Chapter Text
Soap stalked inside like a whirlwind of poorly concealed fury hidden behind a winning smile, feeling inexorably calm despite the cooling sweat on his brow and his relative state of undress.
Let them stare, he thought, smile sharpening to a razor sharp point in the face of Simon’s withering regard.
Much to his disappointment, it didn’t take long for Simon to recover. “Well, I was hoping to save you all from my cousin’s curiosity, should’ve known he wouldn’t be content waiting his turn.”
A polite chuckle rippled across the assembly, and Soap watched the once scandalised, intrigued throng of faces smooth over with indulgent amusement.
Soap gnashed his teeth. I see what you’re doing. He was painting Soap as a spoiled, impatient child, trying to mitigate the damage before he had the chance to work his magic.
He only lifted his chin with an unabashed smirk at Simon’s expense. You’ll have to do better than that.
In the chaos of Soap’s arrival, a conspicuous space at the table had been made by Simon’s left side – a clear invitation that he had no intention of taking.
Trying to regain control? But no, that wouldn’t do at all; how was Soap supposed to get information out of these toffs with Simon breathing down his neck?
Soap scanned the room for his mercurial, hulking bodyguard, only to find him curiously absent. Especially without Ghost around – I don’t think I’ll ever get a better chance than this.
Rather than continue marching towards Simon as planned, Soap stopped abruptly at the foot of the table, palms raised in mock surrender.
“Oh, no, don’t mind me,” Soap drawled. “I don’t need to witness your idea of.” He gestured dismissively towards Simon, allowing genuine revulsion to wrinkle his nose. “‘Courting’ up close. Don’t want to lose my appetite just yet.”
A startled giggle drew his attention, and Soap blinked at the young lass sitting by the end of the table, the mortified flush stealing over her pale cheeks the same hue as the mop of red curls on her head.
He recognised her as the starry-eyed, buxom young woman from the pools, and quashing his envy, he offered her a beaming smile that only widened in the face of her deepening blush.
“Hello,” Soap said in a low, conspiratorial hush. “I don’t mean to interrupt, would you mind if I sit by you?”
“Oh, of course not,” she breathed, her sweet voice hitching as she seemed to register the precarious position Soap had put her in. She had the good sense to steal a nervous glance towards the king, but Simon had long since directed his attention to Lady Mara.
Pretending I’m not here. Though the gap beside him had not been filled, Soap noted with a nervous thrill.
Dragging his eyes away, he found a new, vacant spot between the blushing young red-head, and a hulking, darker man with strange dots curved into the flesh of his muscled arms.
That was Mace, if he remembered correctly, but he wasn’t sure what to make of the silent, stone-faced fae, a near polar opposite to the cheery woman on Soap’s left.
Though even with her bright-eyed, youthful appearance, he had to remind himself she likely had decades, if not centuries, of life experience over him.
Luckily for him, a chair materialised in place before Soap had to make a paltry attempt at summoning his own. Simon evidently wasn’t so hellbent on humiliating Soap, that he was willing to let a member of his own supposed family be shown as a talentless hack.
He draped himself onto the chair with a huff. Small fuckin’ mercies.
The rest of Simon’s playthings resumed their low conversations amongst themselves, but if they were anything like the human court, Soap was almost certain they all had an ear still aimed in his direction.
“So,” his neighbour began, giving her flute of bubbles a delicate sniff. “That was an… impressive entrance, Master Beausoleil.”
Soap frowned at the conspicuously empty place setting in front of him. No glass for me. Though maybe that was a good thing – he needed a clear head if he wanted to make it through this brunch alive.
“Just John will do…” Soap cut himself off before he could make the mistake of asking for her name.
Might as well just announce my humanity to the entire realm.
She rattled off a title so long that Soap could scarcely comprehend, but he offered a slow smile to cover his uncertainty. “Sylvia,” he said, drawing out the syllables of her name like he was savouring them. “What a shame.”
She set her drink down, more curious than offended. “What is?”
He offered a slow smile. “That a lovely lady like yourself has been caught in my cousin’s schemes.”
Gods above, that was terrible. At least Simon wasn’t close enough to bear witness to his horrible attempt at flirting – it’d been too long since he’d been in court.
