
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1474789.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men:_First_Class_(2011)_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Erik_Lehnsherr/Charles_Xavier
  Character:
      Charles_Xavier, Erik_Lehnsherr, Edie_Lehnsherr, Jakob_Lehnsherr, Emma
      Frost, Logan_(X-Men)
  Additional Tags:
      Game_of_Thrones_References, Wedding_Night, Arranged_Marriage, Loss_of
      Virginity, Bottom_Erik, Top_Charles, Teasing, Foreplay, Belly_Button
      Licking, Sibling_Love, Family_Fluff, Alternate_Universe_-_Medieval, Anal
      Fingering, Poor_Erik, Politics, Attempted_Sexual_Assault, Public_Display
      of_Affection, Cunning_Husbands, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-16 Completed: 2014-06-13 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 5710
****** Wind and Words ******
by velvetcadence
Summary
     Lord Charles of House Xavier has been out-manipulated by Queen Emma
     into a marriage with her cousin. Still, there are worse fates than
     having to wed a handsome child.
Notes
     The title is from Game of Thrones. I’ve been catching up on the
     series lately hee.
     For reference: what Charles looks like. Hot damn.
     Much love to Kageillusionz for the beta. You are wonderful and I
     added extra babbu Erik scenes just for you.
     Heed the Underage Tag! I will be deliberately vague with Erik's age
     so you can make him younger or older as you please. Stay sane and
     enjoy.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Charles’ groom is pale on the morn of their wedding. He’s a lanky, coltish
thing, not quite as impressive as his father had insisted he was, but there’s a
certain beauty about him to be sure. Erik Lehnsherr has his mother’s coloring
but his father’s build, and if his feet and his shoulders are any indication,
he will soon be towering over Charles.
For now, however, Charles has the advantage of an inch or two and more muscle
to boot.
It’s a grand ceremony with all the trappings of Frost wealth. Queen Emma
watches smugly from her perch with her mistress beside her. The whole of
Genoshan court is here, pleased to see one of their finest nobles bound in
matrimony to Frost kin. They do not know that House Xavier is effectively
neutralized once Charles marries this boy, that all of his political
maneuverings come to naught at a mere slip of a child. He had been planning to
sail off to Darkholme Keep to marry Raven and use her army to start the
rebellion. Now he would be grounded in King’s Landing, stuck playing courtier
and pandering to the Queen until the Darkholmes find another prominent House to
ally themselves with.
It is with these dark thoughts that his soon-to-be husband approaches,
trembling like a leaf in a summerstorm, the color of his eyes not unlike grass.
Tying Charles to this boy would ensure that he would have no trueborn heir, a
further insult to House Xavier.
His bridegroom doesn’t even have the tact not to stop staring at him while the
ceremony goes on. Charles stares back blankly, unwilling to show even any sign
of hesitation or resentment lest the Queen catch it. To the rest of court, he
might even look lovestruck. He wraps his cloak around the boy’s shoulders
dutifully, smoothing it over his thin shoulders and feeling the tremors still
wracking his frame. He is simply a boy, he reminds himself. The Queen plucked
him from Copperhall and sent him straight into your bed. He probably doesn’t
even know what to expect from you. As much as you resent it, he is merely an
unwitting pawn in this long game.
Charles is old enough to know how to play. So for now, he will smile and look
at his young husband like he loves him, and perhaps the Queen will be satisfied
enough with the show that he can rest easier.
The reception is a farce. Charles perhaps consumes more wine than he ought to.
Erik, however, is a joy to watch. He is a simple thing, with no ambition as far
as Charles can tell. Rather, no further ambition now that he’s secured the hand
of Xavier’s heir. Charles isn’t dense, he knows the appraising looks the boy
has been shooting him all day.
“Of course I’m the happiest man alive,” he tells Lady Grey when she asks, “I
have a beautiful boy at my side and a cup full of good wine in my hand. How
could I not be the happiest?”
Erik blushes, two bright red spots on his otherwise pale face. The ladies
titter and coo at him, talking over his head. He’s rather adorable when he’s
pleased. He may look like Lord Jakob, but his sweetness is all Lady Edie’s.
Charles thanks the Queen in a grand speech and ends it by dropping a kiss on
Erik’s hand. It’s nothing to him, nothing at all, but his groom, if anything,
deserves a happy wedding. Children ought to dream of hopeful things.
