Chapter Text
Technoblade twirled Obliterator in his hand, showing her off as the knights ran through drills. His focus was with the blade, though his gaze was on the Crown Prince.
“Who would’ve thought the Prince would smile like that at someone other than us?” One of the men in his group whispered, the words just about slipping into his hearing.
“I know,” agreed another. “They can’t have just met that guy last night.”
“They’re way too invested,” someone else interjected.
Turning to his group, who had obviously noted his mind elsewhere, he cleared his throat. The chatter stopped, the sharp slashing movement they were practicing not once faltering.
The Royal Guards were the best fighting force in the Continent, Technoblade knew. He’d come from the Colosseums, where only death and pain awaited, whisked to fight by the Prince’s side in a blur of fate. The fact the Guard were some of the best was well known, the rumours swirling around vicious and unwieldly. To think that the noble the Prince had picked up knew of such was disconcerting, the possibility of the man thinking ill of the Guard more hurtful than he would’ve thought.
He’d put his life into this. The Knights of the Royal Guard were his people, and he as their Commander had a part to play in protecting them. Last thing they needed was for some noble to whisper to the Prince that the Guard was over-the-top or too dangerous and for them to act recklessly. This worry nagged at him, biting away from the moment he seen how enthralled the Crown Prince was.
There wasn’t even anything of interest about the noble. Tall, – shorter than Techno but taller than the Prince – tan and not overly muscled; he was not what the Prince had went for in the past. They went for shorter people, usually because they were the tallest or second tallest in the room; they liked the rosy ones whose faces went alight when they blushed; they liked people capable of protecting themself, equipped with muscle or skill. This combination usually meant they went for fighters – quite a few of their exes were made up of members of the Guard – and this noble boy was the opposite.
Foolish of Cail. Adopted son of the Iris Family. A weak noble.
Techno had sent out a few people to collect on the man, eager to know if he was here to kill the Prince or simply because the Prince had chosen him. The Crown Prince could be overwhelming, bringing people home only to fuck them and send them back the next day. Most didn’t last the night, sent out in the early morn or immediately after the deed.
What made Foolish of Cail special? What gave the man the right to see the shattered Prince’s rare grins? What about him allowed him the honour of joining a Guard training session? Why was he granted unspoken permission to laugh at the Prince and not have his tongue cut off?
Personally, Technoblade seen nothing of interest in the man. Sure, he dressed decently (the Prince’s clothes on the man had not been missed by any) and he had some resemblance of manners, had to have for the Prince to have chosen him, but other than that Foolish of Cail was one of the least interesting people Technoblade had ever seen.
“Sir?” Asked Wisp, waving his hand to gain his attention. “You’re uh- going to damage the leather.”
Looking down, he found his hand white around the handle of Obliterator. “’S fine,” he grunted. “Work in the leather. Better grip.”
“Right,” Wisp offered a lopsided smile. Everyone in the group knew the real meaning behind his actions.
“Don’t tell us you’re worried about the Prince, Commander?” One of the more spritely ones asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Why would I be?”
“Dunno,” whistled one.
“Maybe you care for the Prince,” Corvus suggested cheekily.
“Or you don’t like the boy-toy?”
Travis nudged the one who’d said that. “Don’t say that where the Prince can hear, you idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ted shrugged it off. “So what is it, Commander? What’s on your mind?”
“Stress isn’t good to bottle up, sir,” piped up Ranboo, an exceptional young knight, skilled in more aspects of fighting than most middle aged men were. His skin condition that had ended with him exiled from his town was the very thing that had resulted in the Guards stumbling upon him, the Prince offering him a place to stay.
The Crown Prince could be a bleeding heart when the time called for it. Technoblade worried that heart would be broken too far to be fixed. All it took was one knife dug too deep, flesh ripped open, and the heart could stop beating.
“I’m not worried,” he rebuffed, turning to them. “When did I say you could stop running drills?”
The group spluttered, objecting immediately.
“We’re only looking out for you, sir.”
“We were just being good Knights, Commander.”
He cut them off. “Do you want to run the perimeter?”
When the perimeter was mentioned, it intoned the boundaries of the land they were on. Currently, the Golden Palace, their present residence, was around nine acres. A lap of the perimeter was breath-taking, and not in the beautiful way. Plus, Technoblade liked to make his punishments the task of running the residence’s perimeter around fifteen times.
