Different Universes of FAC

After the Strigoi attack that had claimed the life of the man he had loved, Steve has shut down. He barely talked, and when he did, it was only to people he trusted dearly and held close to his heart. And then he had to marry King James. It felt like his world was crashing down around him for the third time. How was he meant to marry the man who led the creatures who had brought him so much heartbreak? He couldn’t! But he couldn’t find the words to protest. He was traveling with the Tarakrovi soldiers, his own guard dead at the hand of Strigoi, yet more deaths he had witnessed. The only Sciathian soldier who had survived was Amber - And that was only because she had leapt into the trees and attempted to pick off the bandits. She was the only one he had spoken to. He could feel the Tarakrovi soldiers' gaze prickling on the back of his neck. He could sense what they were all thinking. “Why isn’t he talking?” He refused to turn around and look, or worse, answer it and get another person killed.

Steve swallowed. He was terrified, but his face was blank. It always was. He couldn’t risk showing something incriminating or someone he loved would die. It always happened. Steve sighed heavily through his nose, attracting Amber’s attention. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and rubbed it, asking him softly “You ok, kid?” 

Steve chewed his lip, debating how to answer. He couldn’t lie to Amber. He never had been able to. He settled for a shrug; His words felt like they were balled up in his throat and nothing he did would get them to dislodge and come out his mouth. Amber sighed softly and scooched up the bench to wrap him up in a hug. Steve melted into it. It had been too long since he had been hugged. Amber didn’t relinquish her hold on him, just tightened it, when the carriage stopped and somebody called out “We’ve reached His Majesty’s camp!” She finally released him with a final squeeze when the carriage door was opened. 

Steve stepped out. 

He was met by lots of soldiers, all clad in the black that compromised Tarakrov’s uniform, running here and there, some holding crates, others walking about, all of them looking very busy. 

He was well and truly a foreigner.

“Sam!”

Steve looked up tentatively to see a sandy-haired soldier approaching them with his arms held wide and a huge grin splitting his face. Sam grinned back at the stranger, meeting him halfway in a bear hug. They laughed, slapping at each other’s backs, before pulling away to exchange a few words in a language Steve couldn’t understand. Sam’s head tilted toward Steve as he spoke, bringing the unfamiliar soldier’s attention to him. The soldier’s smile dimmed into one that was reserved and polite. His head dipped in a small bow. 

“Your Highness.” He said in a soft voice, one much more hushed than the one he had used to greet Sam. Amber’s hand found his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, as if she could tell what he was thinking. 

“I can’t do this.”

 “I am Soldat Barton, a member of His Majesty’s royal guard. If you’ll allow me, I’m here to escort you to the king. He is very eager to meet you.”

If you’ll allow me.

Steve swallowed down his fear and nerves and made to follow. Soldat Barton led him and Amber to a tent in the heart of the encampment, one at least thrice the size of the others. 

Barton held back the thick canvas flap, allowing them through. Sam stepped in first. Steve reluctantly followed behind him, but only because he was quite sure that Barton wouldn’t allow him to run.

As he crossed the threshold, he was engulfed in the sweltering, oppressive heat that only ever came from a roaring fire. After being so long in the cold, the warmth hurt him, but it was a welcome pain; he would rather the prickling pain of it over the shivering cold any day. A small lifetime had seemed to have pass between being protected in the mild warmth of his carriage and this moment.

Inside, the tent was dim and filled with soldiers. The crowd parted for Sam, a few offering smiles when they saw him, but just as with Barton, those smiles faded when they saw Steve.

A hand appeared at his back, urging him to follow Sam forward. Steve glanced over his shoulder to see Barton, a small smile on his face as he gestured forward. Reluctantly, Steve did as he was bid. Without such encouragement, he might have stayed rooted to the spot for the rest of his days.

