Chapter Text
Erik didn't see Charles for weeks afterward -- no quiet bright-eyed figure in the garden paths, no one seated at Sebastian's right hand in the banquet hall. He wondered if the king was taking pains to see that their paths didn't cross... or if Charles was.
Perhaps he was right to do so. Seeing each other without touching -- brushing hands casually without lingering -- it had been torture before. It might be unbearable now, now that he knew the taste of Charles's lips, the trembling warmth of his skin...
He trained his men harder than ever, worked himself to exhaustion so that he wouldn't dream of Charles, of the poisoned joy that would be all they'd ever have. One night, he took a giggling laundress to his room -- only to send her away again, pouting and disappointed. Taking someone else to bed would only cost him the ghostly remnants of Charles's hands on his skin, and leave him still as alone as ever.
A week after the laundress, he went straight to his chamber after dismissing his men, breath pluming in the autumn dusk. His body ached with exertion and bruises, sweat chilling rapidly against his skin, and rest appealed to him far more than food. He'd had little appetite these past weeks and it was beginning to show, his men's eyes worrying at the hint of ribs when he removed his tunic for a sparring session. He didn't care, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
But his chamber, he knew the moment he opened the door, was not empty. His senses, scattered and muzzy with exhaustion, snapped into painful focus. It was unlikely that anyone would attack him here, at court, but the King's Paladin inevitably had enemies -- more likely that brainless girl had come back again--
"Erik?"
Charles. Erik had crossed the room before he finished the thought, reaching out to the faint figure, darker than the dark room. "Charles, what are you doing here?" he hissed. "Do you even know the kind of trouble..." He lost his grip on the words, the anger, lost his breath entirely with Charles tight against him, arms around each other, Charles's face pressed into his neck.
"I'm sorry," Charles whispered. "I've been trying to see you, but Sebastian's kept me... busy."
Re-asserting dominance and control of his consort. Erik had no doubt of it. The rush of rage was hot and sickening.
"But I had to see you," Charles was saying, "had to tell you..."
"Tell me what?" Erik pulled back, just enough to see Charles's face. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, now, and he could make out the gleam of Charles's eyes, the shadow of his mouth. He stroked Charles's cheek, thumb brushing his lips, felt fierce satisfaction at Charles's shiver. This stolen touch, this moment in a dark room that the king would never know about, this was theirs. "Tell me what?" he asked again.
Charles drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm pregnant." When Erik did not -- could not -- respond, he continued, "Sebastian doesn't know yet. I can't put off telling him any longer, but I had to tell you first."
How would Sebastian react, to have his cruel, drunken joke succeed so? To know for certain now that his own seed that was weak and no fault of Charles's, and that his consort was now defiled with another man's child? What would he do to Charles? What would he do to Erik?
He tried to believe in the best-case scenario, but even that watching Sebastian raise his child, and he couldn't keep the pain and bitterness from his voice. "His Majesty gets what he wanted after all."
"No," Charles snapped, and Erik reeled back at the force of it. "No he does not. I get what I wanted. I get your child, and not his. Our child." He leaned back into Erik, who felt the trickle of a tear against his neck. "Our child. And I'll make sure he knows it, knows his true father, knows he's none of Sebastian's get. He's ours."
Erik closed his eyes, daring to imagine, for a moment, a little one with his chin and Charles's eyes, smiling and running toward him, calling "Papa! Papa!"
He pressed one hand to Charles's belly, still flat but warmer and softer than he remembered, and with the other tilted Charles's face up to kiss him.
The kiss hurt, just as the first one had, burning with the thousand other kisses that should have been and would never be, and Erik fought to keep it gentle, slow -- a fight he lost when Charles rocked his hips forward and caught Erik's bottom lip between his teeth.
There was a haze Erik went into, sometimes, in battle, where his body seemed to move without his direction, his mind hyperconscious of every detail, calculating and deciding, and utterly trapped in the moment, with no past or future, only the battlefield. He felt himself falling into something similar now, but instead of the battlefield it was Charles, Charles, the frantic need to touch every part of him with every part of himself, touch taste smell see touch--
They were on the bed now, Charles gasping and moaning underneath him, hands buried in Erik's hair, legs around his waist, and some dark distant voice in Erik's head was saying this was a bad idea but he didn't care--
Until a knock sounded on his chamber door.
They both froze, eyes locked for a terrified second, a whole new level of adrenaline singing across Erik's nerves. Getting caught like this would mean death for them both, and -- he was surprised by how much this mattered to him already -- the child as well.
Erik's chamber was luxurious for a soldier, but still spartan for a lord, and there weren't many hiding places. There was a cabinet against the side wall, too small to climb into -- but Charles could crouch behind it and be out of sight from the door. Erik pulled him from the bed and settled him there, brushing a kiss against his temple before he turned away. He made an attempt to straighten his hair and clothing as he went to the door.
He chilled another degree to see that the man who had knocked was Azazel, King Sebastian's closest advisor. Where he'd come from no one knew, only that his accent was strange and his sense of humor vile, and that he'd taken the name of a legendary demon with apparent relish. The man's skin, ever as red as if he'd spent a week in merciless sun, had led many to whisper that the name was no alias.
"How can I serve you, my lord?" Erik said, trying to cover his surprise and dismay.
Judging by Azazel's amused expression, he hadn't covered them well. "The king wishes you to attend him at the first light of dawn, in the green room. We have a new plan for the campaign."
"What campaign?" They had just finished a war, curse the king and his demon both for bloodthirsty bastards.
Azazel just chuckled. "Come at dawn, we will tell you all." His eyes sharpened suddenly, nostrils flaring, and he peered past Erik into the room.
"Will there be anything else, my lord?" Erik kept his voice hard, steady, did not turn around.
"No, nothing else. Sleep well, Paladin." He grinned broadly, gave a mocking bow, and left.
Erik let out a long breath, leaning his forehead against the door.
After a moment, he felt Charles's hand on his arm, heard him whisper, "I should go."
"Yes," Erik said reluctantly. "But wait a few minutes -- Lord Azazel might still be in sight."
Charles nodded, gently pulled Erik away from the door and folded himself into his arms. "Everything will be all right, Erik. Everything will be all right."
Erik buried his face in Charles's hair, and tried to believe him.