Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Simon woke to the cold light of dawn spilling across the high windows of the Eriksson estate, the stone walls gray and silent, heavy with the frost of early spring. The chamber was quiet except for the soft creak of the timbered roof settling and the faint rustle of the drapes. For a long moment, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the grief press down like a physical weight. His brother was gone. Elias. Dead in childbirth. Wille had named the newborn after his own deceased brother—Erik.

He could still feel the echo of the funeral bells in his chest, a deep, hollow rhythm that would not leave him. It was not just grief; it was a life stolen, a promise broken. And now, as the eldest surviving son, he was expected to step into a role he had never prepared for.

The sound of boots on the stone floor drew his attention. His father entered without knocking, tall and imposing as ever. The older man’s eyes, dark and sharp, softened briefly when they landed on Simon, then hardened again as he drew closer.

“Simon,” he said, his voice low but commanding, carrying the weight of authority that could not be refused. “You know why you are here. You understand the position your family is in.”

Simon sat up, wrapping the blankets around his shoulders. “I know, Father.”

“No,” his father corrected, pacing the room with deliberate steps. “You think you know, but knowledge is not enough. Your brother’s death leaves a void in our house, a void that must not be left open. The agreements made long before either of us were born still hold. Wilhelm, the prince, requires an Eriksson consort. Our family requires you. You will marry him. You will bind yourself to him. Not because of love, not because you wish it, but because the survival of our house depends on it.”

Simon’s stomach knotted. “I… I cannot fill Elias’s place,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I am not him.”

“You will never be him,” his father said, stopping before him, placing a firm hand on Simon’s shoulder. “And yet, you will do what is necessary. You are his brother. You carry his blood. You are the one who can save what Elias could not finish. You will marry Wilhelm, and you will bind yourself to him. That is your duty.”

Simon lowered his eyes. He could see the unflinching certainty in his father’s gaze, and he knew there was no room for refusal. His mind swirled with the enormity of it all: marriage, the bond, the expectations of a foreign court, the care of a child that was not yet his but would soon need him, all while carrying the weight of a grief that would not lift.

“How can I…?” he began, but the words faltered.

“You do not have a choice,” his father said, voice softening just slightly. “Grieve in secret. Honor your brother by living. Today you take up his mantle. It is not easy. It will never be easy. But it is necessary.”

Simon felt the room tilt around him, the walls closing in with the pressure of centuries of tradition and the expectation of those who had come before him. He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. Duty had a voice louder than grief, and he could not deny it.

The carriage to Uppsala was long and silent, winding through frost-bitten fields and pine forests. Simon watched the world pass by, each hill and river blurred through the glass as if the landscape itself mourned. The castle rose above the city like a crown of stone, towers sharp against the gray sky, its walls cold and forbidding. Here, he would meet Wilhelm, the prince whose life had already been intertwined with Elias’s, and whose presence now loomed over Simon’s own like a shadow.

The court awaited him, nobles whispering, advisors murmuring and Simon knew that from the moment he stepped from the carriage, he would be measured against the brother he could never replace.

The cathedral bells tolled, but their voices carried sorrow rather than joy. Each note echoed like a funeral dirge, rattling through the vaulted stone arches, reverberating in Simon’s bones. He stood at the front of the nave, garbed in white silk embroidered with silver thread, his family’s crest heavy across his chest. The fabric was meant to honor him, but it fit more like a shroud.

The banners of House Eriksson hung beside the golden lions of Sweden, yet Simon saw only the absence beneath them. Elias should have been here. Elias, with his bright laughter and steady presence, standing where Simon now stood. Elias should have spoken vows today, should have raised his son in this castle, should have lived. Instead, his body lay beneath the earth and Simon had been called forward to fill the space left behind.

It felt less like a wedding than a burial.

From the corner of his vision, Simon sought Erik. The boy, only months old, stirred in the nursemaid’s arms, fussing until the woman shifted him against her shoulder. He was swaddled in crimson and gold, too small for the weight of such colors. His little fists pressed outward, as though searching for someone. Simon’s throat tightened. For Elias, no doubt. For the father he would never know.

Simon wondered, fleetingly, if Erik would ever reach for him that way.

The priest’s voice droned, calling upon gods and saints, speaking of unity and duty. Simon barely listened. His attention wavered between the child and the man standing across from him.

Prince Wilhelm looked every inch the heir. Tall, straight-backed, his scarlet cloak trimmed in fur, the coronet gleaming at his brow. He bore his ceremonial sword even here at the altar, the steel glinting beneath the candlelight. His expression was carved from stone, unreadable but cold. If there was grief in him for Elias, it did not show. If there was reluctance, he hid it as only royalty could.

When it came time to speak the vows, Simon forced his voice to remain steady. “I do.”

Two words and the chain fastened around his neck was sealed.

Wilhelm’s gaze flickered toward him, sharp and cool. Then the priest bound their hands with ribbon, pronounced them wed before God and court, and bade them seal their union with a kiss.

Wilhelm leaned forward only slightly, lips brushing Simon’s like a formality. It was not unkind, but it was empty, as if kissing a stranger one wished not to offend. The applause of the gathered nobles roared in Simon’s ears like thunder.