===============================================================================
Erik becomes even more fidgety as night approaches. Charles tries to ignore it
for the most part. He remembers being a virgin himself, the ache and the
anticipation, the real fear of pain. Once the bedroom door closes behind them,
the boy turns around and regards Charles shyly.
“H-How would you like me, my lord?”
It’s the first thing Erik’s said to him all day, and it sounds so scripted.
Charles nearly laughs. Well, alright, he may be stuck in the capital like a
sitting duck but there are worse fates than having wedded a handsome child.
“Lay on the bed, sweetling. Do nothing else.”
Erik haltingly does as he’s told, although he takes care to unlace his new
boots before settling on top of the bed. Charles slips his own shoes off and
discards his doublet, splashing his face with water from the basin in the wash
corner. The coldness of it sobers him a little, and by the time he turns back,
Erik has laid his head on the pillow and curled on his side.
Charles lets himself drape along one side of the bed, carrying his weight up on
one elbow and simply looking. “Hello,” he murmurs, unexpectedly tender,
brushing Erik’s hair from his eyes.
“Hello,” Erik echoes, and he stops breathing when Charles wiggles closer,
cupping his nape.
“Alright?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“None of that nonsense. You may call me Charles when we’re alone.”
“Yes, my—Charles.”
“Your Charles,” he muses. Erik ducks his head futilely; at this angle Charles
sees everything, especially the blush that heats his cheeks. “Don’t be
embarrassed, it’s only true.”
That only serves to abash Erik even more.
Charles asks, “Are you afraid of me?”
“A little. They’ve told me what would happen tonight.”
“I won’t hurt you,” Charles promises, although it’s somewhat shallow at best.
First times always managed to hurt, one way or another.
Erik lips his dry lips. “They said it would.”
“Not if your husband knows what to do.” Charles draws him closer and Erik
freezes, stiff as a board. Virgins. Charles muffles a sigh against Erik’s hair
and runs his hand from Erik’s nape to his shoulders, calming him as if he were
a child. He is one, at any rate. And Charles is twice his age.
The caress is enough to soothe him, and the more Erik starts settling down, the
longer Charles strokes, first from nape to shoulder, to between the wings of
his back, to the small of his waist, one steady circuit of motion. Erik has
tucked his face against Charles’ neck, breathing hotly over his collar bone,
and it’s strangely intimate for all that they’re virtual strangers.
When Charles pulls back to look at his face, the boy’s gaze is half-lidded,
almost sleepy. “Close your eyes,” he whispers, and Erik obeys. Charles presses
their lips together, chaste, and Erik gasps into the kiss. It’s different from
the one he had given Erik at the altar. That one was perfunctory and quick.
This one is gentle and full of intent. Erik’s eyes dart open in surprise, and
Charles swoops in again, sliding against the softness of his open mouth. It
takes him a while to emulate Charles’ motions properly, and clumsy as he is,
it’s pleasurable all the same. He’s getting hotter under Charles’ hands, and
the trembling is there again.
Charles rearranges them so that Erik is flat on his back, one hand cradling his
head and the other travelling down his front. Erik makes a little sound when
Charles’ touch creeps under his shirt and into the band of his trousers. For a
moment, Charles keeps it there, and when he speaks, his voice is threaded with
desire. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already so hot down here.”
Erik whimpers when the tips of Charles’ fingers brush against his sex, mouth
falling open. He’s delicious when he does that, with his cheeks suffused with a
flush and his lips a vivid pink. Charles slots their mouths together and
strokes Erik’s tongue with his—the kiss muffles Erik’s protest until it fades
into a hum, and Charles surges with desire, hands grabbing and his hip flexing
against Erik’s thigh.
He has to remember to be careful, but it’s difficult to think when Erik is
starting to smell good, like musk and youth, his body a hot line against
Charles’. He unbuttons the boy’s shirt almost with vehemence, tossing the
garment over the bed and attacking the bared flesh with sucking kisses. Erik
keens when Charles takes a nipple in his mouth, rolling the other bud within
his fingers.
“Oh, oh, oh!” He cries out, stiffening under Charles for one long moment before
melting back into the bedding.
“Did you,” Charles breathes, his hand slipping under Erik’s pants only to be
greeted with sticky warmth. Erik only moans weakly, head lolling on the pillow,
and Charles takes advantage of his laxness by stripping him bare. Charles’
pants and the socks join the rest of their clothes on the floor, and he shivers
when the night air cools the sweat gathered on his skin.