He was led from one end of the tent to the other, past a roaring fire and toward a small dais with a modestly fashioned throne atop it. As he neared it, he once again became aware of a dull throb in his left wrist. The sensation was somehow a tickle, an ache, and the impression of a phantom touch all at once. He rubbed at it self-consciously.

On the throne, there sat a man at least ten years his senior. The red-headed soldier from before stood just behind the man’s right shoulder, her expression displeased. Helen knelt to his left, her hand resting on his forearm. She seemed to be speaking to him, but her voice was so soft that Steve couldn’t even detect the barest murmur.

If anyone had ever asked him, Steve would have had to admit that he had no idea what to expect of the crown of Tarakrov. Not much was known about the mysterious King James. He’d only ascended to the throne a year or so after the death of Steve's parents, not quite a decade past. Since his coronation, he hadn’t ventured outside the borders of his country. The little information about him available couldn’t be counted as much more than rumor; they were retellings of retellings by the rare merchant or dignitary allowed in his court. Still, the things that Steve had heard about him hadn’t painted a welcoming picture.

Brute, Steve had called him, and that was, perhaps, what he expected to be faced with: a man whose appearance matched his brutish actions. A man that matched the fearful whisperings.

The man he saw now both did and did not fit such an idea. He was a warrior, that much was obvious. Dark hair brushed shoulders that were broad and rounded. His black shirt molded against defined arms and his bare feet were set apart as if he were ready to jump into action at any moment. His gloved fingers visibly tightened on the armrests of his throne, one side of his mouth jumping up in a move that could have either been a grimace or a snarl, before he seemed to get hold of himself. He looked very much like a barely restrained animal trying to play the part of a human.

This, Steve thought, was the brute he’d expected. Except--

Except those guarded hazel eyes softened when they rested on his soldiers. His body relaxed incrementally and although he didn’t smile, his expression was as close as it could get without his mouth actually moving.

“Soldat Wilson,” he said in a low, rasping voice. He nodded in greeting. “Bine ai venit acasa. How was your trip?”

Confusion fed the fear gripping at Steve’s insides as Sam answered, “It was fine, Your Majesty. There were no problems until…”

This time, James’ mouth did tick up.

“Until,” he agreed.

He stood, then, and although his fluid movement never faltered, his jaw tightened visibly, nostrils flaring as if he were in pain. Helen shot up with him, taking hold of his arm.

“I told you,” she said fiercely, “you must rest, this is madness--”

Steve did not hear the end of her admonishment. His pulse had increased to a near-painful drumbeat and now, the blood rushing in his ears drowned everything else out. This--this was the man that had set his city ablaze. The man that had ruthlessly killed his uncle. The very same that had taken Steve’s freedom, his future. The same one who’s men had killed Rider and so many others he loved.

How?

How could a man so cold and ruthless just stand there and allow a woman well beneath his station to berate him in front of an audience? How could he do this, but not show the same mercy to Steve?

This king was poised and guarded, but there was a noticeable give to him that Steve couldn’t succinctly explain. It was there in the relaxed posture of his shoulders, the way his eyes fell away from Helen’s. It was in his chagrined expression, as if he knew he deserved her admonishments.

James’ gaze suddenly snapped to Steve, pinning him in place with a single impenetrable look. Steve sucked in a painful breath, a strange kind of awareness prickling underneath his skin. It was said that Strigoi could sense what others could not. If this man was truly one of them, would he be able to hear the gallop of Steve’s heart? Would he be able to sense the torrent of emotion rising quickly within his chest?

Steve swallowed thickly. The area just behind his eyes suddenly burned, his vision going just the slightest bit watery, and he realized with abject horror that he might actually cry in this tent full of enemies. He’d managed to remain dutifully steady and unruffled by his new circumstance, but perhaps that had been the shock of it all. He was reaching the limits of his discipline; his capacity to keep his wild emotions at bay was now so worn and frayed that he was held to reason by a single thread.