The rest of the ceremony blurred; the processional through the nave, the swell of music, the nobles pressing forward with congratulations. Courtiers toasted with jeweled cups of wine. Roasted boar, spiced fish, and sugared pears filled the hall. Laughter rang too loudly, feigned cheer stretched across every face.

Simon sat at the prince’s side and tasted nothing. The food turned to ash in his mouth. The courtiers’ words were knives disguised in ribbons. “A swift union,” they murmured. “A necessary bond.” “At least the child will not be motherless.”

All Simon could think of was the grave still fresh in the earth.

Across the high table, Wilhelm never once looked at him.

⸻

When at last the feast ended, they were led to the bridal chamber. The corridors were heavy with silence, guards posted like statues along the walls. Torchlight flared against tapestries of lions and lilies, the air thick with resinous smoke.

The chamber was prepared too brightly, as if no shadow could be allowed. Dozens of candles blazed upon shelves and sills, their wax dripping in rivulets. The bed was vast, draped in white linen, strewn with flowers that smelled too sweet, cloying.

Simon undid the fastenings of his cloak, each motion measured. He folded it carefully, then removed his boots, his tunic, his undershirt, until only his skin and trembling remained. He felt less a groom than a sacrifice laid bare.

Wilhelm stood by the window, staring out into the courtyard below. His posture was rigid, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared like a soldier awaiting command.

At length, he spoke, his voice quiet but clipped.
“On your stomach and not a sound.”

Simon inhaled sharply, but he willed his body to obey the no nonsense command.

There was no tenderness in what followed. Wilhelm crossed the chamber, his hand finding Simon’s waist, guiding rather than caressing. His mouth pressed briefly to Simon’s throat, lips cool against skin. No heat, no passion, no lingering. Duty, only duty.

Simon lay beneath him, back arched, eyes shut tight, as the mating bite burned into his throat. When the knot threatened to claim him, sharp and heavy, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. Though instead of pushing deeper inside of him and locking them together, Wille pulled out and finished across the low of his back; as if the thought of connecting that way disgusted him. His brother’s face rose in his mind: Elias smiling, Elias laughing, Elias who should have been here instead.

Tears slid silently into the pillow.

When it was finished, Wilhelm withdrew at once, rolling to the far side of the bed. His breathing slowed quickly, controlled, distant. He did not reach for Simon, did not speak.

The candles guttered in their holders, shadows crawling across the ceiling.

Simon curled in upon himself, arms wrapped over his stomach as though to keep from splitting apart. He had done what was required. He had spoken the vows, borne the bite, lain still as his body was used.

He was bound now—consort, prince’s mate, caretaker of an heir not his own.

And yet, as the silence stretched between them, Simon felt the truth settle heavy as stone upon his chest.

This was not a beginning.

It was a life sentence of loneliness.

Chapter Text

The castle did not welcome him. It loomed, it pressed, it swallowed him whole, but never once did Simon feel it soften. Its walls were too high, its windows too tall, its tapestries too heavy with centuries of history not his own. The air itself carried a scent he had not grown up with: polished stone and burning tallow, iron from the guards’ armor, old wood lacquered with oils that smelled faintly bitter. At home, the halls had smelled of bread and smoke, of Elias’s cologne, of horses kept too close to the kitchens. Here, everything was scrubbed sharp, gilded, immaculate. Too clean to be warm.

The servants watched him. Not openly, not rudely, but always. Their eyes slipped toward him like the brushing of skirts on stone floors, a look here, a pause there, as though measuring how the new consort might fit into spaces that were never meant for him. Simon learned quickly that words meant less than gestures here. The way a steward bowed, the angle of a maid’s curtsey, the briskness of a guard’s nod. Respect was given, yes, but warmth was not.

Only Felice spoke to him beyond instruction. She was no older than himself, small and sharp-eyed, with hands chapped from endless work and hair bound so tightly it made her cheekbones look high and severe. She carried herself with the quiet assurance only a Beta had, moving through the chambers as though she belonged to them far more than he ever could.

“It is better to leave the shutters open a finger’s width,” she told him the first night, setting a candle on the table beside his bed. “Else the smoke will hang too heavy.”

Simon nodded, committing her words to memory.

In the days that followed, Felice guided him through the thousand small tasks he had never been taught. She showed him how to summon hot water without calling half the staff, how to arrange his ceremonial tunics so the embroidery caught the light without looking ostentatious, how to walk the corridors without seeming lost; to choose confidence even when he did not feel it.

Once, she found him in the nursery, Erik squirming fretfully in his arms. Simon rocked him gently, murmuring a lullaby his mother had once sung to Elias and him in their childhood bedchamber. His voice was low, warm, carrying the weight of memory more than melody. The baby quieted, his head drooping against Simon’s chest.

Felice lingered in the doorway, candlelight flickering across her face. When she spoke, her voice held a softness he had not expected.

“You’re good with him.”

Simon startled at the words. Few in this place had spoken anything that was not instruction or formality.

“I only do what Elias would have done,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps.” Felice stepped closer, bending slightly to look at the sleeping child. “But the boy does not know your brother. He knows you. And it seems enough.”

Her words lingered in him for days afterward.