He rocks back on his heels when he’s done, kneeling over the sated boy on his
bed. Erik looks all but sapped of energy, but Charles remembers being young and
hungry for touch. It won’t be long before Erik will be panting for another
‘little death’.
He dips his head and tongues at Erik’s navel, amused at the way he flinches and
tries to curl away. “Not there, please.”
“Why not?”
Erik’s hand comes up to cover his face. “I don’t like it.”
“Does it tickle?” Charles asks, pressing the tip of his finger into the indent.
“Ah!” Erik bats his hand away, turning his head into his arm. It leaves his
neck exposed even as it hides his face, and Charles breathes into his ear,
immediately gratified when Erik keens and curls his fingers into the meat of
Charles’ shoulder.
There’s a pot of oil warming on the side table. Charles slicks his fingers with
it and manhandles Erik on his side, the better to reach his hole. He doesn’t
move when Charles parts his cheeks and prods at him there, but he shivers,
letting Charles kiss him even as his fingers circle his entrance, warming the
rim. Charles tells himself he won’t go too fast, although his cock is a heavy
weight between his legs, an aching reminder that by all rights he can have this
boy however he likes however he pleases. When he slips a finger in, Erik mewls
and turns away, clutching the edge of his pillow closer.
It takes a while to get Erik used to the sensation. By the time he gets his
finger in to the last knuckle, Charles’ wrist is already cramping from the
angle, so he busses a kiss against Erik’s neck and withdraws. “Like this,” he
tells the boy, turning him on his hands and knees. Charles is wavering, looking
at Erik’s narrow hips. How on earth do they expect him to carry on his marital
duties when his husband looks like he could be blown away by a stiff breeze?
Nothing for it. Erik’s muscles are twitching with excitement, his pucker
clenching and unclenching in the open air. Charles wants to dip his tongue in
it, so he does. Erik yelps, craning his neck over his shoulder to watch
Charles, not sure if he should move away or towards the sensation. He’s hard
again when Charles cups him in his palm. He imagines his beard must be tickling
the soft skin of Erik’s arse, that maybe if he kissed him there long enough
he’d buff the boy’s skin red just from that.
Erik has a dimple right above the crease of his rear. It’s the perfect spot to
tongue at when his oiled fingers start circling the rim of Erik’s hole again.
The angle makes it easier to slip his finger in.
“Does it hurt?”
Erik is panting beneath him, resting his cheek on his folded arms while he
keeps his knees open for his husband, darling child. “What?” He breathes.
“I said, does it hurt, Erik?”
The boy shakes his head, and Charles licks his lips and curves his finger,
questing. “Cha—ah!” Erik yelps when Charles taps at a certain spot, his back
arching and his hips moving fluidly into the touch. “What was—was—”
“Good?” Charles grins, and does it again. Erik moans into the pillow, long and
high, and his hips flex on instinct. Charles manages to add a second finger,
twisting them around and stretching the rim before Erik comes again, his mouth
wet and open beside the fist he’s clutched onto the sheet.
“Oh, sweetling,” Charles says, and he has to fuck Erik now or he’ll burn from
within. It will hurt at this point, and two fingers are barely enough
preparation for a prick of Charles’ girth. He can compromise, though. By the
time morning comes, they’ll be looking for Charles’ seed inside of Erik to
validate the marriage contract, but Charles can cheat his way around that.
He slicks himself with oil, keeping Erik on his stomach. Grips the boy’s rear
with both of his hands, marvelling at how firm it is in his grasp. He’s not
unaware of Erik’s training as a noble son. Undoubtedly he’d be skilled with a
sword and a horse, and it shows in the trim muscles revealed on his strong
thighs and arms. Oh, but what pleasure, to slide his shaft between the globes
of the boy’s arse! Charles squeezes them together with his hands, using his
thumb to keep his prick pressed close to the crease. It’s enough to get him
off, close to orgasm as he already is.
“Erik, Erik, open yourself up for me,” Charles commands with a voice rough from
desire. “Use your hands and part your arse.”
Erik hesitates for a moment, but he obeys, blushing at his crudeness, doesn’t
even question Charles when he reaches around himself and grips his cheeks open.
Charles pumps himself and presses close, strewing his seed straight into that
pucker. Not all of it gets in, and Erik is a right mess because of it, so when
Charles has enough energy to think straight, he gathers the leftover come and
pushes it into the rim, making the boy moan.
