as he stretches his aching neck. How long has he been standing here, lost in thought? And when did that bloody beast get here? Apparently he’s been locked in a staring contest with the black cat—the same one from his first night here, he’s sure of it—for an indeterminate amount of time, but he doesn’t remember seeing it walk into the corridor.
The cat is another little maddening thing about this job. Early on, Hob would try to coax it over to him whenever he saw it. He even started keeping scraps of food in his pocket in the hopes of winning the creature over, as he somehow had the first time they met, just for some small diversion from the tedium of his days. But the cat is just as skittish, aloof, and beautiful as the king (surely it must be his cat, Hob thinks, though he’s never seen the beast in the man’s company), and it has kept a cautious distance from Hob ever since that night. Nevertheless, the creature still seems to be awfully interested in him; nearly every day, Hob sees the cat sauntering about the halls and corridors, and it often stops a few paces away to sit and observe him with unblinking blue eyes. At some point it stopped being cute and started being rather bothersome; Hob would never admit to being so perturbed by a bloody house cat, but he’s never seen such an arrogant, condescending animal, nor any as stubborn as himself.
Now, Hob does his best to ignore the feline interloper, but it seems hell-bent on taunting him. It’s just sitting there with a smug look on its stupid, furry face, and the frustration that has been building in Hob suddenly bubbles over.
“Oi!” he hisses, jabbing the butt of his halberd in the cat’s general direction in a vain attempt to shoo it away. “Piss off, you flea-bitten little bastard!”
But the cat merely yawns and languidly licks the back of its paw before slowly turning and stalking away with its tail held high. Hob has a strange urge to follow it; he couldn’t say why, but he feels oddly drawn to the beast in spite of himself. It would be so easy to wander off behind it, and he’s desperate for a reprieve from the monotony. He doubts the king will leave his chambers today, so it’s not as though he will be missed. And yet he finds that he cannot will himself to leave his post. It’s not loyalty to the crown, nor pride in his work that keeps Hob tethered to the spot. No, it’s his foolish devotion to the king himself, his pathetic love for a man who will never see him as anything more than another nameless, faceless palace guard. Hob groans, exasperated with himself.
☼☼☼
That evening, he vents his vexation to his fellow bodyguard. “How do you tolerate it, Jess?” he asks as he tugs his boots off with a sigh of relief and flops down in front of the roaring fire. Somehow, standing in one place all day is more exhausting than marching through miles of rocky terrain, though Hob is grateful that he at least gets to sleep indoors at the end of it. “All the standing around, waiting for something to happen?”
“Dunno,” she shrugs, pulling on her bracers. “I’m used to it, I suppose. I haven’t been to war, like you have. I grew up in the palace, and I’ve known the king since we were lads. He’s done a lot for me. I’m just glad I can repay him in some way.”
“He’s such a twat, though,” Hob mutters, stretching and wiggling his sore toes.
Jessamy cackles with laughter. “Careful now, that’s treason.”
Hob scoffs. “You’ve called him much worse than that.”
“Aye, but he likes me,” Jessamy smirks at him in the mirror as she deftly arranges her hair, weaving white strands over black to form a neat braid.
Hob likes Jessamy too. He’s grateful to have a friend in what would otherwise be a miserably dull and lonely existence. She showed him the ropes of the palace guard life, and she’s been wonderfully empathetic about his struggles with his transformation; Hob was thrilled to learn that she’s had the enchantment done as well. He’s never had a friend who was like himself in that way, and it’s a great comfort to have found a kindred spirit. The two of them share a well-appointed suite of rooms in the palace (the nicest place Hob has ever lived, by far; the job is not totally without its perks), but they don’t spend much time together. Jessamy takes the night watch, while Hob guards the king during the day. Hob is glad of the brief minutes they get to spend together when one is ending their shift and the other is starting.
“I don’t think he likes me much,” Hob muses, trying to sound unaffected. “He made it very clear when we met that he didn’t want another bodyguard. But whatever Lady Lucienne says goes, right?”