The nursery became his refuge. Erik, swaddled in soft linens, grew stronger in his arms, his cries sharper, his fists clenching more firmly around Simon’s fingers. Simon kept a quiet journal at the edge of the crib, recording when Erik first smiled, when he calmed at certain lullabies, when his breathing steadied quicker against Simon’s chest than anyone else’s. In those hours, Simon allowed himself to believe that he was not simply a stand-in, not simply a shadow filling Elias’s place, but someone Erik could truly depend upon.

Court life, however, reminded him otherwise.

The first time Simon stood beside Wilhelm in the great hall, the space seemed to bristle with expectation. Nobles gathered beneath chandeliers thick with wax, their garments embroidered with silks imported from the south, jewels heavy on fingers and throats. The air shimmered with the smell of spiced wine and roasting meat, but beneath it all lay the sharper tang of whispers.

Wilhelm was transformed here. The silence that cloaked him in private became authority in public. His voice carried easily over the hall, clear and commanding as he discussed grain tariffs with the lords of Skåne, or the question of garrison supplies for the eastern marches. He stood tall, shoulders square, speaking with the certainty of one born to be obeyed.

Simon watched, silent at his side, hands folded just so as he had been taught.

And the whispers came, barbed and silken.

“He does not even glance at him.”

“Elias would have charmed the councilor by now.”

“Do you think this one has the spine for it?”

Simon kept his expression still, eyes lowered just enough to signal deference but not weakness. Inside, his stomach twisted. Wilhelm did not acknowledge him once, not even when the whispers grew sharp enough to pierce the air. If the prince heard them, he gave no sign.

The nights stretched long in silence. Wilhelm never came to him, never sought him outside of what duty demanded. They slept in separate chambers. Existed in different worlds. They crossed paths at feasts, at ceremonies, in processions through the chapel, but in corridors they passed like ghosts, Simon always lowering his head, Wilhelm never slowing his step.

It was in the small hours, cradling Erik close, that Simon found meaning enough to continue. The castle might be cold, the whispers cruel, the prince impenetrable, but here, in the fragile weight of a child sleeping against his chest, he felt something that could not be taken from him.

Love.

Not the love he had been promised. Not the love the court whispered about. But the love that came when a tiny hand curled around his thumb and held tight, as if to say: you are enough.

And so Simon endured.

Chapter Text

The castle had a rhythm, and Simon had learned to move with it by the end of the first month. Bells tolled for prayer, for council, for meals, and for curfew, and he bent his days around their ringing. Every corridor, every staircase, every chamber carried the weight of history; every marble floor and polished bannister whispered the lives that had passed through before him.

Simon rose with the dawn bell, a servant quietly bringing bread, cheese, and watered wine. He dressed in the silks expected of him, garments that felt foreign on his skin, and adjusted clasps that never rested comfortably at his throat. Then came chapel, council, or the endless procession of court, where courtiers whispered behind fans and jeweled hands, their eyes darting to Simon as they murmured about Elias and now him.

Despite the isolation, the only bright moments came from the nursery and the people who worked there. Erik, small and fragile, demanded Simon’s attention in ways the castle otherwise never allowed. He learned the songs that soothed the child, the gentle rocking that eased his colic, the exact tilt and press that made him settle into sleep. The women who cared for him began to trust Simon fully, passing the child into his arms without hesitation.

It was not happiness, but it was purpose. It was his life. A careful routine.

⸻

Most of the lighter moments continued to come from Felice, the maid who worked with deft hands and a quick wit. She often lingered in Simon’s chambers, polishing an already gleaming chest or adjusting curtains for no reason other than to keep him company.

One afternoon, as Simon sat with his arms neatly folded, Felice spoke in that familiar, teasing tone.

“The kitchen boy kissed the laundress in the herb garden,” she said, polishing the edge of a chest for the third time. “She slapped him so hard the sound carried to the stables.”

Simon blinked, startled into a laugh. “And yet you tell it like it is some amusing story.”

Felice smirked. “It’s amusing because he survived it. They say she forgave him the next day, for he came to work with rosemary tucked in his hair—a sign she had taken him back.”

Simon felt something in his chest ease, the first genuine smile in weeks curling on his lips. “Do they always notice everything?”

“In a castle?” Felice shook her head. “Nothing stays secret for long.”

They both laughed softly, the sound brief but real, and for a moment Simon forgot the weight pressing on him from the world outside his chamber walls.

Their amusement was short-lived. Footsteps echoed sharply down the corridor—measured, heavy, unmistakable. Wilhelm, the prince.

Liva dipped into a perfect curtsey, her voice polite as Wilhelm passed the room. “Your Highness.”

Wilhelm’s eyes cut toward Simon, hard and unyielding, before sliding by. A glare, sharp as steel, lingered on Simon, then vanished as the prince continued down the hall. The smile left Simon’s face, and the quiet settled once more.

⸻

That night, Simon arrived later than usual at the nursery. Court had been long, every word weighted with duty, every glance loaded with expectation. He expected to find the child with the nursemaids, as was the custom when he was delayed.

Instead, the room was quiet save for one sound: a high, desperate wail.

Simon froze.

Wilhelm sat in the high-backed chair by the crib, Erik in his arms, squirming and red-faced. The child’s cries were sharp and ragged, and the prince’s rocking was stiff, jerky, hands patting too hard, jaw locked tight. He looked less like a father than a soldier wielding a weapon he had no training for.