“I thought you would...why didn’t you?” Erik asks.
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Aren’t you supposed to...to…”
Charles’ mouth quirks as he settles beside his impossibly young husband,
finishing his sentence for him. “Put it in?” Erik nods, still blushing.
“When they ask, you must tell them I did,” Charles tells him. “However,
considering that you’re still so inexperienced, we’ll save that for another
time. You’re young yet, we’ll work up to it. Are you in pain?”
“No,” Erik says, “Not at all.”
“I’m glad, then.” Charles rises to snuff out the candles, ignoring the mess of
clothes on the floor. Erik slips under the sheets while he’s busy, and he’s
flushing wildly when Charles’ come leaks out of his hole and onto his thigh.
Charles catches the look and plugs him with the tips of his fingers when he
comes back to bed, feeling a little silly for already being so possessive and
enamoured with this shy creature.
“Goodnight,” Erik murmurs, tucking his head under Charles’ chin. Charles kisses
his hair and whispers his reply, gathering him close. He will be a good spouse,
if anything. If it will take playing pander to the Queen to protect them, so be
it. It is only wind and words, after all. The game of thrones is far from over.
Chapter End Notes
     That last_scene, for reference. Nsfw.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Erik adjusts to life at the Red Keep a week after his wedding. He's
     starting to learn that Queen Emma's court isn't all glitter and
     pleasure.
Chapter Notes
     Shout out to Ikeracity for being my personal cheerleader.
     Warning for attempted sexual assault.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When the Queen’s letter had arrived, Erik had been out hawking with his younger
brother. Max’s leg was doing much better after falling off his horse some weeks
ago, and they celebrated by doing exactly what caused the injury in the first
place. Ruth even had the time to be with them, busy as she was training under
their father to be Lady of Copperhall.
At eighteen, Ruth was a woman all her own. Erik was closer to her age, but she
always grouped him with Max’s babyish nine. It wasn’t just her place as
firstborn that made everyone regard her differently—she had a worldly air to
her beyond her years. “Old soul,” their mother had once remarked. “Look at the
lines on her palm, they’re very deep.”
Erik had looked at his palm then, and wondered if in those very grooves lay his
destiny. His lifeline seemed definite, although they branched into smaller
lines further down his palm. He wondered what it meant. A lifetime of hardship,
mayhaps? A life full of what-could-have-beens?
No matter.
By the time they’d come back from the hunt, they were sweating and winded,
breathless and laughing. Ruth’s hair had fallen from her bun into dark waves on
her back, and she looked so much like their mother. Max was retelling the way
his hawk had flown and caught its game, and their handlers nodded as if they
were paying attention. There were three of them, one for each Lehnhserr child,
all guards of good skill and gentle temperaments. Erik had been in a good
enough mood to entertain his noisy little brother, though it had quickly soured
once they got back to the castle.
“Married!” Erik had exclaimed, the food from his fork dropping unnoticed back
to his plate. The table had gone quiet at the announcement. Max was too young
to entertain the thought and Ruth was already engaged to a southern noble.
Their parents had been dropping hints of possible betrothals since the summer
Erik had turned twelve, but none of those had come to fruition, and Erik
thought he’d have to wait longer to leave home. “To whom?”
Jakob could not look anymore pleased if he tried. “To the man who owns the
richest land in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“The Westerlands?”
“Aye, boy. You’ll be marrying into the noble house of Xavier.”
“Isn’t he twice Erik’s age?” Ruth questioned.
“...Yes, he’s much older,” Edie conceded. “But he’s a man of outstanding
character. The Queen thinks very highly of him. Why, I met him when he was just
a lad and he’s still as handsome now.”
Erik felt his cheeks heat up in a flush. “That is...very good, isn’t it?”
“It’s wonderful news,” Jakob said. Edie placed a hand on his knee and gave
Jakob a meaningful look.
Max blurted out, “But what about babies?”
“Babies?” Erik squawked.
“Max, don’t ask that,” Ruth interjected hotly, “That’s very rude.” Max pouted
and kicked at his feet under the table, accidentally catching Erik’s knee.
“Max!”
“Hush, all of you,” Edie commanded. “Enough of that now. Finish your dinner.”