Jessamy merely hums distractedly as she laces up her boots. Hob rolls over on the plush fur rug in front of the hearth and looks at her for a moment before continuing, “Hey, Jess?”
“Hmm?”
“Are the king and Lady Lucienne...you know…?”
Jessamy pauses in the middle of tying her bootlace and stares at Hob incredulously for a beat, then bursts into shrieks of laughter. “Oh, gods,” she pants, “that’s a good one, mate.” Hob raises his eyebrows, silently imploring her to elaborate. “Oh, you’re serious. What, haven’t you seen Luce with Lady Gault?”
Hob looks down and focuses intently on tracing patterns in the fur with his finger while trying to bite back the smile of relief that blooms on his face. “Well, I don’t know, do I? I thought…” he trails off. “And you and he never…?”
Her face twists into an amused grimace. “Gods, no! What’s gotten into you, Hobsie?” Jessamy’s sharp grin softens as understanding dawns on her. “Oh, Hob—”
“Don’t—” he groans, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his face.
“What, I think it’s sweet! I could put in a good word, you know—”
“Don’t,” Hob says again, louder and more emphatic. “Please, Jess, don’t say anything. Especially not to...him.”
“Right, well I’ll just say this. I think he likes you more than he lets on.” Hob peers up at her from behind his sleeve. Her smile is genuine and Hob doesn’t detect any mischief in her words. Even so, he’s eager to change the subject.
“Saw that blasted cat again today. That thing is a menace, always strutting around like it owns the place,” he grumbles.
Jessamy once again erupts into laughter, while Hob stares at her, puzzled. “Gods above,” she gasps between giggles, “What did I do to deserve such a thick-skulled bunkmate?” She shakes her head and shuffles to the door, armor clinking as she goes.
“What?” Hob calls after her. “What’s so funny?”
“Better if you figure it out yourself, mate,” she winks before shutting the door behind her.
“The fuck was that about?” Hob mumbles under his breath. But he’s too tired now to contemplate the matter further. He stretches out on the rug and shuts his eyes, savoring the warmth of the fire as it settles into his weary bones.
☼☼☼
The following night, Hob finds himself stationed outside the king’s chambers once again. Jessamy had pestered him until he agreed to take over a portion of her watch; apparently, she has a midnight rendezvous with Nuala. Hob is not pleased about losing sleep, but Jessamy promised it would only be an hour or two, and he figures it’s the least he can do for the only friend he’s got in this lonely new life.
He yawns and blinks, fighting to stay alert. He’s about to nod off where he stands, when he jolts awake at a sound somewhere down the corridor—a faint rustle of fabric and a scrape of metal on stone. He moves into a defensive stance, but he sees nothing in the darkness.
“Who goes there?” he calls, barely above a whisper. Only silence greets him in return. He is certain that he heard something, though, and he is about to follow the noise when a low, guttural growl sounds behind him. His blood freezes in his veins as he whirls around to see—what else?—that bloody cat. Its eyes gleam like stars in the darkness and its inky fur stands on end. It hisses sharply before launching itself at Hob.
“Fuck!” He quickly sidesteps the cat, only to be met with a hand over his mouth and the sting of a cold blade against his throat. He wriggles out of the hold, grabbing the assailant’s dagger and twisting their wrist behind their back. He swiftly throws them to the ground and plants his knee on their back, then grips a handful of flaxen hair and yanks their head up to put their own blade to their throat.
In the dim light of the torch next to the door, Hob recognizes the attacker—Lord Corin, who even now grins a little too widely for a man about to meet his death.
“I see the royal pussy has a new guard dog,” the duke sneers, panting for breath. Hob turns to where Corin is looking and sees the cat staring intently at the blond.
“What—” Hob begins, but finds himself suddenly speechless.
The cat is somehow...changing. It moves like a shadow, elongating and contorting into an unmistakably human form. Hob trails his eyes upwards, taking in the black-clad figure. When he sees the face of the man above him, he nearly drops the dagger.
It’s the king. What. The fuck.
