Glory in Our Defiance • Zarry

4. - Chasing Your Warmth

1485 - York, England

For the future King of England, Zayn has certainly spent too much time in taverns and inns, drinking and getting lost in strangers' bodies for just one night. He didn't keep his virtue protected, he surely wasn't saving himself for the inevitable arranged marriage. In a way, it was a protest against the clutches of war that have been holding him hostage even before he was born. It was a rebellion, against his princely manners that have been drilled into his head, against the expectations that are haunting him.

Drinking with his biggest enemy was the biggest surge of resistance without a doubt. They're just political enemesies after all. Two young men, born of war and meant to take the throne and rule England. They might have even been friends in a different world. If it wasn't for the decades old feud between their ancestors, Harry might've even lived amongst the many nobles at Windsor Castle. But that isn't the reality.

Zayn easily said yes to Harry's offer of a drink. Was it reckless? Absolutely. Could Harry possibly be planning to poison his or get him drunk and murder him? Without a doubt. Is Zayn willing to risk it? Certainly.

It feels like freedom, somehow. Sitting at a table with Harry Styles, the man who wants his throne, the two of them talking as if they were friends and not men designer to meet head to head on a battlefield one day. It is a contempt to all the lives lost in the war. They might as well be laughing into their father's faces, the King and a Lord who died on the battlefield just months apart. Yet, neither of them feels guilty.

They drink a pitcher of wine together like there wasn't a white rose on the sleeve of Harry's shirt, like there wasn't a red one on Zayn's ring. Because does it even matter? Fucking roses and bloodlines. It means nothing if there isn't peace and their people are suffering.

"You know," Harry slurs, setting his cup down on the stucky table. "My mother always sends me off with the words 'Kill him.' As in you."

Zayn nods his head once, downing the rest of his wine. "Figures."

"But I don't want that?" Harry says, propping his cheek on his hand. "Like... why can't we just... settle this? It's clear the throne should be mine, right?"

Zayn laughs and then hiccups. Fuck, he's drunk.

"Styles, did you even get your basic education? Can you not read?"

Harry frowns at him, an offended look on his face. "Did you learn how to read?"

"I did!" Zayn slurs. "Because the records say that I'm the rightful heir to the throne. Your grandfather and father were usurpers. Traitors, really."

Harry groans, trying to pour some more wine only to find the pitcher empty. "This is bullshit. It's been like... thirty years, why haven't we won the war yet? You haven't even fought in a single battle."

"Divine intervention," Zayn remarks. "The God knows the truth and he cannot let you win."

Harry squints suspiciously. "Do you believe that?"

Zayn shrugs. "Why not?"

"I hate you," Harry says suddenly. "You are sitting on my throne."

"You wish, love," Zayn snicker. He really fucking wants more wine but his inebriated brain can't really process the command to ask for more. "Besides, my uncle is sitting on the throne right now."

"You're of age. Why aren't you?" Harry asks, his green eyes piercing Zayn with their gaze.

"Is this the Styles way of getting some intelligence about their enemies? Not spies but drinking together in dingy taverns?" Zayn wonders, his drunk eyes focusing on Harry. He hates to admit it, but the man is pretty fucking handsome. Even now, half lying on the table with glassy eyes.