At the creak of the door, Wilhelm’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“You’re late.” His voice was clipped, sharp. “The boy’s been screaming himself sick, and you stroll in as if you’ve all the time in the world.”

Simon’s stomach tightened. He stepped forward, hands half-extended. “I thought the nursemaids—”

Wilhelm cut him off with a bitter laugh. “No. Not the nursemaids. Tell me, was whispering and smiling with the staff worth more than this?”

“It wasn’t like that. She only brought me news—” Simon said, careful and slow.

“Oh, news,” Wilhelm cut him off mockingly. “You seemed well entertained. Laughing while he screamed himself hoarse. Is that how you plan to manage this life?”

Simon’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t waver. Every word more unfair than the last. He hadn’t seen the prince inside Erik’s nursery once in all of the four weeks he resided within these walls and now—he barked orders as if he was the boy’s sole caretaker. “Give him to me,” he urged softly.

Wilhelm hesitated, then thrust Erik into his arms with a sharp motion. The baby’s cries immediately softened, small fists curling into Simon’s shirt, body pressing close, tiny breaths easing like the world had righted itself.

Wilhelm’s jaw tightened, hands flexing. “Of course,” he muttered. “He quiets for you.”

Simon rocked Erik gently, his hand soothing over his soft, small back. “He knows me. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.” Wilhelm stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “He should settle for me. I’m his father. But you—” He gestured at Simon, frustration radiating off him. “You appear, and suddenly he forgets me. You make him feel safer than I do. You—” His hands clenched. “You play at something you can’t have, and he rewards you for it.”

Simon lifted his gaze to meet Wilhelm’s. “I do not mean to take anything from you. What would you have me do? Let him scream?”

Wilhelm’s nostrils flared. He stepped closer, the heat of his scent pressing in heavy. “Don’t dress it up as noble. You like it. You like being the one he reaches for. There’s no reason to deny it.”

Simon’s lips parted, stung by the bluntness. Stunned by the cruelty. “I care for him. That isn’t pride or duty. It’s love.”

Wilhelm gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Love. Spoken like an omega raised to cradle, to soothe. It’s all you’re built for, isn’t it? Soft hands, a quiet voice, a body to keep him from crying. If you mistake yourself for anything more, I pity you.”

Simon’s breath caught, the words cutting clean. His chest tightened, but he held firm; his gaze dropping to the baby in his gentle embrace rather than facing the alpha’s piercing stare. “If giving him comfort is all I am, then I will be that. Gladly. That is enough.”

Wilhelm’s eyes darkened, flicking between the child and Simon. “You should’ve been here sooner. That’s all that mattered. Not gossip. Not amusement. I don’t care how easily he settles for you. You will not forget where you belong again.”

Simon’s voice was calm but quiet when it left his lips. “I have not forgotten.”

Wilhelm’s expression flickered—frustration, jealousy, something raw, then hardened. He straightened abruptly, tone cutting. “Good. Then see to him. Since you’re so much better at it than I am.”

He strode to the door, the slam rattling the hinges. Simon stood in the hush of the nursery, arms full, heart racing, Erik’s small, steady breaths against his chest.

After a brief moment he shifted, settling Erik back into the blankets. The room was quiet again, the firelight flickering across the walls. Wilhelm’s words and the storm of his presence echoed in Simon’s mind. He had been scolded, belittled, accused—and yet the possessiveness behind the anger had made itself known.

Simon felt the tight pull of awareness in his chest, uneasy and unfamiliar. Wilhelm had seen him with Erik, had measured him, and reacted. Not with tenderness or warmth, but with jealousy. Recognition. Interest, buried under the prince’s anger, sharp and uncomfortable, but real.

Simon exhaled slowly, brushing Erik’s soft hair with a trembling hand. He hated how aware he was of the heat in Wilhelm’s gaze, how the thought of the prince’s presence made his pulse quicken despite the tension. And yet… he knew he would watch, wait, and learn.

For now, he had survived the storm. He had protected Erik. He had faced Wilhelm and stood his ground. And that, for tonight, was something he handled.

At least, he thought.

And if he allowed himself a small moment to sob quietly before he left the nursery, it was no one’s business except his own.

He would endure. He would survive. He would not be broken by jealousy, anger, or the weight of expectation. Not now, not ever.

Chapter Text

The castle stirred with unusual energy, servants moving briskly in preparation for the royal carriage’s return. Tapestries were shaken of their dust, torches lit in polished sconces, and garlands of greenery hung to frame the wide front steps. The king and queen were due back from their political journey across the Baltic, and the air in the stone halls was thick with anticipation.

Simon stood at one of the long gallery windows, Erik resting against his chest, his small breaths warm against Simon’s collar. Outside, the gates opened with fanfare, trumpets announcing the royal carriage. The courtyard filled with armored guards and curious nobles, pressing close to glimpse the sovereigns. Simon swallowed hard, nerves rising despite himself. He had yet to meet the king and queen properly; their approval, or lack thereof, would set the real tone of his life here.

Beside him, the maid Felice whispered, eyes wide with excitement. “They say the queen is gentle as a spring morning, but the king.. he can cut a man down with a single look. You’ll see, my lord.”