Hob gapes in astonishment. The king smirks down at the duke, tipping his chin up further with the toe of his boot. “Lord Corin. I am surprised. Not only that my sibling took so long to send you after me, but that your method is so. Careless.” Corin only growls in reply. “Sir Robert. Do not kill him.”
“But—Your Majesty—” Hob splutters, but the king holds up a hand to silence him. Sibling? He thinks. Surely not…
“Guards!” King Morpheus calls, and within moments, two guards (Cain and Abel, Hob recalls vaguely) flank the king. “Escort Lord Corin to the dungeon. I will see to him in the morning.” Cain and Abel nod, and Hob sheepishly moves aside to allow them access to the duke.
As Corin is dragged away, Hob can only stare dumbly down the corridor, listening to his halfhearted jeers at the guards. He catches something about Burgess, and he thinks he hears the name Epithumia (ah, that sibling—so the king’s family is plotting against him. Hob’s heart breaks for him at the notion), but his mind is reeling too fast to truly take in any of the shocking revelations that he’s been struck with tonight.
When Hob turns back to resume his post (and how the bloody hell is he supposed to do that after all that’s just happened?), he is startled once more as he stands face-to-face with the king. He is gazing at Hob with an unreadable expression, his head tilted and his lips slightly parted. He’s standing so, so close—it would be so easy for Hob to reach out and brush his thumb over that perfect, marble jaw… It’s a struggle to remain still and silent, when adrenaline courses through his body, and he feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin, and his heart is screaming, and—and the king is a fucking cat?!
“Sir Robert.” The king halts his racing thoughts, his rich, sonorous baritone drowning out the cries of ‘what?’ and ‘how?’ and ‘why?’ that swell to a deafening crescendo in Hob’s head.
“My Lord.” Hob bows low, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Are you alright?”
“I am. Thanks to you.” When Hob stands, the king is smiling gently at him, the way he did on the night they met. All the chaos, all the panic of the last few minutes melts away at the sight. It was all worth it, and Hob would fend off a thousand more would-be assassins just to see that smile.
Hob beams back at him broadly. “Only doing my duty, Highness.”
The king looks down at his feet and fiddles with the sleeve of his black damask dressing gown (which seems to be the only thing he’s wearing, Hob notes with a thrill, failing to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly upon seeing the sliver of moon-white chest peeking from behind the deep neckline). He appears to struggle for words, and when he meets Hob’s eyes his face is once again blank and dispassionate.
“I—I would speak with you. In my chambers.”
Hob’s smile falters and his heart sinks as the din of confusion resumes roaring through his mind. “Of course, Sire.” He bows again and follows King Morpheus, shutting the intricately carved door behind him.
Hob has stood on the other side of this door every day for the past six months, but he has never actually been inside the king’s chambers. He has often wondered what the place looks like, envisioned how the king spends his time in the privacy of his inner sanctum. He had conjured up images of the king, sprawled naked on a lavishly upholstered settee, a gold-edged book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Seeing it in actuality, the room contrasts starkly with Hob’s imaginings. It is far less ostentatious than he would have guessed, given the splendor of the rest of the palace. It appears that the king lives and works in one large room, rather than a suite of apartments. The décor is luxurious, yes—the large bed is draped in midnight blue silk, and the floor is covered with finely woven carpets—but the place is rather bare and spartan, all things considered. The only furnishings in the cavernous chamber are the bed, a large chest, a writing desk with a well-made but simple wooden chair, several bookshelves overflowing with yellowed folios and worn codices, and a single armchair by the fireplace. The room is lit only by a low-burning candle on the desk and the silvery moonlight that streams through the windows. An acute sense of loneliness infuses the place, and Hob aches to take his poor, beleaguered king into his arms and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that neither of them need be alone any longer.
Hob stands uncertainly by the door, unsure of what is expected of him at present. King Morpheus moves silently to the window and stands with his back to Hob, his hands clasped behind him. He says nothing for a long moment, and Hob swallows down the dread that burns like bile in his throat. He hasn’t the slightest clue what the king wants of him tonight, and he fears—well, he doesn’t know what he fears, but it can’t be a good sign, can it, to be called into the king’s private chamber after an attempted assassination?