To his amazement, Sylvia rewarded him with another sharp titter, green eyes widening as though he’d shocked the noise out of her.
Casting a surreptitious glance up the table, she cleared her throat. “Oh, no, it’s an honour, of course,” she said. Biting her lip, her eyes flitted up and down Soap’s person, lingering on his partially exposed chest. “But your arrival is most welcome.”
Well. Soap blinked, nonplussed. That’s…something.
With his skin still damp with sweat, and his unkempt hair threatening to curl over his brow, Soap doubted his sweaty visage was so instantly irresistible, as much as his relative proximity to the throne was.
He’d learnt the hard way not to trust fae who appeared overly interested in him from the word go.
Resisting the urge to close his shirt, Soap affected an apologetic wince. “Ah, you’re too kind,” he said. “But I know I’ve wandered in smelling like a bog, there’s no need to sugarcoat it.”
Her rosebud mouth had barely opened, when an unfamiliar voice cut over the din.
“It’s no bother, I smell nothing terrible.”
Soap looked up.
A lithe fae sitting diagonally across regarded Soap with an icy blue stare, the beautifully harsh planes of his face curved with a leering smirk. “The view is very nice,” he added, the words thick with an accent he couldn’t hope to place, though his suggestive timbre was unmistakable.
Soap shifted in his chair, pulse quickening beneath his interest. Aside from the wheat coloured shade of his curls, the man shared few other similarities to Simon, and yet the warm bloom of interest in his veins felt wholly familiar.
Fucking fae.
“I am Elias,” he offered, garishly ringed fingers wiggling in a loose approximation of a wave.
The man’s neighbour - a dark-haired man with narrow, brown eyes - let out a long suffering sigh. “Behave,” he said flatly.
Elias slung a lazy arm over the back of the man’s chair, a fond hum threading his amused murmur, “The smell of sex doesn’t usually bother you, Iain.”
That gave Soap some pause. Sorry, the smell of what?
Iain’s handsome face twisted sourly. In a language Soap couldn’t parse, he hissed, “T’es vraiment un connard.”
Elias must misread Soap’s confusion for some form of apprehension, because he scoffed and added, “There’s no need to lie, it’s obvious.”
It is?
His non-engagement ring masquerading as a chastity belt notwithstanding, Soap didn’t think Price fucking him over by running him ragged in the training course was at all comparable.
The invisible ring on his finger weighed heavy like an iron shackle as he caught his warped reflection in the curves of Iain’s goblet. And how would a virgin like you know?
Soap was hardly going to disabuse them of their laughable misconceptions, no matter how unbelievable they were. He scooped up a ripe plum from a nearby platter to occupy his nervous fingers.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said with feigned innocence. “I would never want to embarrass the king like that.”
“I’m not sure you could,” Iain droned in a bored monotone, his sour mood seemingly dampened. “Maybe if you were anyone else.”
Elias cocked his head sideways, brow furrowed. “It’s not against the rules to have lovers. It is bold to flaunt it so soon, though.” He did not sound at all disapproving of that fact. “Even if you are the front-runner.“
Soap nearly let plum juice dribble from his slack mouth. The front runner? He’d laugh, if he didn’t fear it’d turn into something hysterical.
Sylvia chose that moment to speak up, “I think that would be Lady Mara, no?”
Elias looked faintly pitying. “It is what he would like us to think.” His shrewd gaze fell on Soap. “The pools say otherwise, no? You two are most…compatible.”
Soap took a deliberate bite of his plum and shrugged, even as his heart ratcheted up to new heights.
“It doesn’t just take compatibility into account,” Iain argued. “It’s magical familiarity, strength, political standing –”
“Yes, yes,” Elias groaned, lips curling into a pout. “But this is not as fun as my explanation.“
“Fun, or salacious?”
A low, smooth voice cut through their bickering, “Interesting accent you’ve got there.”
Soap leaned back in his chair, affecting a politely interested facade as he regarded Mace, whose dark eyes now bored a hole in his temple.
It’s fine, it’s fine.
“Aye,” Soap said with forced evenness. “Barbaric thing, isn’t it?”
Sylvia interjected quickly, “I don’t mind it.”
“Wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Iain said.
At her confused stare, Elias shook his head. “Is human. Obviously.”