He’d been taken from his home, forced into a new life, a new country, a marriage that was not of his own making. He’d been attacked by bandits, threatened, almost killed, and now he stood before his conqueror, his husband to be, in such a pathetic state that he was raw from it.

What a sight he must’ve made, damp and muddy, his clothes ruined and torn, his body worn and most likely bruised. Had James meant for this when he’d demanded Steve’s presence? Had he meant to humiliate Steve in front of his men? He’d known about the bandits. Why would he ask for an audience before giving Steve the chance to clean up?

The air was thick around him as King James moved past his physician and guard to approach Steve. Was it Steve’s imagination working against him or had the room gone silent with his nearing?

“My prince,” said James, stooping to bow more formally than a king should to someone in Steve’s position. The cold, guarded expression that Steve had first seen was firmly back in place when he straightened again. “You honor me with your--”

A massive CLANG! From the other side of the tent drew Steve’s attention along with everyone else's. It sounded like, like- Like the clang of swords and the clash of teeth as they closed around Rider’s throat. Suddenly he wasn’t in the tent, he was in the forest, Rider’s dead body laying on the ground, his throat a mangled mess and their picnic covered in blood-

Steve’s breathing grew labored as his throat felt like it was closing up. His head spun and his vision blacked out. Steve gasped for breath, faintly aware of Amber’s hands rubbing up and down his sides and moving to his arms, her telling him to “Just breathe Steve! Just breathe! It’s ok! You’re ok!” 

When his vision came back to him, Steve was sitting on the ground, his knees curled up to his chest, back against the wooden base of the dais. “Steve, Take a breath, ok? Like me.” Stated Amber gently, breathing in deeply to demonstrate. Steve followed her example, exhaling when she did. They did this a few times, until Steve felt a little better. 

“W- What?” The words came out barely louder than a whisper, but Steve couldn’t manage to make himself finish his sentence. 

“You had a panic attack, Steve. A pretty bad one. You could barely breathe, let alone stand.” Amber explained, not letting up on the soothing motion of rubbing her palms up and down his upper arms. Steve tried to look around, but Amber stopped him. “It didn’t last more than a minute, but it was pretty severe. You gotta be wiped out.” 

Steve nodded, but with the motion, he became aware of a large hand gently rubbing up and down his back, from his waist area, all the way to the base of his neck. He turned to see the hand’s owner, expecting Sam or maybe even Soldat Barton, but instead, to his utter shock and surprise, it was King James. Steve startled and tried to get up, but King James’s hands quickly moved to his shoulders and pushed his back down gently. 

“Don’t try to get up just yet. It might not be a great idea to stand.” Said King James in a hushed voice. Steve looked to Amber for help but she nodded and said “He’s right, kid. Your knees buckled. You should probably wait for five to ten minutes before trying to stand up again. You need to give your body a chance to recover.”

Steve sighed and ended up relaxing into King James’s touch (Against his will). He could feel his eyes slipping shut, and despite his best efforts, they closed entirely. 

Steve was subconscious. He was faintly aware of strong arms lifting him up bridal style, and being leaned against a strong chest. Petite hands checked him over before the person carrying him moved. 

—-

Steve awoke in a tent that was dimly lit, his body covered with soft furs. Amber was sitting at a desk nearby, working on something. Steve sat up slowly, becoming aware of the pounding in his skull and how sore he felt. “Amber? What-?” 

Amber turned around and smiled gently at him. “Hey kid. It’s about 8:30 in the morning, you’re in a tent that King James had specially designed with your sensory issues and PTSD in mind. Once you’re ready, we can go to breakfast or I can bring it here and you can eat it here. Up to you.”

Steve nodded and got up slowly, noting how the tent was barely letting in any light or sound, the main source of light being a lamp in the center of the tent. He got dressed and slung on his cloak before looking at Amber and jerking his head in the direction of the tent flap. Amber smiled and got up, opening the tent flap for him. Steve grabbed his headphones and iPod before exiting. As they walked, Steve plugged his headphones into his iPod and started his music. The din in the dining hall quietened as he entered, all of the soldiers eyes following him and tracking his movement. There was an empty seat in between Sam and Helen, and that was the seat Amber was leading Steve to. 

