The Royal Affair 👑 | Part 22: The Dying Crown (Patreon)

All characters are 18+ and this story is entirely fictional.Everything that happens is safe, sane, and consensual.

Author’s Note: This part of the story is written from King Elias’s point of view.

Five years have passed since Damian’s exile.

I sat beside my father’s bed in the dim hush of a winter morning, the room heavy with the scent of dried herbs and the faint, acrid tang of the poultices the physicians had applied to his chest. Snow fell softly beyond the leaded windows, muffling the world outside, turning the palace gardens into a silent, white expanse that stretched toward the horizon. The light filtered through the frost-laced panes in pale, watery shafts, illuminating the lines etched deep into my father’s face. He slept fitfully, his breathing a labored rattle that rose and fell like the tide retreating from a storm-battered shore.

I held his hand, thin and veined like parchment stretched over bone, the skin cool against my palm. The silver ring of the stag, symbol of our line, hung loose on his finger now, a relic too heavy for the man who had worn it with such unyielding grace. Five years had passed since that dawn when guards had torn Damian from my arms, and in that time I had grown into the role I now inhabited…not yet king, but the shadow of one, the heir who waited with quiet inevitability. The crown hovered like a specter, its weight already pressing upon me, but in this room, beside this bed, I was still the son who had once run to his father for solace after a scraped knee or a lost hunt.

Five years.

The thought settled over me like the snow outside, blanketing the memories I had carried through every waking hour and restless night. Five years of a life reshaped by absence, of duty worn like armor against the ache that never fully dulled. I had learned to function within it, to smile across banquet tables and sign decrees with a steady hand, but here, in the quiet vigil of my father’s final days, the years unspooled before me like a tapestry frayed at the edges, threads of joy and sorrow woven too tightly to unravel.

The first two years had been a crucible of raw, unyielding longing. Damian’s exile had not been a clean severance; it was a wound that bled slowly, staining everything it touched. In those early months, after the wedding vows had bound me to Amara in a union of silk and gold that felt like chains disguised as finery, I had been consumed by the need to see him, to touch him, to remind myself that what we had shared was not a dream dissolved by dawn’s cruel light.

I rode north as soon as the snows broke that first spring, cloaked in drab wool and a hood pulled low over my face, my horse a sturdy bay gelding chosen for endurance rather than speed. The journey took four days of hard travel, skirting the main roads where royal patrols might question a lone rider. My heart pounded with equal parts fear and desperation. What if he had changed? What if the harsh northern winds had carved him into something unrecognizable, a man hardened beyond the reach of my love? What if the guards at Thornwatch, that forsaken outpost of jagged stone and howling gales, turned me away before I could even speak his name?

I arrived at dusk on the fourth day, the sky bruised purple and the wind carrying the bite of ice from the mountains. The keep loomed like a sentinel against the fading light, its walls scarred by years of border skirmishes. I tethered my horse in a copse of stunted pines and waited, breath fogging the air, until the watch changed. When Damian emerged from the gate tower, his cloak dusted with fresh snow, bow slung over his shoulder, I stepped into the open.

He saw me before I could call his name. His stride faltered, the bow slipping from his grip to clatter against the frozen ground. For a moment we simply stared, the distance between us a chasm of months and miles. Then he crossed it in three strides, pulling me into the shadow of the wall, his arms crushing me against him as if I might dissolve if he let go.

“Elias,” he whispered, voice breaking on the word. His hands roamed my back, my face, as if confirming I was real, flesh and bone and not some fevered hallucination.

We stumbled into the stables, the scent of hay and horseflesh thick in the air. The door had barely shut behind us when his mouth found mine, hungry and unrelenting, tasting of salt and wind and the desperation that had mirrored my own. I kissed him back with equal fervor, hands fumbling with the clasps of his cloak, the laces of his tunic, needing to feel his skin against mine. He lifted me onto a bale of hay, my legs wrapping around his waist, and fucked me there in the dim light, the stretch sudden and exquisite after so long apart. I bit my lip to stifle my cry, but he swallowed the sound with another kiss, his thrusts deep and measured, each one a reclaiming. When he came inside me, hot and pulsing, I followed with a shudder that left me boneless in his arms.

We had only hours. He held me after, our bodies tangled in the rough blanket he fetched from his quarters, whispering promises into my hair. “I dream of you every night,” he said. “The way you taste, the way you clench around me. It is all that keeps me whole.”

I returned to the palace, body marked by his touch, heart fuller and yet more broken than before. The risk became a compulsion. I went again in summer, meeting him in a hidden glen off the northern trail where wildflowers bloomed defiant against the rocks. He spread his cloak on the ground and took me slowly that time, face to face, our eyes locked as he moved inside me. The sun dappled our skin, his hands gentle on my hips, drawing out every gasp until I was sobbing his name into the earth. Autumn brought us to an abandoned watchtower, the wind howling outside as he fucked me against the stone wall, my back arching, nails raking down his back as he spilled deep within me.