That Soap didn’t visibly flinch was a minor miracle, and just as well he hadn’t, because Mace cut in with a chuckle. “Sounds human, you mean,“ he said.
Elias fobbed him off with a dismissive wave. “Is as I said?“
It most certainly was not, Soap thought, bracing himself for the inevitable interrogation that was sure to follow.
It’d been foolish to think he’d be able to avoid this conversation indefinitely, but the talk of sex and dubious front runners had lulled him into a false sense of security.
“Wouldn’t make for a convincing human if I sounded like this,” Soap drawled, flattening his accent into the same dull, posh sound that most of Simon’s court favoured.
“So you are in the one-four-one.” Sylvia perked up, almost tripping over her words to gush, “Is that why you’re only debuting now?” She blinked rapidly, as though startled by her own impropriety. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”
Soap was seconds from answering, when he caught sight of Iain’s dark brows knitting in a deep frown.
Gods, here we go.
“So you knew the Prince,” Iain said with astonishing bluntness, punching Soap’s breath clean from his lungs.
He chewed slowly as he gathered his racing thoughts. He’d expected the creatures infamous for wielding words as deadly as any magic, to be less… direct.
“Which one would that be?” Soap arranged his expression into something politely neutral.
He was assailed by the unnerving sensation of several incredulous fae stares falling on him at once.
“The human one, I imagine,” Mace said, sounding inordinately amused. “We heard that you’d been stationed in close proximity to their court.”
Did you now.
Soap hummed in thought, making a show of inspecting the mangled flesh of the fruit in his sticky fingers. Licking his lips, he let out a bored sigh and said, “Oh, MacTavish, you mean?“ He offered a suitably humourless smile. “Afraid I can’t talk about any of that, or my dear cousin will have me executed.”
The mention of his true identity, even in passing, caused the inert lump of metal on his ring finger to radiate a sharp wave of heat in warning. He wondered if the weight of Simon’s eyes prickling the side of his face were real or imagined, but he couldn’t risk looking at him now.
Sylvia looked fit to burst, eyes sparkling as she spoke in a harried rush. “Does that mean – were you behind his –”
“Some tact, Sylvie,” Mace interrupted with a shake of his head. “He obviously can’t talk about it either way.”
Soap couldn’t possibly imagine what either of them thought he was behind.
Don’t ask, he begged himself, not when Mace had only just offered him an easy out from this conversational deathtrap, but his thoughts were already running rampant. He’d heard no real news from the human realm since he’d escaped, and even fanciful gossip from these navel-gazers would be better than nothing.
“Behind what?“ Soap asked, without a single shred of artifice, his bemused expression unchanged in the face of their incredulity.
Elias deflated in his seat, the harsh lines of his face softened by his pouting lips. “Oh, he’s good,” he complained.
Mace hummed absently, before acknowledging Soap with a twitch of his lip. “She thinks you’re behind the human prince’s disappearance.”
Elias snorted. “That’s a nice way of saying he’s hiding.”
Hit bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself from shouting, ‘I’m not hiding, I’m right fucking here,’ to the rooftops.
Soap casually directed his gaze towards Mace’s forehead, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the danger that came with looking another fae in the eyes.
Mace nodded in approval. “Smart man.”
Should’ve trained my mental defences more, he fretted.
Sylvia only looked beyond Soap to arch a brow at Mace, who gazed steadily back. “Well?” She asked
What?
Sylvia took pity on Soap’s obvious bafflement. “Mace was part of the one-four-one–“
“The esteemed lady has a habit of overselling things,” Mace warned, but she continued on without missing a beat.
“– he trained personally with.” Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. “Ghost.”
From the shape of her wide, twinkling eyes, Soap gathered that he was supposed to be impressed by this knowledge, but he couldn’t muster up more than a half-hearted, “Ah.”
It was hard to be impressed, when his own training had amounted to one bizarre one-on-one session that ended with Soap in a tangle of limbs with Ghost on the training room floor.
Soap eyed the odd, raised circles of flesh dotting Mace’s muscled arms. Might explain his terrifying appearance, he mused. He certainly looked like a disciple of Ghost’s.