The Golden Palace wasn’t even one of the biggest areas the Crown Prince owned. They had a few too many Palaces, a couple twenty summer houses and numerous other mansions, estates and cabins. It could not be said the Prince did not appreciate the release of moving away from their problems.
Maybe that was unhealthy. Not that Technoblade had place to talk.
“I heard the crops aren’t doing too well,” said Ted. “What’s the bet we’re moving residence again?”
“The Prince likes the change of scenery,” shrugged Quomb. “I have to say, I like wandering around the Continent.”
“You only like it because of the luxury,” chirped Cindy.
Jabber and Dryya appeared by his side, bows left on the wooden platform. Technoblade blinked at them.
“Archery’s free,” said Dryya, waving for two others to go to the target section in the corner. Archery was mandatory to be learnt alongside hand-to-hand and sword wielding, however in these sessions the people that specialised in such got reign of the target area first. Dryya and Jabber were two of the six archers they had on hand, the other four having split into the Prince’s combat group and sending four from there over.
Travis and Ranboo stepped up to go. Technoblade waved them off, sighing at the loss of Ranboo. If the prize pupil wasn’t here, he was stuck with the rest of them. Ranboo was the only one who didn’t tease him unnecessarily.
“So, the Prince’s boy,” harangued Dryya as they unsheathed their sword. Technoblade scowled as the group devolved into gossip, Jabber taking place beside him, watching the others. Jabber was a very skilled individual, probably one of Techno’s favourites alongside Ranboo; laid-back but quick to bite. They were an impressive healer, with courage and stubbornness to rival even the strongest fighter.
“Alright,” he grumbled, gathering everyone’s attention. “Drop and do sixty push-ups or you’re running six laps of the perimeter.”
“Only six?” Jabber questioned, one of the few who enjoyed the long runs.
Corvus laughed nervously and tugged Jabber backwards, forcing them into a push-up. Technoblade watched his group struggle and decided to drop down himself, pumping out fifty easily. He was on fifty-four when a shadow loomed over him.
“Dream,” he grunted, sarcasm leaking into his tone. “Good to see you could make it.”
“Thanks, Tech,” smirked the man, bouncing about and poking at the others. Wisp collapsed with a choked sound on his thirty-ninth, arms buckling with a crack of his elbow. The ones around him huffed laughter.
“Another sixty, Wisp,” he reprimanded.
“Yes, sir,” huffed the man, rolling to his knees.
“How many do you have left, Techno?” Asked Dream.
“Four,” he grunted, just finishing his fifty-sixth when the weight of a certain mask-lover thumped onto his middle back. Hissing a breath through his teeth, he let the other settle into a stable position and carried on.
“Do twenty more,” nagged Dream.
Technoblade did twenty more.
“Thirty, sir,” called Kara Corvus.
“Sixty more, Corvus,” he responded. She groaned fitfully.
The others finished up their sixty. “Show me your pinch technique,” Dream beckoned, comfortable from his position as he watched the others put on a show, unsheathed blades sparkling under the limelight of magic.
“Get off me, Dream,” Technoblade grunted around one hundred and fifty in. Dream made a humming noise but didn’t move. He carried on.
“The Prince has kept the noble,” murmured the leech on his back. “Interesting.”
Curious of what Dream saw in Foolish of Cail, hoping it would answer some of his own questions, Technoblade inquired. “What’s interesting about it?”
“They’re smiling at him.”
Turning his head and being forced to blow his hair out of his face, Technoblade looked over in time to see the Crown Prince beam at the man. They were doing some laid-back spar, the Prince coaching the man through the stages of a kick.
“Why’s the boy so interesting?” He asked.
“The Prince has taken a shine to him,” intoned Dream, wriggling on his back. Technoblade let out a warning grunt and he stilled. “Isn’t that enough?”
Disgruntled, Technoblade couldn’t decide if he was suitably pleased with that answer.
Eret whistled, everyone glancing over to them. Technoblade correctly assumed that it was seven am. “Everyone’s dismissed. You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir!” Was the echoing call from everyone, fists snapping off chests as they bowed before trailing out to the edges of the room to clean the sand from their feet. Dream took his sweet time in getting off.
“Move or I’ll stand up,” Techno threatened with no real heat. The legs atop him writhed.
“No, you won’t,” jested the man.
“Don’t be so sure,” he snickered, pulling his weight up to push Dream to the side and stand up. He wiped the sweat off his brow, keeping it away from his eyes, and looked down at the green lump cradling his elbow on the sand. “I didn’t hear a crack.”