Simon tightened his hold on Erik, pressing a kiss to the pup’s curls to steady himself. He had learned to keep his expression serene, but inside his pulse drummed fast. He was Elias’s replacement in all but name; what would they see when they looked at him?

The carriage door opened. The king emerged first, tall, broad-shouldered, silver threading his beard. The queen followed, regal in velvet, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm. Cheers rippled through the crowd. The moment felt heavy with tradition, the kind of scene Simon had only ever watched from afar as a boy.

As custom dictated, Wilhelm descended the steps to greet them, bowing his head before embracing his mother and clasping his father’s arm. After a few formal words, the king clapped his son’s shoulder and announced, “Tomorrow, we hunt.”

It was tradition stretching back generations: the returning king and crown prince retreating into the forest for three days, testing skill, endurance, and strength. Simon felt something like relief unfurl in him. After the tense night in the nursery, Wille’s absence would be… welcome.

For two days, Simon found peace. His mornings were filled with Erik’s babbles, afternoons with quiet lessons in etiquette and the ever-present whispers of nobles. Without Wille’s looming shadow, the castle seemed softer, easier to breathe in. He even laughed freely once again with Felice as she recounted some scandal of the kitchens, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

But on the third day, shouts echoed through the courtyard. The hunting party had returned early.

Simon rushed to the window, heart hammering. He saw them dismounting, guards uneasy, the king grim-faced. Wille moved stiffly, his hand pressed to his side where blood had seeped through his tunic.

By the time Simon reached the entry hall, servants were already in a flurry. A gash ran along Wille’s ribs, deep enough to soak cloth, though he stood tall, jaw set, refusing the physician hovering nearby.

“It is nothing,” Wille snapped, swatting away a reaching hand. “A scratch.”

“A scratch that bleeds like a slaughtered stag,” the physician muttered, wringing his hands. “Your Highness must rest, must be cleaned—”

“I said it is nothing,” Wille bit out, his voice iron.

The queen exchanged a troubled glance with the king. Then her gaze softened as it fell on Simon, who stood uncertainly at the edge of the gathering, Erik absent in the nursery. “Perhaps,” she said delicately, “the omega consort should tend him. A gentler hand may succeed where duty cannot.”

Simon froze. Wille’s head whipped toward him, eyes flashing. “No,” he said sharply.

“Yes,” the queen countered, with quiet finality. “Enough pride. Let him help you.”

And just like that, Simon was ushered into Wille’s chambers, a basin of water and fresh linens pressed into his hands. The door closed behind him, shutting out the murmurs of the court.

Wille sat on the edge of the bed, shirt discarded, his chest gleaming with sweat. The wound along his ribs was angry and raw, still seeping. His glare burned hot. “I do not need you.”

Simon steadied his breath, moving to the basin. “No,” he began softly. “But you have chased off everyone else willing to help.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Simon knelt and wrung out a cloth, the steam rising in faint curls. He moved to Wilhelm’s side, ignoring the way the alpha’s stare bore into him like a blade.

“You should have stayed out of it,” Wille muttered. “The physician—”

“—you would not let him near you,” Simon reminded calmly. “And yet you bleed.”

“And why should I let you?” Wilhelm’s laugh was harsh, clipped. “You know nothing of tending wounds.”

Simon pressed the cloth gently to Wille’s side. Wille hissed, muscles tensing, but he did not pull away. “I know enough. Hold still.”

Wilhelm caught his wrist, grip like iron despite the tremor in his hand. His palm was slick with blood, hot and fever-warmed. “I said no.”

Simon’s breath caught, but he met the prince’s eyes. For a long moment, neither moved, the air between them charged, tense as a drawn bow. Finally, Simon exhaled slowly. “You are bleeding through your pride, Your Highness. Let go.”

Something flickered in Wilhelm’s gaze, torn between anger and exhaustion. His grip loosened, though he didn’t fully release him.

Simon pressed the cloth more firmly. Wilhelm hissed through his teeth under Simon’s hand.

“Too rough,” Wilhelm spat, voice tight.

“You’d rather bleed out?” Simon shot back, surprising himself with the sharpness of his tone. “Because I can leave, if that is your wish. You’ll not last the night like this.”

Wilhelm let out a low sound, halfway between a growl and a groan, but he did not stop him again. His head tipped back against the headboard, eyes fluttering shut as Simon cleaned the wound, slow and careful.

For a few breaths, there was only the sound of water dripping back into the basin, the steady scrape of cloth against skin. Then Wilhelm’s voice broke the silence, weaker this time, frayed by fever.

“You should not… touch me.”

“Why not?” Simon asked, dipping the cloth again, wringing it out.

“It is not your place.”

Simon’s throat tightened. “My place is here. Whether you like it or not.”

Wilhelm’s eyes cracked open, glassy with fever. He looked at Simon then, really looked at him. Something raw passed over his face before his lashes lowered again, his body sagging into the pillows. His lips parted, words barely more than breath.

“…Elias.”

The name cut like a blade. Simon froze, the bandage slack in his hands. His chest ached, the air thick in his lungs.

“It’s Simon,” he whispered, so quietly it was almost to himself. He steadied his hands and began wrapping the wound, forcing each movement to be gentle, steady, controlled.

Wilhelm stirred faintly, as if hearing him through the fog, but said nothing. His fevered body trembled under Simon’s touch, strength finally spent.