Maybe that’s why the pools picked him, an insidious thought snuck past his defences. If they’re so alike –
He shoved those thoughts aside, and forced himself back to the present. “So, I take it you’re a dab hand at interrogation, then?” Soap asked.
“My time with them wasn’t for long,” Mace demurred, giving his own goblet a contemplative swish, and Soap supposed that his evasiveness was answer enough for him.
It wasn’t, as it turned out, nearly enough for Sylvia. “You’re far too modest.”
“Tactful,“ Mace countered, rather pointedly, if her wrinkling nose was anything to go by.
Soap took advantage of their inattention to consider the half-eaten fruit in his hand, and promptly decided it had been a mistake to eat it in the first place. A fae who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, magic away the remains of some fruit wouldn’t be inherently suspicious in isolation, but it would become a problem with time.
There was only so much he could explain away as a result of his life undercover in the human court, before someone figured out the extent of his magical ineptitude.
If only I could just get rid of it, like a normal fucking person –
The plum disappeared in a wink, and Soap’s fingers instinctively spasmed into a tight fist. Spine straightening, he slowly lifted his head as blood roared in his ears. Did I do that? He wondered. Or was this his doing?
He wasn’t sure what would be worse, not being able to recognise the after effect of his own magic, or owing Simon even a tiny shred of gratitude.
“…That would be impolite.” Mace’s stern voice interrupted his inattention. “Not to mention treasonous.”
Poor Sylvia’s sweet face turned a concerning shade of puce. “Void above, Mace,” she hissed.
Mace took a long pull of his drink before he bothered explaining, “She was wondering if I’d skimmed something from your mind.”
Despite the terror rattling his rib cage in a frantic tattoo, Soap was distantly surprised at his own outward composure.
He offered Sylvia a reassuring smile. “No harm in being curious,” he said. “But if I do have any wayward enemy princes shackled in my chambers, I’m sure it’ll come out eventually.”
“There’s a thought,” Elias sighed, casting a suggestive smirk towards Iain. “A pretty thing like that – I wouldn’t blame you.”
Pretty? Soap bristled in alarm. How would you know?
It was clearly a lie, because if they knew what Soap looked like, they’d be having a very different conversation.
The ensuing barrage of disgust didn’t seem to phase Elias in the slightest. “It’s what the rumours said.”
“But - a human?” Iain bit out, though judging from the frosty glare he levelled at Elias, Soap didn’t think it was just the human aspect that bothered him.
Soap couldn’t help his own sneer, or the words tumbling out almost of their own volition, “Didn’t stop my cousin, did it.”
And because Soap was stalked by a vengeful spirit of cosmically terrible luck, the volume of other voices in the room dropped the moment his own words escaped him, and from the way several heads turned sharply his way, it’d been more than loud enough to drift up the table.
Simon’s soft voice floated over from the other end of the table, “What didn’t stop me, Johnny?”
Fuck.
Before he could conjure up an answer, Simon motioned for a pair of uniformed fae who stood guard by the adjoining walls, and Soap resigned himself to his unceremonious yet inevitable expulsion from the morning’s festivities.
For his first time amongst fae who weren’t aware of his true identity, it could’ve gone a lot worse; he could’ve blown his cover and been summarily executed by a bloodthirsty fae before he’d managed to get one word in.
Soap eyed the stone-faced guards with a thrum of apprehension, and wondered if that wasn’t still on the cards.
Without missing a beat, Soap said, “Talking about humans, and how ugly they are.” Plonking his elbow on the table, he leaned on his chin and offered him a tiny smirk. “I was saying – it didn’t stop you from trying to marry one.”
Maybe trying was too strong a word for the years of silence and neglect that followed their engagement, but no one else needed to know that.
A strangled, choking cough sounded from somewhere by his shoulder – probably poor Sylvia, keeling over in horror at Soap’s audacity.
If he was hoping for a strong reaction, he was sorely disappointed. Simon’s lashes only fluttered once in a slow, serene blink, as though he were already bored of their interaction. “Obviously,” Simon agreed, head cocking sideways. “Do you think that was a factor when we made that arrangement?”
Something about the wry rasp of his voice sparked a frisson of unease in Soap, and he had the creeping sense he’d walked right into a trap, before Simon even got the chance to add, “Would hope not, since it was all signed before that brat could even talk.”