“I hit it on the landing,” hissed Dream, rolling dramatically in the sand. The stream of knights out the door picked up, the occasional snicker echoing up at Dream’s melodramatics.
“Here,” leaning down, he gripped the man’s elbow, squeezing it with a harsh prod. Dream squeaked, but Techno didn’t feel any bone fragments out of place. “You’re fine. It’ll probably bruise.”
“No thanks to you,” huffed Dream.
Shrugging, Technoblade offered him a grin. “You should’ve moved when I told you.”
They watched their knights file out of the training room, Foolish pulling his socks back on beside them. “Would you like to get a bath with me?”
The pretty little noble looked to them, head tilting in his adorable imitation of a lion cub. “But I’ve had a shower already?”
Lips moving of their own accord, their face felt tight. From all the looks they were getting, Eret knew they were acting weird – they hadn’t smiled this much in what felt like forever. Maybe they never had – amidst licking the ground to survive, from war to sitting idle in cold Palaces – Eret had been busy all their life.
“Eret?” Came the hesitant question from Foolish, soft hands touching their shoulder. Shifting suddenly to mask the flinch that came from the unexpected contact, they turned to the man, eyebrow raised. Foolish’s pinched face came into view, looking almost worried. “Are you alright?”
Disconcerted, they declined to answer. “After our bath will be breakfast,” they informed. “Afterwards, I require an hour for meditation before we may go into town. Is this satisfactory?”
“Sure…” Foolish’s voice came out unsure. They were unaware of the concerned lilt to his mouth as they had turned their back to him, focusing on picking up their boots from one of the wooden steps.
“If you are not happy with it, speak up,” they said, feeling detached as their voice came out monotone. The last thing they wanted was to scare the ray of sunshine away yet the chill that overcame them was all-consuming.
Technoblade and Dream were fooling around on the sand, still. Their attention landed on the two, soulless gaze watching as the pink haired warrior pulled the magician from the ground. The Empire knew Dream as a tracker and a hunter, a mercenary Eret had invested a little too much time in, but the truth of the matter was that Dream was one of the most magically capable men they’d ever seen. If his affinity for high-level spells and wards was revealed to the Temple – the Continent renowned group of High Priests (basically the term for magicians of the highest calibre) – then not only would they throw a hissy fit over not having trained the boy, but they would also attempt to claim him as their own.
Their reach as Crown Prince was vast, though if something or someone caught the Temple’s eye, there was nothing stopping the High Priests. Mother had shown her temper with them before, and the ill-will between the Imperial Family and the Temple was currently the most dangerous relationship in the Empire. As Crown Prince, Eret Alastair aus Enkeli, was capable of creating another dispute with the Temple, however such would take energy and extreme effort.
In short, they couldn’t be bothered to tell the Temple they’d found a backwater mage and had taken him into their Royal Guard, simply because the endeavor was worth less than the secret.
Dream was more powerful as an unknown that people thought to be known. Eret liked uncertain odds; enjoyed fools who created plans and faltered when one aspect was wrong. Getting into a tussle with the Temple was the least of their priorities.
Technoblade, on the other hand, was wanted by no one. Once a gladiator in the Colosseum arena, he had painted the sand red with blood not his own more than any other fighter. He’d been the top, one of the best in the Colosseum’s history. It only made sense that he’d caught Eret’s eye when they’d paid visit.
The Arena Master had not faltered under threat of losing his job. At this, Eret had been peeved and enquired as to what they could do to earn the rights to the slave. Smug, without a hint of remorse, the Arena Master had offered a deal.
Win or be mine, he’d offered. Eret had signed the parchment and jumped into the ring.
They won against Technoblade, the chants of the man’s moniker – Blood God – ringing in their ears. The poor thing had not cowered at Death, but he had paused in confusion when Eret did not kill him. They’d offered freedom in that moment, and the man had accepted.
After climbing out of the arena, they’d ripped up the contract with the Arena Master and promptly drove their blade through his chest. The Colosseum fights got a new Arena Master the next day.
Blinking into the glare of a magic orb floating before them – the magic had a tendency to revolve around the rooms – they tuned into Foolish’s one sided conversation to find the man was rambling on about how nice the bathroom was.
“I’m glad you like it,” they said, chest soothed by something cool as the truth of their words mulled over them. “Perhaps you will enjoy the bath even more.”