That night, Erik’s father had taken him aside and explained what the wedding
night would be like. Erik’s knowledge of sex was limited to old books on the
subject and overhearing the guards’ bawdy jokes, but he knew enough that
Jakob’s euphemisms of “lance” and “hoop” made him cringe in mortification. He
emphasized that Lord Charles should “break his lance” inside Erik, so that the
marriage would be deemed valid, although he was told that he needn’t worry
overly much; Charles had been married to a man once before. He would know what
to do.
Erik could barely sleep that night, his mind wandering through dim hallways and
prancing shadows. Marriage! It was a thought that both excited and scared him.
The Queen had implored them to make their way to King’s Landing as quickly as
possible, and after tomorrow’s frantic packing, they’d be off to the capital in
less than a fortnight.
===============================================================================
 
In truth, Lord Charles exceeds any and all of Erik’s expectations. He’s
remarkably handsome, as Erik’s mother had promised, the very picture of
gentility. He has eyes so blue sometimes Erik catches himself staring, and his
touch is soft when he cups the nape of Erik’s neck to kiss him. He’s obviously
a court favorite, and a personal favorite of the Queen’s. No one has a bad
tongue against Lord Charles, at least, no one to Erik’s knowledge.
It is a good marriage all in all. A week after being wedded and bedded, Erik
thinks less of him as a stranger and more of “husband” and “mine”. It’s a giddy
thought. He feels even worldlier than Ruth, who is still a maid and has years
to go before her own wedding.
Right now Charles is undoing him with a finger up his arse and a mouth on his
nipple, and Erik can’t help his moaning despite his efforts not to. The castle
is made up of thick stone that makes the sound echo all around, and it’s
embarrassing to hear how wanton he is even if he and Charles are alone.
“Oh…” Erik breathes, writhing upon the sheets, head flung back in the pillows
as the pleasure spirals higher, Charles’ touch insistent on that spot inside
him. He’d never known that such a part of him existed, and now it’s all he can
do not to crave it all the time. It’s a different sensation from coming with
his prick, so much more richer and encompassing, and try as he might, it isn’t
possible to replicate it without Charles’ touch to inflame him.
“Come for me, sweetling,” Charles tells him, deep and rough, and it’s the naked
lust in that voice that pushes Erik over. It’s almost overwhelming to be the
focus of this kind of attention, and if Erik hadn’t been a little in love with
his husband the moment he saw him, the satiation from his marriage bed would
have convinced him otherwise.
He’s a little insensate after orgasm, and he has a feeling Charles likes him
like this, splayed out and glowing by candlelight. Charles ranges over him, one
hand on the bed by Erik’s flank to support him, the other pumping frantically
at his cock, adding to the mess at Erik’s navel. Erik drifts in and out, still
trembling as if his body is housing lightning in it, even as Charles cleans him
up with a rag and tucks him into the curve of his body.
It has been a week and Charles is nothing if not attentive at night even if he
sees so little of him during the day. Erik doesn’t know how to miss him yet,
although he’s sure to learn. His family will be heading back home by the
month’s end, and soon Erik’s days will be empty of Max’s boundless enthusiasm
(a kinder word for his brattishness), and Ruth’s dry wit. There will be no
mother to offer him stern but gentle words and no father to comfort him with
his steady presence. In essence, Charles will be the only family Erik will be
able to call his own.
There’s Charles’ personal valet, of course, who is by extension Erik’s. There
are the maids and footmen in Xavier livery that are quiet, quick and efficient
who are also Erik’s by virtue of marriage. Erik now half-owns the wide expanse
of the Westerlands, which he has never seen before. He is younger than much of
the Queen’s court, and he is like soft bread thrown to hungry ducks. Erik
always feels like they are laughing at him behind his back. He must seem rough
and provincial to them, having come from a home hewn straight from mountain
rock and a people who are similarly mannered.
Erik spends his days polishing himself for court and taking lessons from
tutors, although every now and then Queen Emma will invite a select few of the
nobles for tea or to join her in breaking her fast. It is good of her to ask
for Erik, Charles says.
“It’s no small thing for the Queen to show you favor,” he had explained as the
valets helped him dress earlier that morning. “That you’re her kin is advantage
enough.”
“Must we always try to please the Queen?” Erik had asked, rather foolishly in
retrospect. He was still dazed from their early morning...activities. Charles
turned around to face him, his eyebrows raised up in surprise.
“Why, of course, sweetling. It’s why we’re here in the first place.”