When the bandage was tied and neat, Simon sat back, cloths stained red in the basin beside him. He watched the crown prince, the man who had scorned him, ignored him, glared at him until he felt smaller than stone, slumped in weakness, skin flushed with fever, breath uneven.

“You’re a fool,” Simon murmured, almost tender despite himself. He reached forward, brushing damp hair from Wilhelm’s brow with the barest touch. “But you’ll live.”

Wilhelm did not stir. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the fever holding him captive. Simon leaned back in the chair by the bed, exhaustion pulling at him, yet he did not leave.

He stayed until the fire burned low, until Wilhelm’s fever finally began to break. And when Wilhelm muttered Elias’s name no more, only soft, wordless sounds in his restless sleep, Simon let himself release the tension in his shoulders.

Days passed. The fever broke with the help of Simon’s careful tending. Wille’s strength returned, though he said nothing of the night he had mistaken Simon for Elias. Yet something lingered in his gaze, something Simon could not name.

When the time finally came for Simon to meet the king and queen formally, he carried the memory with him—the weight of that vulnerable moment, the sting of Elias’s ghost between them.

In the throne room, nobles assembled. Simon bowed low, heart steady but cautious. The king’s eyes narrowed, already searching for fault. But when one courtier muttered too loudly about how swiftly Elias had been replaced, how they had always gossiped since his arrival, Wille’s voice cut through the hall like steel.

“Enough,” Wille said, sharp and commanding. His hand curled into a fist on the arm of his chair. “Simon stands here as my consort. He has tended this household and cared for my son while I bled in the forest. You will show him the respect owed to his station or answer to me.”

The hall fell silent. The king’s brow furrowed, however, he did not intervene, and the queen inclined her head ever so slightly toward Simon, approval glimmering in her eyes.

Simon bowed again, heat rising in his chest. Confused, unsettled, but warmed all the same. He had not expected Wille’s defense. Not after the nursery, not after the fevered whisper of another name.

He did not understand this man. But for the first time, he wondered if perhaps Wille was beginning to see him.

Chapter Text

The days after Wilhelm’s injury blurred into a strange quiet.

Simon had expected some acknowledgement of the night he had spent at Wilhelm’s bedside; the fever sweat soaking through his linens, the sharp tang of blood in the air, the way Wilhelm’s hand had clutched his wrist with surprising strength even as he muttered Elias’s name. But there was nothing. If anything, Wilhelm became more rigid, more absent, more deliberate in his silence.

At meals, he spoke only when duty demanded, directing his words to his parents or the councilors. In the corridors, if their paths crossed, Wilhelm’s gaze slid past him as though Simon were one of the many faceless servants. The only time Simon felt those sharp eyes on him was when his back was turned, and even then the weight of them burned like cinders against his skin.

Simon told himself he should be grateful. Wilhelm’s distance meant peace. It meant he could dedicate himself to Erik without fear of another biting remark or sharp glare. And yet, when he settled into the nursery each evening, Erik’s soft babbles filling the chamber, the silence stretched too long. Simon found himself wishing, foolishly, against all reason, for another clash, another moment of rawness, anything to prove Wilhelm had felt that night as keenly as he had.

It was in this unsettled quiet that the summons came.

⸻

The queen’s chamberlain sought him out one morning, bowing with stiff precision before delivering the message:

“Her Majesty requests that you begin attending the court more frequently, Your Grace. It is time the kingdom grows accustomed to seeing you at the Crown Prince’s side.”

Simon’s heart lurched. He had known this moment would come, of course. The omega consort was never meant to live tucked away in nurseries and corridors. Still, the thought of stepping into the great hall, every gaze sharpening, every whisper thick with Elias’s name, it made his throat dry.

That afternoon, he was fitted into court attire. Layers of dark blue silk lined with fur, the embroidery along his cuffs bearing the royal crest now tied to his name. The weight of it was suffocating, and yet he stood still while the tailors fussed, jaw set, refusing to let his nerves show.

⸻

The great hall was alive with chatter when he entered for the first time at Wilhelm’s side. Simon kept his eyes forward, though he could feel the shift in the room, the way conversations faltered and glances darted. Some faces softened with polite smiles; others turned calculating, sharp with judgment. He heard his brother’s name hissed once, twice, caught between folds of murmured greetings.

Wilhelm did not look at him, not once, but Simon felt the steel in his presence as they walked together to the high table. The Crown Prince’s expression was carved of stone, the perfect mask of royal composure, every inch of him the heir to a kingdom. Simon tried to mirror it, tried to still the unease rising like bile in his chest.

The king raised a goblet. “To the health of our son, and the continuance of the line,” he said. The hall echoed with the sound of cups clinking. Simon sipped carefully, noting the subtle glances from visiting nobles, their raised brows, the whispered murmurs that carried just far enough for him to hear.

The first challenge came in the form of the hawk-faced Duke of Västergötland, leaning across the table with that sharp glint in his eye. “And how fares little Prince Erik, Consort? I hear he has taken well to your care, though of course such burdens are heavy for one so new to court.”

Simon’s throat tightened. He swallowed and answered steadily: “He is well, a bright child. He sleeps soundly and thrives.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Soundly? How fortunate. His father was never so easy.”