Foolish gibbered, words tumbling from his mouth in half formed sounds. When Eret strode onto the wooden platform and headed for the door, he followed.
Back in their room, they corralled him into the bathroom.
“I won’t bite,” they hummed, shuffling about to pull the candles close to the deep pool. After being ordered, Foolish was stripping by the sink, Eret pulling over one of the low gateleg tables to fold two large towels atop.
“Yeah, well,” the man’s response died off, his voice lilting into nothing. Eret stood, something churning in their stomach that made them feel wildly out of place.
Was this shame? Embarrassment? Wondering why they felt such now, when they’d bathed with hundreds others, they pulled a match from a matchbox within the cupboard and struck it. The flame lit the litany of candles, the small wicks burning away to release the soft scents in the wax.
“You can come out,” they beckoned, clicking their fingers to activate the pool. It began bubbling, warm and soothing like a hot spring.
Their little noble popped out from around the corner, bare all but for his briefs. Eret blinked, suddenly understanding why they’d picked out one of the tighter pairs for the man when they seen how the fabric clung to him.
“D- Don’t look,” he squeaked, wavering in the middle of the bathroom. Snorting, they looked away, content to pull at the buckle of their pants whilst the man took off his boxers and slipped in. The sigh he let out struck them deep, Eret forced to bite their lip to avoid their body doing what it wanted.
Maybe they hadn’t been active enough recently, if they were getting excited at simple sounds.
Pulling their shirt off, they let it fall onto the granite tiles and slid out of their trousers. Their boxers came next, Eret grabbing a few marble-like balls from the cupboard before striding over to the pool. Foolish kept his gaze averted, hunched in a corner with a stone ledge for a seat.
Dropping the balls in to let them form bubbles, they entered themself, sinking down into the warm water. They took the opposite end from Foolish, clicking their fingers twice for soap bottles to appear beside them.
“Do you want some?” They asked, catching Foolish watching as they rubbed some violet shampoo through their hair.
They man blinked, mouth popping into a soft circular gape. “No, no,” he smiled nervously, arms flailing in the waters. He looked like a puppy trying to swim. “I’m fine, aren’t I a bother though?”
“How so?”
“I just barged in and now you have to accommodate for me,” started Foolish, jaw tense. His gaze strayed, Eret watching as it unfocussed.
Deciding their hair was done, they dunked their head into the water, distantly hearing the shocked squeak Foolish let out. When they resurfaced from getting all the soap out, they looked to the man. “It’s no bother at all. It’s been a while since anyone’s wanted to stay.”
“You mean I could’ve left?” Foolish questioned, something in his tone that sounded too upbeat for what they didn’t want to hear.
Suddenly their heart felt heavy. Turning bodily to grab the body wash, leaving their back exposed so that maybe fate would understand and just take the knife and stab them, they braced for the impact.
“If you so wish,” they started slowly, words drawling as if sand floating through a sieve. “You may leave.”
Foolish didn’t respond. Eret shovelled the disappointment onto their shoulders as yet another brick to weigh them down and lathered themself in body wash. When the bubbles no longer formed along their skin, they dipped low in the water and resurfaced free of soap.
The urge to get out of the bath tingled in the back of their mind.
“What if I didn’t want to leave?”
Startled, the arm they were situating at the edge of the pool as they laid back slipped, and they crashed into the water. Emotions stung at them as they sat up, Foolish muffling his laughter into his fist.
“You can stay,” they said a tad too quickly.
Foolish’s expression softened. When he spoke, it was a whisper that felt too holy to hear: “Thank you.”
Their cheeks burned. Looking down at their muddled reflection in the water, they chewed at their cheek.
A loud grumble filled the air. Foolish went as red as his skin would allow, clutching at his face as he sunk into the water till it lapped at his neck.
Eret almost felt jealous at the water for a moment, wanting to be the only one to touch that neck, to caress his soft unblemished skin. Foolish was such a work of untainted art compared to their scarred, beastly form; they were haggard and grizzled, left savage and horrifying from a year of war and countless of suffering whereas Foolish was all soft skin, plush lips, bright eyes and unbroken beauty. Eret had given up beauty the moment Mother whispered to them that something needed to be done about the corruption in this world. They’d taken everything they had with them into the fight and they considered themself lucky (only some days, though) to have come out with only a few scars and a life intact.
