(Fictional a/b/o Elizabethan era-ish au)
Being an omega and the fifth in line for the title, the young lord of Chambriath was forced to believe that being wedded to the man of his father's choice and bearing his children was the only purpose of Har...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
High atop the endless ocean of architecture, Louis gulps down his rum as the tender breeze swirls past him, the capital city buzzing beneath him, beneath the royal castle. The burn of the raw intoxicant travels down his throat and into his insides, yet never filling that hollowness that only seems to have grown over the years.
It has been four years already, countless moons he craved for Harry's mere touch, a faint trace of his voice — anything. But here he is, an emperor now, reigning thousands without having the reigns to his own sanity. He is lost, a broken piece of glass joined together in faux valour, a show-thing for the commonality to admire. If only they knew just how hollow he was, how his heroism in the many wars was nothing but his sole desire to finally attain the antidote to his pain that death was, yet surviving them all, conquering land after land.
And as Enshire expanded, so did the void within him.
His father was gone now, a victim of Louis' fury. Though driven by a broken lover's rage, Louis does not regret one bit of the agony that he put the man through. But nothing soothed the wound that Harry left behind — no riches, no conquests. Louis died the night Harry did, and all that was left of him was a carcass that moved and breathed and attended to his duties, fuelled by the misery of being the mate that lived.
He wishes for nothing more than death — apart from his Harry, of course — but he knows he has a duty to the kingdom, and has the lives of thousands in the clutch of his hand. But perhaps it is time, after all; the raven had arrived in the morrow, now lying on the table in Louis' bed chambers' balcony, the seal of Durgen broken and the words inked already read. The Marquess of Durgen had written to the capital, informing about the uprising invasion Anthia had been conspiring. The war is inevitable, Louis has known that for a while, even before the scroll had arrived. Rejecting Princess Elina of Anthia was of great disrespect to the King, and Louis was well aware of the consequences of that, but he could not bring himself to remarry. He never can.
Jaime was not impressed with his decision, now his most trusted advisor, and had insisted he reconsider the proposal and think about his duty to the kingdom for an heir. Louis had massacred the courtroom in a span of a butterfly wing's flutter, age-old chairs broken as he thundered Jaime with bitter words, threatening his life for even considering Louis would bed anyone else.
"They are waiting for your command, your majesty." With a sharp flicker of his eyes to the corner, Louis makes out Liam's stoic form, fine silver shining in its glory as he stands armoured, helmet in hand and his breastplate indented with the years of battling he had done alongside Louis, before returning them to the blue and the white of the sky.
"Must I remind you, Liam? You are allowed to address me by my name, you are the last family I have left, Do not disown me as your own by using those grotesque titles when we are in solitary." Downing the last of his drink, Louis sets the goblet on the table, a clink ringing through the wordless air, knowing Liam's eyes must be fixated on it. "Are the stallions prepared?"