Finally, the king breaks the silence. “Where is Jessamy?” he asks, his tone cool and stolid.
Ah. Right. “She asked me to take her place tonight, My Lord. She—she did not tell me why.”
The king says nothing, only hums in acknowledgment before resuming his observation of the night sky. Hob is growing impatient. What is going on? Is that all the king wanted to ask of him? What does he want from Hob? All the shock of tonight’s events, all the frustration of the last few months bubbles up once again, filling Hob’s lungs and suffocating him with a heavy ooze of perplexity and turmoil that makes him want to scream, to shake the king by the shoulders and demand answers.
Fuck it.
“Your Highness,” he begins before he can think better of it. “With all due respect...why? I know, I know, you told me not to ask foolish questions, but… Why...why all of this? What was all of that about, what is this about? And why—how—the cat? And—and why am I even doing this job, guarding the door, if you’re just going to gallivant around the palace as a bloody cat?” Hob’s voice has quickly risen to a shout, but he can’t bring himself to give a damn about courtesy or chivalry just now, and if he’s hanged for it, then so be it. “Is this all a game to you? Is this because Ollie—”
“This. Has nothing to do. With my brother,” the king spits, spinning on his heel to glare at Hob with wet, red-rimmed eyes. His hands are clenched into fists by his sides, and his slender shoulders tremble with emotion. “Olethros is gone. He has no connection to my sibling’s pathetic attempt to oust me from the throne.” Then he sighs, wilting and drooping as if the string that’s been holding him taut has snapped. He sounds ancient and weary when he speaks again. “I only wished to thank you. For doing your duty tonight, Sir Robert. And,” he turns his head to the window again, avoiding Hob’s eyes, “perhaps...perhaps I. Should have told you. Of my...other form.”
Perhaps, he says. Perhaps! Hob says nothing—what would he even say to that?—but his pride and his foolish stubbornness keep him tethered to the spot, his jaw set and his gaze steely.
The king moves closer to him, stalking silently like a predator (like a cat, Hob thinks; it would be charming if it weren’t so infuriating). “It is. My fault. That my brother did what he did. My brother,” the king goes on, his voice steeped in sorrow, “was—is—a creative, tenderhearted soul. He was never meant for war. When we were children, he spoke often of exploring the world beyond our kingdom. He dreamed of adventure, of a simple life free from...from the burden of the function into which he was born.” The king speaks fondly, wistfully, as though he too once shared that dream. “When I ascended to the throne in our eldest brother’s stead, I had hoped that making Olethros the general of the royal army would satisfy his wanderlust. But war is no adventure. And I see now that I...I broke him. I destroyed him. And in doing so, I have hurt you as well, Sir Robert.” When the king finally meets Hob’s eyes again, there is so much pain in his expression—so much grief—imploring him for recognition, silently screaming for comfort and absolution.
“My Lord. I do not understand.” The wrath that has been building within Hob suddenly crumbles upon seeing his king, his love, so stricken.
King Morpheus asks, in a quavering whisper, “Do you think my heart did not break for the loss of my brother, as yours did for the loss of your lover?”
Oh.
“Your Highness. I did not think you knew—I am sorry,” Hob replies abashedly. “But Sire, it is not your fault. And it’s not my fault either.” Hob realizes this—believes it—as the words are already halfway out of his mouth. “Prince Olethros’ choices were his own to make. He alone is accountable for his actions. And I understand now, why he felt he had no choice but to leave.” As Hob speaks, the leaden weight that has pressed against his heart since Ollie left finally begins to lift, and the anger that he felt for the man has vanished entirely. Hope blooms in his chest for the first time in many long months as he gives the king a small, tentative smile.
King Morpheus is inches away from Hob’s face now, and his gaze seems to penetrate Hob’s soul, as though he expects to find deceit and mockery in his words.
“It’s not your fault,” Hob repeats softly, pouring all his ardor, all the love he can never declare plainly, into his words.