Looking at themself made Eret queasy but looking at Foolish made them blossom with pride unchecked.
“Would you like some snacks before breakfast?” Twenty minutes was a horrific stretch to make Foolish wait.
“What sort?” Foolish asked, having slipped in even further to the point where he was millimetres from getting water in his mouth.
Eret clicked their fingers, a silver platter appearing on the edge to their sides. Foolish perked up and rose from the water to peer at the chocolate chip cookies.
Looking at the dazzled look on Foolish’s face made them smile, remembering how the kitchen staff had first responded to plates of food randomly disappearing before their eyes.
“What are these?”
Blinking, they lifted their arms from the sides of the pool and walked over, the pool deep enough that they could stand with their shoulders above the waterline. Foolish joined them, toddling over like an unsure puppy.
“Cookies,” they said, half expecting the man to be joking. At Foolish’s blank look, they picked one up and cupped a hand under it to catch the crumbs. With a cookie hovering before his face, Foolish had no choice but to accept, biting a small mouse-like bite out of it.
The surprised look he wore broke their heart. “Have you never had cookies before?” They pried gently, pushing the rest of the cookie into Foolish’s open mouth.
“No,” waffled the man, licking his lips. “But these are great!”
Eret had known not all Noble houses were teeming with money. Chocolate was considered a luxury to paupers, but they hadn’t thought that would extend to some of the higher class people. How had Foolish never had cookies before?
“What about chocolate?” They ate a cookie for themself, prodding another at Foolish’s lips. “Do you like it?”
Foolish blinked innocently, head tilting again. “Chocolate?”
“I—” they couldn’t finish the rest of their sentence, the words running away from their grasp. Their eyes felt inordinately wide, threatening to bulge out of their eyesockets. Feebly, they repeated, “Chocolate.”
Shrugging it off, Foolish offered a beaming smile, seemingly unseeing of their internal dilemma, and munched on another cookie. Suddenly, he shied back, shoulders bunching higher than they’d ever seen as he cradled the cookie he’d just grabbed in his hands. He looked like a kitten mewling for its mother. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eat them all.”
Looking down to the plate to see it very much still full, Eret felt their eyebrow raise. They turned back, staring at Foolish as his eyes sparkled. “They’re for you,” they assured, unsure if he would appreciate them touching his arm even if it was meant to be a reassuring gesture. “You may eat them all, though the Chefs may be saddened if you were too full to eat their breakfast.”
That seemed to fix whatever debate Foolish had fallen into.
“Breakfast?”
“Mhm,” they hummed, attempting to cover up a sudden wave of fatigue by returning back to their earlier seat. This time, they rested their arms on their lap, submerged enough that it was comfortable for their neck to lie against the lip of the pool. Foolish’s gaze pried at them, washing over them like a soft breeze.
As the crunch of Foolish enjoying his cookies lilted them into a serene peace, they closed their eyes and breathed.
Another mind pried at their consciousness, Wrath prodding at them to meditate. Usually, during the last hour of their morning training they meditated with their Holy Blade, strengthening the union of souls between them. The Holy Blade was infused with an old spirit’s soul, one strong enough in life that even in death it carried great magical potential. Wrath was one of the strongest soul blades ever made, picked from the Well of Life – a place only accessible by the Empress herself – and bound into a netherite blade by means of old Galactic blood enchantments.
Holy Blades had been created brimming with mana (magic that humans so inclined could wield) to defeat the machinations that magic mingling through the Continent had created; beings born from the despair of the people prior to the Empire. Being such a young ruling force, there had not been long enough to decimate these creatures and thus, demons roamed the countryside and pillaged small villages. It was a remnant from the corrupt Council of Kings (which was long destroyed) and a continuous bother for the knights sent out to get rid of the beasts.
Although these beings weren’t truly demons, simply called such by nothing better to call them. Made from all forms of mana molding together – good, that of nature, and bad, that of human’s despair or hatred – these creatures formed bodies of magic and rose to cause terror, and in some of the stronger one’s cases, even disease. As demons had negative human attributes imbued, greed was a prime factor that fueled them, leading them to attack places of high magical power in their quests for food.
Because demons ate mana. They were drawn to high energy areas, forcing even the Temple to put many protective wards into place. Regardless of the danger towards a demon should they enter the Temple, they were blinded by this greed, and would attack the Priests nonetheless.