Ah. Soap’s lips thinned as a smattering of low laughter erupted across the table.
Truth be told, the timeline of when his parents had struck that deal had never been made clear, and even though he knew it’d already occurred when he was small, it’d been easy to forget that Simon had not been a child himself at the time.
I’m an idiot. He caught himself before the weight of his heavy thoughts caused him to slump in his chair, because whether it was Simon, his court, or that miserable, treasonous wretch, Shepherd – he refused to reveal even a modicum of weakness.
His thoughts ran sly, There a reason you didn’t include Ghost in that list?
Well, it hardly seemed fair when he’d used him as a living handkerchief only yesterday.
Simon’s eyes did something strange, then – creasing at the corners as his mouth curled into a smug smile – and for a moment Soap was transported to the orchard in his family’s castle, crowded against the trunk of a peach tree as Simon’s smiling mouth slanted against his own –
Soap broke eye contact first, the taut bands of rage that caged his heart growing limp as regret took hold in its stead.
Simon rose smoothly to his feet and offered his hand to Lady Mara. Her pale, multi-coloured dress was so slinky and low-cut, it seemed like it was a miracle of friction that stopped the material from falling right off her nipples when she stood up alongside him.
Simon continued speaking, and Soap debated ignoring him, but even his farcical cover story only had so many limits; it wouldn’t be long before people wondered how or why he was allowed to disrespect their literal fucking king so openly.
When Simon’s hooded gaze swept up the lithe curves of Lady Mara’s body, the meagre contents of Soap’s stomach violently rebelled.
He looks like he wants to fucking eat her alive.
“But Johnny is right; when he was grown, the prince had his own… appeal.”
The words fell so easily from Simon’s mouth that they almost flew harmlessly over Soap’s head without touching his ears. It didn’t help that Simon wasn’t even looking at him when he spoke.
What is he…
“Fortunately, my champion’s beauty will be no great mystery ” Simon said in an unmistakably husky murmur, eyes still trained on Mara. “And we’ll all know just how compatible we are by the end of this, won’t we?” For the briefest moment, Soap was sure Simon’s blazing eyes found his, but when he blinked again, they were still glued to her face. “The Midnight Feast will make sure of it,” Simon continued softly.
Across the table, Soap barely caught the tale end of Iain’s muttered, “If they start fucking on this table, I’m leaving.“
Elias’ purring rebuke was instantaneous. “Why? I want to watch.”
“Elias…”
“Fine.”
Soap would sooner gouge out his eyes before he’d ever willingly bear witness to any carnal dance between Simon and anyone else.
Think you’d definitely watch, if it was Ghost in her place.
++
Simon was going to kill his mother.
Sitting at the head of the table of his own damned gauntlet, he’d never felt more powerless than he did watching those fae gravitate towards Soap like a moth to a flame. And rather than wilt in the face of certain danger, Soap did as he’d always done and only flourished, all but preening beneath their regard.
If she wants me to stop splitting myself in two. He clenched his jaw. Then why is she bringing Soap here.
This impromptu brunch was supposed to be both an immediate attempt to alleviate the damage Simon had inadvertently caused by showing Soap too much favour the night prior, and a temporary reprieve from summoning Ghost too often.
Hardly much point to it, if he was forced to try and monitor Soap from the opposite side of the room, without any clue as to what was being said.
He watched the good lady Sylvia and that depraved fool, Elias, drink in Soap with matching avarice, and debated the merits of simply calling the whole bloody brunch off.
By his side, Lady Mara cleared her throat. “Your baby cousin has caused quite the stir.”
Simon didn’t immediately wrench his eyes away from Soap – not just because that would seem more incriminating than a non-reaction, but he simply didn’t want to.
Why is his shirt half open? It was practically translucent from sweat already, and between that and his flushed cheeks, and the mussed locks falling out of its neatly slicked strip, he looked good enough to eat. He eyed the plum juice wetting his lips, and imagined striding across the room and chasing that sweetness with his own tongue –
“Were you not expecting him?” She asked.
That caught his attention, and he finally forced his attention back to her. Her blood red smile curved against the rim of her glass, as she hummed an inquisitive noise.