Each parting carved deeper. Each reunion reminded me of the fragility of what we stole. By the end of the second year, the dangers had multiplied. A patrol had questioned a villager who had seen my horse too fine for a common traveler. Whispers reached the court of a “ghost rider” haunting the northern roads. My father’s eyes grew sharper during our audiences, his questions probing without accusation. I stopped going, not from choice but necessity. The thought of Damian chained or worse because of my selfishness was a blade I could not wield.

The longing turned inward then, a constant companion that shadowed my every step. I felt it in the council chamber when ministers droned on about grain stores and border tariffs, my mind drifting to the way Damian’s breath had hitched when I took his cock in my mouth that last time in the watchtower. I felt it in the royal bed at night, vast and empty despite Amara’s chambers adjoining mine, my hand sliding down my stomach to grip myself, stroking slowly as memories flooded me….the rough scrape of his beard on my inner thighs, the heat of his tongue swirling around my cock, the guttural groan he made when I begged him to go harder. Release came, hot and fleeting, but it left me hollow, tears wetting the pillow as I whispered his name into the dark.

Amara became my anchor in those years. Our marriage, born of politics, blossomed into something rarer: companionship. We ruled together with a synergy the court envied. She brought Solara’s ingenuity to our halls…irrigation systems that turned barren fields green, trade pacts that swelled our coffers, festivals blending our traditions into something vibrant and new. In private, we confided without judgment. She never asked why I sometimes paced the gardens at midnight, cloak drawn tight against the chill. I never inquired about the soft laughter that drifted from her antechamber on certain evenings, or the way her lady-in-waiting lingered too long in her presence. We protected each other’s silences, building a trust that felt like family.

One spring evening, three years into our union, we sat in the solar overlooking the thawing river. The fire crackled softly, casting warm light on the tapestries of ancient hunts. Amara poured wine, her movements graceful, and handed me a goblet.

“You carry a ghost with you,” she said quietly, settling into the chair opposite mine. “I see it in your eyes when the council turns to matters of the north.”

I met her gaze, surprised but not defensive. “Is it so obvious?”

“To me, yes. To others… you hide it well.” She sipped her wine, considering. “I have my own ghosts, Elias. Quiet ones. A life before this, affections that duty asked me to set aside. We do what we must for the realms we serve.”

I nodded, the weight lifting slightly at her understanding. “And does it get easier?”

She smiled faintly, a touch of sadness in it. “Not easier. But bearable. We find ways to honor what we cannot have. For me, it is the small freedoms….the walks alone in the gardens, the books I read by candlelight. For you… I hope there is something similar.”

“There is,” I said, thinking of the dagger Damian had left behind in his quarters, now hidden in my desk drawer. I traced its hilt in moments of solitude, feeling the grooves worn by his hand.

We spoke long into the night that evening, of the pressures of rule, of the loneliness that came with wearing a crown even before it touched your brow. By the time the fire died to embers, a deeper bond had formed between us. Not romantic, but profound. We were allies in the truest sense, guardians of each other’s secrets, partners who chose kindness over conquest.

My father’s decline began in earnest during the fifth winter. The cough that had troubled him for years deepened into something wet and constant, robbing him of sleep and strength. He lost weight steadily, his once powerful frame shrinking inside his robes. I moved my own quarters closer to his so I could be summoned quickly. I sat with him through long nights, reading aloud from the histories he loved, holding his hand when the fever rose.

One morning, as snow fell thick outside, he woke clear-eyed for the first time in days. He looked at me and smiled, a small, tired thing.

“You have become the king I always hoped you would be,” he said. His voice was faint but steady. “Not because you obeyed me. Because you learned when to obey and when to choose your own path.”

I swallowed hard. “I learned from you.”

He shook his head slightly. “You learned despite me. That is better.” His fingers tightened around mine. “When I am gone, rule with mercy, Elias. The crown will tempt you to hardness. Resist it. And forgive an old man for taking from you what he could not understand.”

Tears burned my eyes. I had carried anger toward him for so long that forgiveness felt foreign. Yet hearing the words now, spoken with the clarity of a man facing death, something inside me loosened.

“I forgive you,” I said quietly.

He closed his eyes, a peaceful expression settling over his face. “Then I can rest.”

He slipped away three nights later, quietly, in his sleep. The palace bells tolled at dawn, a deep, mournful sound that rolled across the city and into the hills beyond. I stood at his bedside with Amara beside me, her hand steady on my arm. The court gathered in silence. Grief hit me then, not as a wave but as a slow, inexorable tide….regret for the years we had lost to distance, sorrow for the man who had shaped me with iron will, a quiet gratitude for the lessons I had fought so hard to absorb.