Steve tilted his head towards the area where Amber’s plate should be. She just shrugged. “I already ate. You were out like a log, kid.” Amber chuckled to herself, a smile playing on her lips. 

Steve nodded and picked up his apple. As he bit into it with a crunch, he noticed King James staring at him. Steve averted his gaze, remembering the last time someone had looked at him like that. 

Steve swallowed; He wasn’t hungry anymore. Steve got up and Amber grasped his arm. “Where are you going kid?” She asked, not unkindly. Steve tilted his head in the direction of the tent flap. “Our tent?” She guessed. Steve nodded. Amber then looked at his plate, most of the food uneaten. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

Steve just shrugged. She sighed and released him. “Alright. Shoo.”

Steve smiled hesitantly before turning around to exit the tent. Just before he could leave, King James called out. “My prince. I was wondering if you would meet me in my tent tonight. Your guard can join if it would make you feel safer.” 

Steve nodded without looking at King James, not wanting to risk refusing. “It would be better if I went without Amber.” He thought, not wanting to anger King James. Steve walked out of the tent, not wanting to feel King James’s haunting gaze on him any longer. 

~ Later ~

Steve made his way to King James’s tent, hyper aware of every single movement around him. Every soldier, every gust of wind, every single rustle from the surrounding forest. Steve’s mind kept playing what had happened to Rider on repeat, refusing to let up. Before he knew it, Steve had reached King James’s tent. He tentatively reached a hand out and slowly pushed the flap back. King James was sitting at a writing desk and was writing something on a piece of parchment, but he looked up when Steve entered. 

“Your Highness.” He greeted, voice soft. He stood up slowly, eyes focused on Steve. “You can take a seat wherever you’d like. I’m going to sit on the bed. Would you like to sit there instead, or would you rather sit somewhere else instead?” 

Steve was about to join King James on the bed to please him, before Amber’s words from earlier that day came back to his mind. “You don’t constantly have to please him. Rider knew him. You can sit as far away from him as you’d like. He won’t mind.” 

Changing his mind, Steve sat down on a stool near the entrance so that he could escape quickly if he needed to. King James sank down onto his bed, laden with furs. He sighed heavily. “I wanted to talk to you. Today, in the central tent, you seemed so scared and small, and I just wanted to maybe ease some fears you may or may not have.”

Steve nodded, feeling confused. 

“Firstly, I, nor anyone in this encampment is going to harm you. I know that you probably don’t think much of my word, I know what the rumors and stories say about me.” 

Steve blinked, unsure of how to respond. 

“Secondly, I can’t claim to know how you’re feeling, and I can’t force you to talk to me, but, should you need to, if you want to, you can always come to my tent in the evenings and talk to me. It can be about if you’re feeling scared, uneasy, or anything of the sort, or it can also be if you just need some company. My tent is always open. 

Steve nodded, feeling oddly touched. 

“Lastly, I don’t know what happened to you to cause you to become so quiet and scared, but I want to help you heal from it. If you would permit me. If you need someone to talk to or someone to just give you a hug, please come to me. I don't enjoy seeing you so scared and timid.” 

Steve blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the tears before they fell. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, words forming. “Thank you.” He whispered while looking at his lap. King James got up, slowly walking towards Steve. “May I give you a hug, Your Highness?” He asked cautiously. Steve nodded, and the next thing he knew, he was enveloped in King James’s arms. Steve started to cry silently, because he had never expected the King of Tarakrov to be like this. When he realized Steve was crying, King James tightened his grasp on Steve and gently picked him up, carrying him to the bed. He set Steve down on the edge, and sat down next to Steve. He once again wrapped his arms around Steve and let Steve cry into his shoulder.