“No,” he admitted. “Apologies, I’ve been distracted –”
She set her drink down with a dismissive shake of her head. “It’s understandable,” she murmured. “Worried he’ll expose some embarrassing family secrets?”
A genuine swell of laughter threatened to escape him, because she was far closer to the truth than she could fathom.
“Something like that,” he said wryly.
“If I may be plain…”
Suppressing a sigh, Simon muted the air immediately around them with a silent spell, separating them both from the rest of the table with an invisible veil, before he acquiesced with a tilt of his head.
“It hardly bears repeating, but both I and my family appreciate the care you’ve taken in setting up this little meeting this morning,” she said, speaking with a calm solemnity at odds with the satisfied glint dancing in her eyes. “Although we were all…” She paused delicately, as though considering her next words. “Surprised, by the pool’s strong reaction to Master Beausoleil, we respect the total impartiality of its judgement.”
The Moonlit Pools – a sacred, ancient artefact that had helped shaped every fae kingdom since time immemorial, infamous for its pragmatic ability to match two souls most suited to rule the throne.
Pragmatic. He inwardly scoffed at the idea. If only they knew.
She continued on, “We understand that it can sometimes have blind spots, when it comes to magical affinity.”
Despite being presented as a statement, Simon recognised it for the question it really was. She wanted reassurance that the pool was only linking he and Soap together due to magical compatibility, a harmless result of their shared familial ties.
Unfortunately for Lady Mara, despite his mother’s meddling in Soap’s existence, Simon didn’t share a single speck of blood with him.
“It can,” Simon said. Gaze wandering momentarily down the table, he allowed a small smirk. “The Pool’s criteria can be one-dimensional. Which is exactly why the Gauntlet requires more than just the them, to select a suitable candidate,” Simon trailed off meaningfully.
“Indeed.” A feline look of satisfaction crossed her face. “While I’m more than sure he’d be a worthy competitor in all other events, I admit I’m relieved that the Feast comes first.”
Of course you are.
Having the Feast first was by design – acting as a smokescreen to further elevate Mara as frontrunner, and taking any unwanted attention away from Soap in one fell swoop. All going well, it’d allow Simon the relative freedom to pursue Soap in the background without tongues wagging at every turn.
Even with his mother interfering in their shared lodgings, Simon was sure either he, Ghost, or both of him, would be bedding Soap regularly even before the night of the Feast.
And well after, he thought, legs spreading instinctively to relieve the pressure building below.
His thoughts took on a sharp edge of warning. Only if you warn him about the Feast, first –
Studiously ignoring the tiny frisson of apprehension in the back of his mind, he forced his attention back to Mara.
“…But that’s all besides the point, really,” she tutted softly. “As I said, I appreciate the public show of support this morning, but if you need to circulate amongst the others, I’d understand...”
Simon stopped before the immediate refusal slipped his tongue.
He could summon Ghost to run interference, of course – as much as it irritated him to admit, Soap seemed to respond marginally better to his masked side than he did to Simon.
Aside from shoring up his magical reserves, it’d be a good opportunity to bridge that divide between, well, himself and Soap.
It was a heady thought that buoyed him, right up until he rose to stand with Mara, and noticed the conflicted swirl of envy and malice writ large across Soap’s face.
When Simon’s clumsy attempt to subtly assure his spoiled prince of his own beauty summarily backfired, he should’ve stopped before he made it worse.
“…The Midnight Feast will make sure of it,” Simon continued with uncharacteristic carelessness, and as a wash of intrigue flashed in Soap’s flinty stare, he knew he’d made a grave error before the words had fully left his tongue.
All his plans to carefully reveal the details of each event to Soap, to prepare him for his necessary deception as much as he safely could without endangering them both – none of it would matter, if Soap charmed the information directly from his fellow competitors.
Fuck.
++
When their brunch was abruptly adjourned and shifted to an impromptu gathering in the gardens, under the pretence of allowing the participants to mingle amongst themselves, Soap suspected the change had something to do with him – though the exact reason eluded him.
With Simon and Lady Mara at the head of their little group, Soap hung back as they were led out into the stone courtyard, the gentle sunlight doing nothing to warm the cold lump in his throat.