A ripple of suppressed laughter moved around the table. Simon’s stomach tightened further. He opened his mouth, searching for words, but stumbled over a formal title, the wrong honorific slipping from his tongue.

The king’s gaze snapped to him. Cold, assessing. Simon felt the blood rush to his face.

Then Wilhelm spoke. “Forgive him,” he said, voice cutting across the hall like a blade. “The consort is still finding his footing at court. A mistake of formality hardly overshadows his dedication to our son, which none here could doubt.”

Conversation resumed, voices lowered, the duke’s smirk faltering. Simon exhaled, barely daring to glance at Wilhelm. Wilhelm’s mask remained perfect, unreadable as stone.

⸻

Later, as the hall emptied and servants moved to clear the remains of the feast, Wilhelm cornered Simon in the corridor behind the great hall.

“You should have been prepared,” he hissed. “You made us look weak.”

“I did not ask to be paraded in front of them,” Simon said, keeping his voice steady. “I am trying.”

“Trying?” Wilhelm’s mouth curled. “You gossip with servants, you shirk the nursery when it suits you, and now you cannot even manage a bow or a title? Tell me, Simon—what exactly are you here for?”

Anger flared hot in Simon’s chest, chasing away the fear. “Do not speak to me as though I wanted this. I did not choose to replace my brother. I did not choose you. But I am here, and I am doing everything I can for Erik, for your family, for you, even when you treat me as nothing.”

The words hung between them. Wilhelm’s eyes darkened, his body taut with barely contained heat. He stepped closer, close enough that Simon’s back pressed against the cold stone.

“You walk too close to lines you do not understand.” His breath was warm, dangerously invading Simon’s personal space. “And you think I cannot smell it, the way you belong… or do not.”

Simon swallowed hard, his pulse a wild drumbeat in his throat. The air between them throbbed with something dangerous, something desperate, anger tangled with grief, something that felt perilously like want.

Wilhelm’s gaze flicked down, just for a heartbeat, to Simon’s mouth.

Simon froze, the world narrowing to that one glance, that single breath of space between them. His own body betrayed him, leaning infinitesimally forward as if pulled by an instinct older than thought.

And then—

A sharp cry rang out. High and urgent, Erik’s wail echoed from the nursery.

The spell snapped. Simon flinched, the pull between them cleaved apart. Wilhelm’s jaw tightened, an unreadable flicker of regret in his eyes, but then his face hardened.

“Go to him,” he said coldly, stepping back. “That, at least, you seem to manage.”

Without another glance, Wilhelm strode away, boots striking the stone with echoing finality.

Simon’s knees weakened slightly, but he pushed forward, hurrying to the nursery. Erik was red-faced and wriggling in his crib, tiny fists clenching and unclenching. Simon scooped him into his arms, rocking gently, whispering soft reassurances.

“Shh, lilla älskling,” he murmured, pressing the child’s cheek to his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

Erik’s sobs slowly faded, leaving the room quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing. Simon held him close, thoughts still tangled with the memory of Wilhelm’s heat and proximity, the dangerous near-touch, the brush of breath, the cold retreat.

Felice appeared at the doorway, a soft knock announcing her presence. “He’s calm now,” she spoke, voice quiet. “Would you like me to put him to bed so that you may rest as well?”

Simon shook his head, giving Erik another gentle kiss to his curls. “No thank you, Felice. I would like to tonight,” he said, almost to himself.

Even as Erik settled into sleep, the shadow of Wilhelm’s gaze lingered in Simon’s chest. He had been so close, and yet so far; the first real collision of their growing, complicated pull.

As the candlelight flickered low, Simon realized the burn had only begun.

Chapter Text

The council chamber seemed louder than usual, though no one raised their voice. It was the silences between words, the rustle of silk sleeves, the glances darted down the table, that carried more weight than speeches could.

Simon sat in his place at the queen’s left, head bowed just enough to show humility but not weakness. The air was thick with candle smoke, but he swore he could feel every gaze prickling against his skin.

The chair at his side, Wilhelm’s chair, remained empty.

It should have been a simple absence. Nobles missed council often, called away to other duties. But Wilhelm’s absence, after days of whispers about his temper, his restlessness, his distance from Simon, landed like a blow.

“Crown Prince absent again?” a baron muttered near the back.

“Perhaps the young consort does not keep him sufficiently occupied,” another chuckled, not as quietly as he thought.

“Two brothers, and both tied to that family,” a lady drawled. “One gone to the grave, and the other…” She let the words trail off, her smirk doing the work.

Simon’s knuckles whitened where they rested in his lap. His scent threatened to sour with shame, and he forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep the veil of composure Elias had always managed so easily. Elias would have smiled, cutting and polished, turning their words to ash. Simon only sat, every whispered barb piercing deeper.

When the session adjourned, Simon was first to rise, bowing low to the queen before slipping from the chamber. He wanted only air, the coolness of the courtyard, something to drown out the heat in his blood.

Instead, a man fell into step beside him, Henrik, Wilhelm’s valet. He bowed his head, respectful but urgent.

“Consort Simon,” Henrik murmured, voice pitched low so the words would not carry. “Forgive me, but it is best you hear it from me before tongues wag further. His Highness has entered his rut. He is confined to his wing until it passes.”