“Why aren’t we in your home, though? Why do we live so far away?”
“Her Grace needs me here to be Master of Coin,” Charles replied, turning away.
“And my reach of influence is more considerable here in the capital than at
home.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. What else are you doing today?”
“Lessons after breakfast with Her Grace, and then I’ll be with my mother and my
siblings. Won’t you join us for lunch?”
“Hmm. I have business that might go well beyond noon, but I’ll send word if I
can make it. Where will you be?”
“In the solar, I think.”
“Very well.” Charles steps closer and fixes Erik’s fringe, cupping his nape and
pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth. “I apologize if I won’t be able to make it
later.”
“It’s alright,” Erik flushes self-consciously.
With one last peck, Charles departs, and Erik finishes dressing to attend to
the Queen.
===============================================================================
 
The tea from beyond the Eastern shores is fragrant and grassy. Erik wrinkles
his nose the first time he tastes it.
“Is it not to your liking, my child?” The Queen asks. She is regal and as hard
as any diamond, her hair twisted up intimidatingly in the latest fashion,
although she is sweet to him. He is the youngest of her small table of
courtiers, and he feels like they are humoring him for his sake.
“It’s...different, Your Grace,” he confesses, “We don’t have this back in
Eisen.”
She gives a laugh that is surely practiced to sound like a bird. “Of course, of
course! Well then, my dear Lord Erik, it’s important that you learn to acquire
the taste. This is what civilized people like to drink, after all.”
He understands the insult a moment too late. His cheeks burn with shame, which
prompts another gentle laugh from her, and the lords and ladies with them
titter accordingly. He stays quiet and lets them talk and coo over him, teasing
him and making insinuations about his marital activities.
By the time the Queen dismisses them, he’s feeling mulish and down and
embarrassed for himself. It’s petty and childish to feel so, but he finds he
has no patience for courtly talk. Every word that drops from their lips is
embellished and gilded with gold, 'nothing at all like the straightforward talk
at home. It’s maddening. And all of court talks this way!
So far have his thoughts have wandered that Erik doesn’t realize he’s made a
turn he shouldn’t have, and now he is lost within this maze of a castle. He
mutters a curse under his breath and makes to turn back when a hand catches at
his shoulder. He flinches.
“Lost, boy?”
The speaker is a man that towers over him by a head, and his brocade shirt
distinguishes him as a noble. Despite the cut of his doublet, it does not quite
disguise the bulge of his belly or the droop of his jowls. “Er, yes, my lord.”
“Where are you off to?”
“The Hand’s Tower, my lord?”
“That’s quite far,” the man says. “Pretty boy like you? That’s quite far.”
Erik nods. He’s starting to feel uncomfortable, although he isn’t sure why. “If
you’ll excuse me so I might bother a servant instead of my lord.” He bows just
enough to pay respects to an older noble and immediately turns on his heel, but
the man catches him by the shoulder again. A servant passes by carrying a tray
laden with food. She glances at Erik as if she recognizes him but keeps her
head down and disappears right into the corner.
“Here’s what you’re going to do, boy,” and now the man is drawing uncomfortably
close, his breath stinking of burning wine. “I want you to turn left from here.
You’re going to enter the first room that you see. Take your clothes off and
lie down on the bed.”
Erik’s heart is starting to race, although his whole body has gone cold and he
is frozen, rooted to the spot. The man grabs his wrist in one large, meaty arm,
and presses his hand to his crotch, manually making Erik rub him. Erik tries to
pull back, but the fear and shame drain him of strength, and he can only turn
his face away. Nobody has ever...how could this man just…right in the Queen’s
castle...
“No!” Erik screams, finally gaining his head, trying to kick away.
“Be quiet, boy, or I’ll whip you!”
“Lord William Stryker.”
Erik’s heart stops. His vision is blurred by disbelieving tears, but he
recognizes Charles’ voice instantly. Lord William is distracted enough by
Charles’ arrival that his grip on Erik loosens; Erik bolts, rushing to his
husband’s side. Charles’ face is blank, but the purse of his lips is nothing
but less than pleased.
He touches the corner of Erik’s jaw and sweeps away a tear track, and then he
is descending upon the other noble like a viper upon prey. There is the glint
of metal as Lord William is backed into a column with a dagger at his throat.
The movement had been so quick Erik had barely even caught it.
“Lord William,” Charles repeats, and it sounds as grave as a death sentence.