Preparations for the coronation began immediately. Tailors measured me for robes of crimson and gold. Jewelers polished the ancient crown, its silver stag antlers gleaming like new frost. Ministers drafted proclamations. Amara oversaw the guest lists, ensuring Solara’s presence would reaffirm the alliance.

I moved through it all with calm efficiency, the longing banked but never extinguished. At night, alone in the vast royal bed, I would trace the empty space beside me and whisper promises to the dark.

Soon.

Coronation day dawned clear and cold, the sky a pale winter blue that promised snow by evening. The great hall had been transformed once more, banners of Corwin hanging, the air thick with incense and anticipation. Nobles filled the benches, their finery a riot of color against the stone. Trumpets sounded as I entered, the notes soaring to the vaulted ceiling.

I walked the long aisle alone, cloak trailing behind me like spilled blood. The weight of every eye pressed against me, but I did not falter. At the altar, the high priestess waited, the crown resting on a cushion of black velvet. Amara stood to one side in her role as queen consort, her gown a masterpiece of silver and gold, her expression serene and proud.

The vows were ancient, binding. I knelt. The priestess lifted the crown.

“With this circle of gold and silver, forged in the fires of unity and tempered by the blood of your ancestors, I crown you Elias, King of Corwin, Guardian of the Realm, Bearer of the Stag.”

The metal settled cool and heavy on my brow. I rose.

The hall erupted in cheers that shook the rafters. “Long live King Elias! Long live the Queen!”

I turned to face them, Amara at my side, her hand slipping briefly into mine in silent support. The weight was immense, but it felt right..like armor I had been waiting to don.

Later, in the quiet of my new chambers…the king’s chambers, vast and echoing, I stood alone before the tall mirror. The crown still rested on my head, catching the firelight in a thousand facets, each glint a reminder of the legacy it carried, the burdens it demanded, the power it finally bestowed. My reflection looked older, steadier, the lines around my eyes etched not just by grief but by the quiet forging of resolve over five long years. A man who had waited, who had endured, who had bent but never broken. The boy who had begged for one last night in a soldier’s arms was gone, replaced by this figure cloaked in crimson and gold, the weight of the realm settling upon his shoulders like an old friend long anticipated.

I lifted the crown carefully, fingers tracing the cool silver antlers of the stag before setting it on the stand prepared for it, a velvet cushion embroidered with the ancient runes of our house. The metal left a faint imprint on my brow, a whisper of what was to come. The room felt larger without it, the high ceilings arching like the vault of a cathedral, the tapestries of past kings gazing down with eyes that seemed to judge and approve in equal measure. Fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm shadows that danced across the stone floor, but the chill of winter seeped through the windows all the same, a reminder that even kings could not command the seasons.

I crossed to the tall arched window, the heavy velvet curtains parted just enough to reveal the world beyond. Night had fallen fully now, the sky a deep indigo pricked with stars, the snow-capped mountains rising like silent guardians on the northern horizon. Their peaks gleamed faintly under the moon, jagged and unyielding, a barrier that had held me at bay for so long. Five years of stolen glances northward, of dreams where I rode those slopes until I found him waiting, arms open and unscarred by the harsh winds of exile. Five years of waking with the ghost of his touch on my skin, the echo of his voice in my ear, the ache of his absence like a blade turned inward.

A single tear traced down my cheek, warm against the cool air, catching the firelight before it fell to the floor. I did not wipe it away. Let it fall, I thought. Let it mark this moment, this threshold where waiting ended and claiming began. The crown, this heavy circle of gold and silver, was no longer a cage. It was a key.

I could finally have my love back.

The thought bloomed in my chest, not as triumph but as a quiet, profound relief, the kind that follows a storm when the skies clear and one remembers how to breathe. He would come. Not as a shadow in the margins, not as a guard bowing low in the corridors, but as mine….openly, unashamedly, in the ways that mattered. Five years of longing had not dulled the fire between us; it had tempered it, made it stronger, more enduring. I would build a world where love did not have to hide in stables and watchtowers, where duty and desire could walk hand in hand. For him. For us. For the man who had waited in silence, faithful as the stag that symbolized my house.

I pressed my palm to the cold glass of the window, fogging it slightly with my breath, my reflection ghosting over the distant peaks. The tear dried on my skin, a salt trace of all that had been endured. Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft and relentless, covering the old world in a shroud of white. But dawn would come, as it always did.

And with it, the end of waiting.

He was coming home.

And this time, nothing would keep him from me.

────────────────The Royal Affair 👑 | Part 23: The King's First Decree