“Let us speak no more of my brother. As I said, what occurred tonight—what you did for me—has nothing to do with him.” The king clenches his eyes shut and draws in a sharp, shuddering breath. His next words tumble out in a rush, as though he is compelled to speak before he loses the nerve. “I know. That I am. Mercurial, and...ill-tempered. At times. Your work, your—your patience. With me. Has not gone unnoticed. And I thank you. I—you...you mean more to me than you realize, Sir Robert.”
Hob’s smile broadens as he takes another step closer to the king. “I told you before, My Lord,” he murmurs. “Call me Hob.”
“Hob,” the king breathes, and gods, it’s sweet to hear his name again in that intoxicating, black velvet voice. “Then I must ask. That you call me by my truest name—Dream.”
“Dream,” Hob whispers reverently (what a name! Hob could not have imagined a more perfect moniker, for he truly is a vision). Before he realizes what he’s doing, Hob brings his hand to the king’s face and closes the gap between them, pressing his lips to the king’s in a chaste, gentle kiss.
And, wonder of wonders, the king kisses back.
His hands fly to Hob’s head, burying long, elegant fingers in his hair and dragging him closer, crashing into him and moaning desperately. He licks into the seam of Hob’s mouth, and Hob opens for him, allowing his love to take whatever he wants of him. The kiss quickly turns frenzied and voracious—the king (Dream!) kisses like he is starving, like he has been deprived of love his entire life and must now glut himself on it before it’s taken from him. But Hob would never take it from him. He would only give; he would let this man consume him whole if that would sate him. His heart is Dream’s to do with as he pleases, and when Hob kisses back he suffuses his touch with all the devotion, all the adoration with which he would sustain and nourish his king, his Dream.
It is quickly becoming apparent that for all his lean, willowy beauty, Dream is no delicate waif—he is practically tearing Hob’s armor off, undoing the laces with nimble fingers and letting the bulky leather panels fall to the floor. He strips Hob down to his tunic and breeches with impressive speed and strength, and then he is wrapping strong, sinewy arms around his waist and driving him backwards to the bed.
“Your M—Dream—are you sure—” Hob’s brain finally catches up with his body, and he cannot believe that this is happening, that this is real. Dream wants him. He wants him! “I just—why me?” he asks meekly.
Dream takes Hob’s hands in his own and guides him to sit on the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of Hob (kneels! The king is kneeling before him—the sheer sacrilege of it sends a lightning bolt of arousal through his body) and peers up at him with an impossibly tender look in his eyes. He brings one of Hob’s hands to his lips and places a soft kiss to his knuckles.
“Hob. I have wanted you from the moment I saw you. You were so kind, your touch was so gentle, even as you were in the throes of grief. You were generous even when you had nothing to give. And. You were not afraid of me. When you met me in my true form.”
Hob blinks, uncomprehending, then it dawns on him—that first night. The cat. That was the first time he met Dream, and he’s only realizing it this very moment. A laugh escapes him, unbidden, at the absurdity of it all. Dream’s face shutters, and he reels back, stung.
“Sorry. Not laughing at you, love. Just realizing what a fool I am, is all.”
“Hob. You are an extraordinarily brave man. And you are good, and sweet, and beautiful.” Hob’s breath hitches, his eyes welling up at the praise. “But yes,” Dream smirks, “you are. Perhaps. A bit slow on the uptake.”
Hob laughs again, and Dream joins him, and—oh gods, his laugh is hideous. It’s wonderful. He’s wonderful.
“I have wanted you too, my king. My Dream. Since I first laid eyes on you—er, the real you.” Hob brings his hand to Dream’s cheek, and Dream leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering shut with a sigh.
“I did not think that I could ever have you. I had resigned myself to loving you from afar, believing as I did that your heart belonged to another.”
“My heart belongs to you. Now and always. I did love Ollie—I do love him, in some way, and perhaps I always will, but—he’s gone. And you’re here. And I’m here, and neither of us are going anywhere. So...you can have me. You do have me.”
