It was the fate of any royal omega to marry politically. Erik knew that. Being sent to another country to live with and bear the children of a stranger was par for the course. His parents were neither unwise nor unfeeling enough to spend their children lightly; Erik’s marriage to the new king of Westchester would end a three-generation war, and that was worth his sacrifice, even if young King Charles were the worst husband imaginable. And truly that seemed unlikely; his first action as king had been to sue for peace, and in all negotiations he had proven intelligent, compassionate, forgiving and wise. Or so Erik’s parents had told him – he had not met the man yet himself. And would not, most likely, until the day of their wedding.
"Please make your peace with this, my son," the Queen pleaded quietly, when Erik had finally consented to unlock his chamber door. "You know it is our best choice."
"I do not wish to marry a Westerner," he said through set teeth, not looking at her. "They have spilled too much of our blood."
"But that is the very point, Erik. The bloodshed, the grudges and feuding, it must stop. We must become as precious to each other as family."
She was right, he knew that. It was not in his nature to let go of anger easily, but all the same he knew the Westerners had committed no worse acts of war than his own people. It was easier, though, to blame his reluctance on the old feud than to tell his mother the truth.
It was his fate and his duty to marry where it would do Genosha the most good. But he had dreamed so differently once. And even ten years of suffering for that dream had not killed it.
"I will be let outside again, at least," he said, his voice coming out bitter, "once I am respectably married."
"Yes," the Queen admitted, "that is another advantage of accepting King Charles. He has hinted that he knows your… reputation, and does not mind. It is by far the most promising offer you could get, my darling."
The only thing more stifling than being a royal omega was being a disgraced royal omega. Erik had been virtually a prisoner in his own wing of the palace since the day, ten years before, that his farewell note was discovered early, and he was caught in the act of trying to run away with a commoner. After that, only total isolation from other alphas could salvage any scrap of his marriageability.
The iron arms of society could keep him from ever seeing Francis again. But they couldn’t make Erik forget him, forget their scents mingling in the warm grass, eyes as blue as the summer sky, a rich molten-gold voice murmuring endearments and promises that never came true.
"You’re right, Mother, this is the best option," Erik said. "I know that you’re right." He closed his eyes and tried to resign himself to the inevitable.
***
An hour from now, Charles would be married.
He stared at himself in the mirror as servants fluttered around him, making certain his clothes and hair were perfect for the pageant ahead. There was little they could do about the paleness of his cheeks or the shadows under his eyes. He looked as grim as any soldier headed into battle.
As many of my soldiers have died in this war, he told himself sternly, I can surely accept a much lesser sacrifice to ensure peace.
"He’s probably going to hate you," Raven said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. As his longest-standing Royal Companion, she was the closest thing he had left to family, and was already dressed for her place in the ceremony -– despite her objections to it. "He’s spent his whole life being taught to hate Westchester."
"Yes, thank you, Raven," he murmured. "I have in fact thought of that. But you and I were raised to hate Genosha, and have risen above it; we must hope he can do the same."
Raven’s raised eyebrow implied he might be assuming too much about her enlightened opinion of Genoshans; he gave her a quelling glare.
"You know I never thought the kingdom would fall to me," he said. "But here it is, squarely in the lap of the despised stepson. I can do no less than my utmost to end this ridiculous war before it destroys us, and if that means marrying an omega who hates me, it’s a small enough price to pay."
"I know," Raven sighed. "I was there for most of the negotiations, I do know what this means. But if the kingdom’s welfare is your concern, your welfare is mine.” Pain strained her voice. “I want you to be happy.”
"Perhaps we will be," Charles said, drawing on that capacity for hope that had been called endless, and sometimes naive. "Perhaps we will learn to care for each other. Heaven knows I’ve done all I can to ensure his comfort in his new home."
"I hope he appreciates it more than—" She bit her lip and fell abruptly silent, cheeks reddening.
Charles looked away. Raven was the only person in the world who knew what had happened so many years before – who knew about the omega who had sworn he would love Charles to the end of the earth, and then left him weeping on an empty beach.