High Priests could purify the corrupted soul that had been stolen by the demon to give itself life, exorcizing the creatures with sheer magical power and positive magic.
Holy Blades had been created, only a limited amount in the entire Continent, to do what the Temple could not do – destroy the soul.
Purifying the corrupt soul freed it from the demon’s grasp, but left it weak. This weakened and fragile soul would be unable to leave, stuck roaming invisibly, and another demon would inevitably come along and possess it. The blades were designed to get rid of this problem, and the fact that they as Crown Prince actively endorsed the use of it, alongside Mother’s creation of the very idea, made it very hard for the Temple to disagree with their use of it, no matter how much the stuck-up High Priests detested it.
Eret personally saw nothing wrong with giving peace to a soul. If destroying it was what granted it peace from lifetimes of roaming as possessed or faltering, they would prefer that than anything else, should they be in such a situation.
Ted’s Wrath, commonly referred to as Wrath in public settings, was the strongest Holy Blade ever created. Mother’s Personal Knight, Philza, was partnered with the second most, Benihime. The third strongest was owned by none-other-than Technoblade, Orphan Obliterator; a curious name that had been shortened to Obliterator in public due to Mother’s urging.
Something shifted, the water moving. Eret, who was used to bathing alone more oft than not, startled and jerked their eyes open, blurry gaze focusing on the image of a tanned god’s arms rising from the water in a long stretch. Content staring at the picturesque glamour, they let their muscles release their stiffness.
“Eret?” Came the lilting voice of an angel. “When’s breakfast?”
“Half seven,” they managed past a heavy tongue.
Foolish was quiet for a moment. “Um, haven’t we been in here a while?”
“D’you wanna get out?” Eret frowned.
“Ah, well, I just don’t want to be rude, or keep anyone waiting-”
“Cute,” they murmured and rose to their feet, enjoying the squeak Foolish let out as he hurriedly looked away from them as they stepped up onto the steps and stood on the granite tiles. Grabbing a towel to wrap their waist in, they gestured for Foolish to do the same.
After tapping themselves dry with the magic symbol – one that had taken far too much effort to carve – they shepherded Foolish into the closet, silencing the man’s waffling about the other clothes.
“Have to keep you looking pretty,” they said, reveling in the silence as Foolish overheated.
Choosing out a shirt for Foolish, they turned to hand him one and found him staring at their amassment of skirts. “Would you like to wear a skirt?”
“Huh?” Startled the Noble. “Oh, uh, no. I’m fine.”
Staring at him, they shrugged. “Alright. Do you want the black trousers or the white?”
“Um…” Foolish hesitated.
“Took too long,” they grunted, shoving him the white pair. “Put those on with boxers from the drawer.”
Turning to pick out their own clothing, they thumbed through the racks and found a suitable shirt in the form of a long sleeved blouse. Wrapping a loose corset around their waist, knowing the black of it contrasted nicely against the white silk of the shirt, they finished off the look with tight black trousers with buckles cinching them shut around the hip-area. Steel toed boots were pulled on over long socks, Eret barely casting themself a glance in the mirror.
They shifted, finding Foolish in the midst of pulling the tight white trousers – a soft synthesized fabric softer than cotton yet not as good as silk that looked like polyester – over gaunt hips. His red silk button-up was half done, leaving Eret to mark out his ribs with their eyes.
Judging from the way he’d munched down an entire plate of cookies, it was not appetite he lacked. The Iris Family were intriguing them, and not in the good way.
Foolish rocked towards them, fingers fumbling with the trouser button one too many times.
“Here, I’ll do it,” they said, already brushing his hands away to tighten them. Everything of theirs seemed to fit, though the trousers that were meant to be tight were a bit loose and the shirt a tad too billowy. Foolish was thin, and it worried them. Whilst they were at it, they buttoned up the shirt and stepped back to nod. “Put on some socks and we’ll continue the quest for shoes after breakfast.”
“Okay,” he nodded along, pulling the proffered cotton socks on.
Sweeping back as if a servant offering the door to their master, Eret smirked up at Foolish. “After you, my dear.”
The way Foolish spluttered for five minutes was worth it; to see how he ducked his head and smiled secretly to himself. Eret found themself smiling back when he looked over and if the chatter from the dining room hadn’t caught their attention and called out to their stomach, they may have lost themself in the cavernous depths of his emerald green eyes.
They’d have to adorn him in emeralds, least that beauty hide under cotton and bangs for the rest of eternity.