Dream surges up to kiss Hob again, his hands moving to unlace his tunic. He slips it over his head, and his eyes darken with lust as he drinks in the sight of Hob’s well-furred chest. He buries his face in it, nuzzling like the overgrown cat he is, and takes a dusky nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling while Hob squirms and whimpers in his hold.
“You say. That I have you,” Dream purrs. “Then allow me. To have you, my Hob.” He reaches to undo Hob’s breeches. “May I?”
“Yes, gods, please—” Hob pants. “Only, wait—Dream—” There is something he needs to tell Dream, something important, but words fail him as Dream tugs his breeches down around his thighs. The king freezes as he stares, wide-eyed, at the dense patch of dark curls around Hob’s cunt. “Fuck,” Hob whispers, mortified. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, My Lord—” He moves to stand, but Dream tightens his grip on Hob’s thighs and...licks his lips. Fuck.
Dream makes a gutted noise as he nestles his nose into the crease between Hob’s thigh and pelvis, soothing his hands down the guard’s flanks.
“Hob. You are. Perfect. I confess I have...imagined. This. Between us. But none of my fantasies could do justice to your. Incomparable beauty. May I?” he asks again.
Hob can only nod eagerly as Dream pulls his breeches off and pushes his legs apart, settling between them and running his fingers through the thick, coarse hair on his thighs. Dream slowly lowers his head and puts his mouth to Hob’s sex, placing a soft, worshipful kiss to his clit. Hob exhales a breathy, punched out whine as Dream circles his tongue around it and sucks on the delicate folds of his pussy, rolling them between his lips, lovingly exploring and mapping Hob’s body. He licks into Hob’s entrance, lapping up his juices and running the tip of his clever tongue over that sensitive spot inside, and Hob’s body sings with pleasure. Dream is exceedingly sweet and gentle, so unlike Ollie; with Ollie it was always fast and rough, and that was great, at the time—but Dream is...a revelation. Hob has never had a lover make him feel so utterly engulfed, so utterly loved. Treasured.
Then Dream’s tongue is probing deeper, writhing and undulating inside him, and gods, it’s glorious. Hob keens and clutches at the bedclothes, helpless under Dream’s ministrations. His tongue delves deeper still, deeper than ought to be possible, and...is Hob imagining it, or is Dream’s tongue getting thicker? It stretches him open, filling every crevice and burrowing into the deepest part of him. Yes, it’s definitely growing—by now, it has swelled to the size of a large cock, and Dream is outright fucking him with his tongue. It’s exquisite. And impossible.
“Wha—how...?” Hob asks weakly, then realizes what a stupid question that is; half an hour ago, the man was a cat. He looks down at Dream, and his lover meets his eyes with a smug, smoldering gaze as he rolls his tongue and— “Oh fuck, yes,” Hob babbles as his climax takes him by surprise. His cunt clenches around his lover’s tongue as it retracts and shrinks, a torrent of spend gushing out as soon as Dream leaves his body. Hob brings his hands to Dream’s head and runs his fingers through his silken hair as the king continues to lave his tongue over his folds, greedily mopping up the mess before bringing his mouth back to Hob’s twitching, oversensitive clit. Within moments, Hob is coming again, and without meaning to, he pulls hard on his lover’s hair. But Dream only moans, a bassy rumble that vibrates through him and sends him into yet another eruption of ecstasy. Just as it’s beginning to be too much, Dream pulls away and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then rests his chin on Hob’s belly and gazes up at him adoringly. He has never looked more beautiful, with his hair mussed and his lips pink and swollen.
Hob gives him a besotted smile in return. “Gods, you’re incredible. You really don’t mind, that I…” he gestures feebly at his body.
“I told you before, my Hob,” the king murmurs as he climbs gracefully up Hob’s body and hovers just above his face, his lips ghosting over Hob’s as he speaks. “You are perfect.” He captures Hob’s mouth in a slow, languorous kiss, and Hob has never tasted anything sweeter than this—the essence of himself, mingled with Dream. It’s ambrosial. “However,” Dream goes on as his lips trail down Hob’s neck, “I could. Complete your transformation. If you wish it.”