We were hardly more than children. I expected far too much from him. And it’s ridiculous to still be pining over it a decade later. He lifted his chin and gazed back at the mirror. Max probably wouldn’t even recognize him now, bearded and crowned, hair down to his shoulders; very kingly, he supposed, and certainly a long way from that carefree boy spending his summer at the seaside. He was a different person now, and ought to look to the future instead of the past. No matter how his heart cried out at marrying anyone but his first love.
The servants stepped back from their finished product, and Raven’s eyes gleamed with mingled pride and sympathy. “Well, Your Majesty. You’re ready.”
Charles turned away from the mirror, careful not to dislodge the heavy, sparkling crown. “Am I?” he murmured. “Let’s find out.”
***
Charles had not liked the idea of meeting his husband for the first time at the altar. It was quite improper to try to be alone with him beforehand, but he managed to at least arrange things so that their paths would cross in a cathedral antechamber, a few minutes before Charles took his place at the end of the aisle to await his omega. If they could take the opportunity to reassure one another at all, Charles would be glad for it; if, on the other hand, Prince Erik wished to spit on him and curse him for a thieving Westerner, Charles preferred that happen outside the public eye.
He nearly missed the so-carefully-arranged opportunity, delayed by a concern over some element of the ceremony required by Prince Erik’s faith, which Charles had insisted be respected and which the servants insisted could not be done. In the end he drew on all the kingly aura his still-unaccustomed crown could bring to bear and ordered them to find a way, then hurried into the antechamber just as Erik and his retinue were crossing it.
Attention drawn by his rushed entrance, the omega prince -– shimmering in white finery up to his chin, the traditional hood not yet drawn over his head -– turned to face him, and Charles stopped mid-step.
A face ten years older than he remembered it, but surely – surely unmistakable – those cheekbones, the sea-storm eyes, the tiny scar on his upper lip—
"Francis?" the man said, utterly confounded.
"Max," Charles said, and punched him in the face.
Outcry was instant, both sets of shocked attendants rushing to pull them away from each other. The blow had knocked Erik – Max – whoever he was – to the floor, and only Raven’s grip kept Charles from tumbling after him. Charles didn’t care. His ears were roaring, every cell of him suddenly transformed back to a boy weeping on a beach in the moonlight, hours after his omega should have come – and worse, the next morning, when the proprietor of Max’s boardinghouse confirmed he had settled his bill and departed with no sign of distress.
Prince Erik’s attendants pulled him back to his feet, and Charles threw himself at him again, held back by his Royal Companions. “You abandoned me!” he cried, hating the stark and obvious pain in his voice, the hot tears escaping his eyes. “Why? But I suppose this is why -– you were a prince and I was nobody. Did you laugh all the way back to your palace, at the thought of silly little Francis who actually expected you to run away with him?”
Erik gaped. “You’re – you’re one to speak of that! You would have abandoned everyone! What were you thinking? The heir to the Westchester throne, eloping with some boy you met at the seaside?”
"I was no one in particular then!" Charles let bitter laughter leak into the words. "Not until Prince Cain and then my stepfather were killed on the battlefield. No one would have missed me."
"Well, I was missed." Erik threw off his attendants’ clutching hands and stepped forward, staring into Charles’s face as if he could see nothing else. "I was missed before I could even get away, that night – caught and dragged back home."
Puzzle pieces came together in Charles’s head. “The rumors of your… dalliance with a commoner alpha…” He swayed on his feet, Raven keeping him upright. “Was that me?”
"It was you," Erik whispered. "There was never anyone but you." He took a second step forward, and Charles met him before the third, arms thrown round each other.
Their lips met as if it were the only possible next step; Charles’s crown was knocked askew, Erik’s circlet digging into his eyebrow, but he didn’t care. Not when the warm body against his was the one he’d dreamed of so long, not when every breath was full of his Max’s gorgeous half-forgotten scent.
"Will you marry me?" Charles whispered against Erik’s lips when he could bear to draw away that far.
"Twice over," Erik whispered back, and they walked to the altar hand in hand.