He didn’t notice Mace stalking his flank, until his deep voice interrupted his thoughts. “Word to the wise,” Mace said lowly, head ducked close. “You’re obviously talented, to have been entrusted with your mission. But this isn’t the human realm.”
Soap kept his eyes on his feet as they descended the stone steps to the grounds. “Thanks,” he said in a dry deadpan. “I hadn’t noticed.”
The glittering canopy of lights that had twinkled above the Moonlit Pool the night prior were gone, allowing the dark stone to be bathed in natural sunlight, and a much smaller crowd of gauntlet hopefuls began to split off into little groups of their own.
Though the throng, Soap spotted Sylvia and that brooding body-guard of Mara’s together, and he’d only taken one step in their direction when a light hand grasped his shoulder. Soap arched a brow at Mace, who let go with an apologetic grimace.
“Ah, no, that’s not –” Mace levelled him with a solemn look. “I mean no disrespect, but I know how hard it is to readjust to life amongst our kind.”
Surveying the crowd, Soap muttered an absent, “You do?”
With his ostentatious black and silver garb practically gleaming in the sun, it wasn’t difficult to spot Simon, mingling with Lady Mara and a handful of other participants Soap had yet to have the displeasure of meeting.
His conscience hissed, If this guy is ex-141, maybe you should be listening to what he has to say?
When he realised Mace had stopped talking, Soap turned to him with a sheepish half-smile. “Sorry, what was it you were saying?”
But Mace wasn’t looking at him – he’d taken to following Soap’s line of sight, amused eyes flicking between him and Simon’s little entourage.
Shit.
“I was saying,” Mace said slowly. “If you want your debut in court to succeed, you’d do well to hide your envy better.”
Soap forced his gawping mouth shut. “My envy –”
A servant guiding a floating platter of drinks interrupted before Soap could press him further, and Mace took a flute and toasted the air with a smirk. “Yes, your envy. Take it or leave it, it doesn’t bother me either way.”
When Mace turned to join the fray, Soap chewed his cheek before he finally found his voice again.
“You handin’ out advice to all the competition?” Soap asked lightly.
Mace paused mid-step to cast a surprised glance over his shoulder. “Obviously not, but not all of us are playing to win, are we?” He nodded at the pendant sitting in the open folds of Soap’s shirt.
Of course. He thinks I’m only here to raise my own standing in court. It was the exact desired effect his bogus identity, yet he couldn’t quite stifle his indignation. He’d now been dismissed as a harmless nonentity not just in one court, but now two.
By the time he had the wherewithal to respond, Mace had already disappeared into the crowd.
Rude.
Intent to ignore his unease, Soap had barely broken away from the foot of the stairs when he was stopped by a powerful hand latching around his waist.
“Hey!–”
A familiar, roughened timbre cut him off, “It’s just me.”
“Ghost?” Soap’s eyes bugged as he whipped around to find the smug, masked bastard himself, looming what seemed like only a scant few millimetres away from his person.
Soap chanced a wary look towards the crowd, but they were thankfully too occupied with each other to pay them any mind.
“Me,” Ghost murmured, giving his hip a firm squeeze before he released him. “Enjoying yourself?”
But Soap only frowned, examining the exhausted, purpling bruises beneath Ghost’s eyes with deep suspicion.
Why are you here? Weren’t you supposed to be busy today?
That and a million other questions beckoned, but Soap could only stare vacantly at Ghost for one, two, three seconds, before the amalgamation of all his festering tension bubbled out of him.
Unbidden, Soap began to laugh, a cruel, harsh noise that scraped up his throat. From the muffled weight of magic suddenly blanketing them, he knew Ghost had likely silenced the air around them, which he only took as his cue to laugh harder.
“...Soap?”
“Oh, here we go,” he snickered, jabbing a finger in Ghost’s chest. “I knew it – I knew his sudden change of plan was just a ploy to get me out of the picture. Do you really not have better things to do?”
Ghost frowned down at him, blinking slowly as though his outburst was somehow baffling to behold. “Not taking you out of anything,” he said gruffly.
A strained silence fell over them, and even despite Ghost’s terrifying propensity for stillness, something about his demeanour struck Soap as uniquely awkward.
“Well?” Soap prompted dully, all of his earlier mirth subsumed by an irritating spark of concern.