Hob’s smile turns slightly pained. “That’s… You’re very kind, Your Hi—Dream—but, well… I think I’m happy with myself the way I am. Especially if you keep doing that thing with your tongue,” he adds with a wink.
Dream smiles—a real, genuine smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Good. I had hoped you would say as much, but it seemed only right to extend the offer.”
A powerful wave of affection sweeps over Hob as he leans up to kiss his lover again. “My Dream. You’re so sweet,” he beams. “Can you really do the transformation?” He doesn’t know why he even asks; of course Dream can do it. Hob really shouldn’t be surprised at this point.
Dream says nothing, merely raises his eyebrows and rises from the bed. He lets his dressing gown fall to the floor, and Hob stares in awe as he finally takes in the sight of his lover’s body for the first time. He’s a marble statue come to life—miles of flawless, unblemished skin rippling with lean muscle; a dancer’s body, though it is well known that the king does not dance (a pity; perhaps Hob can change his mind). His cock—long and slim, with a fat, leaking head the same shade of rose as his lips and nipples—stands tall and proud, wreathed with a nest of soft, black curls. Hob salivates at the sight and longs to take it in his mouth, his cunt, anywhere—but before he can say so, Dream’s body is changing once more. His prick retracts and sort of...blooms, is the only word Hob can think of to describe it as it transforms into a glistening, pink cunt. Hob’s jaw drops, and he thinks he feels a bead of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Dream’s grin turns smug as his body continues to shift and warp. His face softens and his hips widen, while a pair of small, pert breasts sprouts from his smooth, hairless chest.
“Did you think that turning into a cat was the extent of my magical abilities?” he—she?—asks in a sultry, honey-sweet contralto. Hob has no answer; he can only stare, slack-jawed, as his perception of reality is altered for the dozenth time tonight. Then Dream is reverting back to his previous form and climbing atop Hob again, his cock hanging heavily between his slender legs. “I can do so much more than that, my Hob. But tonight, I would have you in my truest form, as you have shared the truth of yourself with me.”
“Yes. Please, Dream—” Hob begins in a shuddering whisper, but Dream cuts him off with a deep, tender kiss. He pushes into Hob slowly, gently, and it’s so much, so sublime. It transcends physical pleasure; this is a sacred rite, a divine act, and their all-consuming love for each other permeates the air around them as they make love. Dream drives into him at a steady, languid pace, pressing his forehead to Hob’s and twining their fingers together against the plush mattress. Hob wraps his legs around his lover’s narrow hips, urging him deeper. He loses track of how many times he comes; Dream seems to have limitless stamina, and Hob would stay this way forever—speared on his king’s perfect cock, lost in a blissful haze of sensation. At some point, minutes or hours or perhaps years later, Hob returns to his senses to find himself on his side, Dream pressed along his back. Their limbs are entwined and Dream is whispering praise that Hob is too far-gone to understand as his lover places feather-light kisses to the back of his neck and caresses through the wealth of chestnut hair on his chest.
“Hob,” Dream murmurs, just as Hob is drifting to sleep.
“Mm?”
“Stay with me.”
Hob’s lips curl into a drowsy smile. “Always, my Dream.”
☼☼☼
The next morning, Hob awakes to the pleasant warble of birdsong and the warm embrace of sunshine blanketing his body. He stretches with a long, decadent groan, having just had the best night’s sleep in...ever, actually. He is exquisitely sore, yet he feels strangely weightless, like a heavy burden has been lifted from his soul. This day feels like a new beginning, like the start of a new life. He braces himself for the stab of guilt that he expects to feel over that, and is surprised to find none. For months, even looking at Dream had felt like a betrayal to Ollie. But that shame is gone now, and Hob is at peace, his heart healed and entirely in Dream’s possession. He had meant it when he said that he will always love Ollie in some way (and he hopes that Ollie finds a love like this too, wherever he is), but that chapter of his life is over, and he’s eager to see what the next one has in store. Life is so rich, he thinks as he smiles down at the beautiful black cat curled up on his chest. And we’ve got so much to live for.