Simon stopped dead. His heart tripped, mouth going dry. “His rut?”

Henrik inclined his head. “It should be over in several days. Until then, he will not be seen.”

And just like that, the valet excused himself, vanishing down another corridor.

Simon stood alone in the long hallway, the word still burning through him. Rut.

His body betrayed him at once, heat blooming under his skin, pulse thrumming in his throat. His mind betrayed him next, rushing to last night in the nursery: Wilhelm’s shoulder brushing his as they bent over Erik, his gaze fixed on Simon in silence, something unspoken thickening the air.

And now… today, he was gone. Shut away, burning through days of instinct.

With someone else.

Simon clenched his fists, but the thought was poison.

⸻

By late afternoon, he could not stop himself.

The stairwell to Wilhelm’s private wing twisted high above the palace, its entry guarded by two men with halberds. Simon climbed each step like it was his right, chin lifted, exhaustion and anger carrying him forward.

“I need to see him,” he demanded when he reached them. His voice was low, steady.

The guards did not shift. “Forgive us, my lord consort. His Highness receives no visitors at this time.”

“I am not a visitor,” Simon snapped. “I am his mate.”

One of the guards hesitated, but the other only shook his head. “The prince is being cared for. You need not trouble yourself.”

Simon’s chest seized. Being cared for. He heard what they would not say. Another omega. Another body where his had never been welcome.

He turned on his heel and strode away before his voice betrayed him, his face set in cold marble until he was safely alone. Only then did the heat rise, the shame and the ache mixing into something unbearable.

⸻

The days blurred.

Erik became Simon’s lifeline. He rocked him through long afternoons, walked the gardens with him pressed against his chest, whispered lullabies into his curls. Every giggle, every small hand clutching at his tunic was proof that he mattered somewhere, at least.

But the thoughts would not leave him. He imagined Wilhelm with faceless omegas, imagined hands on his skin, lips against his throat. Every time he closed his eyes, it was the same torment, anger fusing with longing until he was restless, pacing his chambers at night while Erik slept peacefully nearby.

He had been a fool to hope for anything. He told himself this a hundred times a day. He had been a fool to think the brush of a shoulder, the silent vigil by the cradle, meant anything.

By the fourth morning, he had steeled himself. If Wilhelm returned, Simon would not give him the satisfaction of soft eyes and hopeful silence.

⸻

And return he did.

The council chamber filled again, and when Wilhelm entered, every noble straightened. He walked as though nothing had happened; spine straight, jaw set, every inch the crown prince.

Simon kept his gaze fixed ahead. When Wilhelm’s arm brushed the back of his chair as he sat, Simon did not move. When Wilhelm asked a quiet question afterward about Erik’s sleep, Simon replied with a brisk, “Fine, thank you,” and excused himself before the prince could say more.

For once, Wilhelm was the one left standing alone.

⸻

That night, Simon was tucking Erik into his cradle when the door opened sharply. Wilhelm entered without announcement, eyes shadowed, steps taut with restrained energy.

“You’ve hardly looked at me,” Wilhelm said, his voice low but firm, no greeting offered.

Simon smoothed Erik’s blanket, his movements precise. “I did not realize I was meant to perform for you.”

Wilhelm’s brow furrowed. “You’ve gone cold.”

Simon turned, the anger that had been festering for days rising like fire. “And why should I not? You vanish for nearly a week. Your staff tell me you are being cared for. What else was I to think?”

The air crackled. Wilhelm’s lips pressed into a hard line.

Simon stepped closer, voice breaking despite his fury. “Tell me. Was it another omega this time? Is that why you hide from me except when duty forces you to stand at my side?”

Silence. The fire spat sparks in the grate.

Finally, Wilhelm said, each word heavy, “There was no one.”

Simon blinked.

“I spent it alone,” Wilhelm added, his gaze unwavering. “I always do.”

Simon’s chest squeezed. He searched Wilhelm’s face, trying to read the truth, but pride and shadows veiled it. Still, the words rang with something that struck deeper than denial.

“Why not me, then?” Simon whispered, the question slipping free before he could stop it.

Wilhelm’s head jerked, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You say you are alone. You say you always are. Why not me? I am your mate, am I not? Or is that bond only convenient when your father needs a consort seated at his table?”

Wilhelm’s fists curled at his sides. “You do not understand.”

“Then explain it,” Simon pressed, his voice raw. “Explain why you would rather suffer alone than allow me near. Am I so unbearable to you?”

Wilhelm stared at him, chest heaving, a muscle ticking in his jaw. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, ragged. “Because the last time I gave in, it killed him.”

The words struck like a blade. Elias.

Simon’s breath faltered. The shadow of his brother’s death loomed larger than ever, but never had Wilhelm spoken of it so plainly.

Wilhelm turned his gaze to the fire, his voice rough. “I will not take that risk again. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

Simon stood frozen, anger crumbling into something heavier, more complicated. Relief, grief, longing: all tangled into a knot he could not untie.

Wilhelm’s shoulders squared again, the brief crack in his armor closing tight. He moved toward the door.

“I will not speak of this again,” he said, voice cold once more. “Goodnight, Consort.”

The door shut behind him, leaving Simon in the nursery with only Erik’s steady breathing, his own heart breaking against the silence.