The man sputters, gasping at the threat of something so sharp on his skin. “You
filthy, pathetic excuse of a man. I should cut you where you stand, feed your
cock to the pigs and send your stones to your wife in a jar.” Charles produces
another dagger and drags it against the shrinking bulge of Stryker’s manhood.
“Mark my words, this is no idle threat.”
“I swear, I didn’t know he was your husband!”
“I find that hard to believe, considering you were there at my wedding.”
Lord William’s face is purple from anger and fear when Charles digs his blade
harder against his neck and his groin. “If we were not in the sanctity of the
Queen's walls, you would already be trying to force your entrails back into
your stomach. Do not touch my husband again so I shall not have a reason to
castrate you. Understood?”
“Yes!”
“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement, then.” Charles withdraws. Lord William
sags in relief against the column, only to squeal like a pig when a dagger
flies and embeds itself near his face. “Forgive me, my lord,” Charles says with
all the air of a predator, threat barely disguised by courtly veneer. “I cannot
stand the sight of you at the moment. It would be the best if you left now
unless you're eager to have your bowels cut from you.”
The man needn't to be told twice. Charles turns to Erik once Lord William is
out of sight, and he sheathes his daggers back with care into their holsters by
his thighs. “Did he harm you badly, sweetling?” he asks gently, cupping Erik’s
face. For some unfathomable reason, it makes the back of Erik’s eyes prickle,
and Charles holds him while he shakes and cries out the rest of his fear away.
===============================================================================
 
They do end up a little late for lunch with Erik’s family, but nobody takes
offense, and soon they are all ensconced in the solar of the Tower of the Hand.
Ser James Howlett is a close friend of Erik’s father, and he often invites them
to dine with him while they’re staying here. He’s taken a liking to Max, of all
things, which Erik finds preposterous as Max’s older brother.
“Jakob,” Charles greets effusively, clasping their hands together. He nods at
Ser James and places a kiss at the back of Edie’s hand. “Lady Edie, you grow
lovelier every time I see you.” Edie laughs and ruffles his hair as if he were
merely a pageboy. It’s strange, to think that his parents and his husband are
of an age.
The table is divided in such a way that Erik and his siblings are seated on one
end and the older adults are on another. Charles is beside him, of course,
which is a given. His presence is distracting, because Charles by virtue is
always a distraction, but Erik thinks he does well by entertaining himself with
his siblings. Ruth is sharing the gossip she’s learned about the other young
ladies at court from her time with Lady Jean, and Max is interjecting with
anecdotes from his time running around the marketplace, much to their handlers’
consternations.
Only once does Erik finds himself drifting back to the lonely hallway where
Lord William had cornered him, trying to make sense of a world where nobles
weren’t...well, noble, and even young lords from great kingdoms can be victims
of sexual assault no matter his rank.
“Erik,” Charles murmurs, squeezing his thigh, drawing him back to the present.
Erik blinks and smiles, placing his hand over his husband’s. He’s alright, he
tries to convey with his eyes. Truly. He will be.
The disgusted look on Max’s face at their quiet display of affection is enough
to make even Erik laugh, and his melancholy breaks like sunlight through heavy
clouds.
===============================================================================
 Later that night, after he’s cleaned up Charles’ spend between his thighs,
Erik curls up into his husband’s chest and whispers, “I was so stupid with fear
I couldn’t even move. He made me touch him...there. And I didn’t know what to
do.”
“You’re safe now,” Charles reassures him. "I made sure he won't touch you
again."
“You did. But you won’t always be there to help me.”
“Would you feel safer with a guard, sweetling?”
“I want to learn how to fight.” Erik’s hands clench into fists. “I cannot
always rely upon someone to save me. Will you teach me, Charles?”
“From swordplay in the bedroom to swordplay in the field,” Charles muses. He
receives a playful smack on his chest for it. Erik’s ears are hot even when
they’ve done much more than mere...swordplay. “Very well, my darling. We’ll
make arrangements in the morning. For now, let us sleep. Shall I sing you a
lullabye? Rock you to slumber?”
“You’re insufferable,” Erik grumps, turning away and bringing half the sheets
with him. Charles laughs and kisses his shoulder, dragging him back into his
circle of arms.
“I will give you the weapons you need to survive this court,” Charles promises
quietly in his ear, oddly fervent. “And when the time comes, we will do more
than merely survive.”
 
Chapter End Notes
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