“I have.” Ghost paused, chest rising and falling with an aggrieved noise, before he continued with palpable reluctance, “A message.”
Crossing his arms across his chest, Soap tilted his head expectantly. “Oh?” Soap hummed. “Who from?”
Ghost’s dark eyes flitted behind him, lingering on the tiny gathering for a beat before settling on Soap again. When he spoke, his words were stiff, as though he were reading lines from a script he wasn’t quite familiar with, “It’s a personal message, direct from the King –”
Soap’s nostrils flared as he huffed. “It’s hardly personal if it’s coming from you, is it? How do I know you’re not just running interference for Price? Or Laswell?”
Or Simon’s fucking mother, for that matter.
Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Can ask him for yourself after this, if you like.”
No fucking thanks. He’d be giving him a wide berth for as long as possible, if not avoiding him entirely until their ridiculous gathering finally ended.
“Look,” Ghost muttered, the stiff line of his shoulders melting, as though the weight of some unseen tension had finally unfurled. “I’ll let you get back to your ‘mingling,’” he growled out the word with palpable distaste. “I’m only passing on a…request.”
“A request,” Soap repeated waspishly, almost intrigued despite his heavy skepticism. “Another word for ‘order’, isn’t it? Didn’t think the great fae king was the type to dole out requests.”
Eyes flashing, Ghost all but snarled, “He’s not,” before he cut himself off with a frustrated hiss. “Just – listen, Johnny.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said by rote. You sound like him.
Ghost continued on as though he hadn’t spoken. “He wants you to know that he.” Another awkward pause. “Regrets, having you thrown in that situation without warning, but you did well.”
Soap hated the unexpected, unwanted warmth blooming behind his sternum at the meagre praise.
“As he knew you would,” Ghost added, which earned a derisive scoff from Soap.
“Is that why he excluded me in the first place –”
He was silenced by a gloved hand cradling his cheek, and a thumb pressed tight against Soap’s parted lips. “Just listen, princeling.” It was said with such unexpected softness, that Soap found himself nodding dumbly against his own better judgement.
Even though Ghost’s hand remained on his face for only a second before it fell away, Soap felt the afterimage of his heat burnt against his cheek well after it was gone.
Through numb lips, Soap mumbled, “What does he want?”
“I - he knows you’re curious,” Ghost said. “But he asks that you don’t ask anyone out here.” He gestured towards the courtyard. “About the Midnight Feast – at the very least, not until he’s got the chance to explain it to you first.”
What?
Of all the things Soap could’ve dreamed of Simon requesting, this was not at all on top of his list of likely options.
Soap blinked. Explain it to me? Lips twisting, he examined Ghost’s masked visage for a beat. Sounds like he wants to control the narrative, doesn’t it?
“…Well?”
Clearing his throat, Soap muttered, “Well, what?”
“Do you accept the terms of his request?”
The sudden formality immediately put Soap on guard, because wasn’t this the exact precursor to almost every ridiculous fae trap he’d ever waltzed in to?
Hooking his ring finger in the chain at his throat, Soap twirled the grinning skull pendant with a cavalier smile. “Ah, no, I don’t think I will,” he drawled. “I mean, I’ll try my best not to, if it so pleases his royal fucking highness.” He let the pendant drop back to his chest and shrugged. “But I think I’ve made enough magical promises to him, haven’t I?”
Enough for a fucking lifetime.
Soap savoured the sight of Ghost’s stunned gaze, the whites of his sclera stark with astonishment, before he took a deliberate step back.
Much to his disappointment, Ghost was quick to recover, matching his own steps as he moved to follow. “Then I’ll have to accompany you –”
Soap couldn’t help the delighted peal of laughter that escaped him. “No you won’t.” He gave Ghost’s shoulder a patronising clasp, before he quickly danced out of reach with an evil little grin. “This gathering’s for gauntlet participants only. What would the masses think, to see the big, bad Ghost crashing this exclusive meeting of minds.”
“Soap…” His menacing growl of warning only served to make Soap grin wider.
“Thank you for the message, Lt. I’ll take it in consideration,” he lied.
Giving a mock salute and a tiny wink, Soap turned on his heel and sauntered back towards the crowd. When he chanced a glance over his shoulder –
Ghost was gone.