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Henry is thirteen the first time he sees Alex. It's hot, the summer sun beating down, making his pale cheeks flush. He sits beside his father. A crown of laurels rests on his lap. Henry rubs the leaves between his fingers. Boys from their kingdoms are gathered on the ground below, naked aside from their underclothes, glowing with sweat. It is the younger boys race, now. Henry must crown the winner, an honor reserved for a prince.
He has known he's different for some time now. When he turned eleven and his body and thoughts started to change, he noticed the other boys beginning to pursue girls. Handmaids and slaves, noblewomen, anything with breasts and a pulse. But Henry did not. He found himself drawn to other features- the sharp jut of a hipbone, the curve of a jaw. He did not feel the way about girls that he did boys. But, with the naivety of a child, he thought if he ignored it, the feeling would simply go away. So he told no one and thought nothing of it.
But now, it is hard to ignore. One of the boys in the crowd of bodies has caught Henry's eye. Another prince, from one of their lesser kingdoms. King Oscar's son, he thinks. His skin is dark and rich, pulled taut against the beginnings of lean muscle on torso and arms. His body is dotted with freckles- kisses from gods, so they say. His eyes are brown and scowling, and his full, pink lips are quirked up at the corner. Henry swallows.
When the whistle blows, Henry's eyes follow the young prince, against his will, around the track. He's faster than the other boys and he laughs as he passes them. It's a beautiful sound, more delicate than the plucked string of a lyre. His eyes glow when he's declared winner. His chest heaves with heavy breaths, but his smile is bright. Henry keeps his composure as he rests the crown of laurels atop dark curls. His fingers brush through them. Impossibly soft, damp with sweat.
The prince is still grinning after all the races are called. It's challenging Henry, and he thanks the gods for the heat. Pink cheeks would be much more suspicious in the cold. The prince approaches, kneels. Strong muscles in his legs ripple with the movement. Henry has to clear his throat before speaking.
"You may stand."
Something flashes in the boy's eyes- mischief. The crown of laurels is beautiful upon his head and he knows it. Henry wants to paint him.
"Thank you," the prince says, voice smooth as olive oil. "for your patronage today. I am honored to have received it."
Henry does not want to see more. The boy is too close to him, breathing too heavily, eyes too intense. It will not do. Henry has worked too long to suppress his feelings, and this boy will not destroy all his hard work. He turns his eyes to Shaan, standing silent as always.
"Remove him, please," is all Henry says. He does not turn to see the prince's reaction.
***
He is sixteen when his father dies. Philip does not waste time. His father is not even cold before he's making arrangements to have Henry shipped away. It hurts, but he understands. Philip is a slave to his own ambition, and Henry is in the way. A nuisance, even more useless than a sister, for he will not produce heirs. An obstacle in Philip's path. A second son.
He is sent to one of their small outer kingdoms, ruled by Queen Ellen. He is to be the companion to the prince, a boy of fifteen. He will accompany the prince for life, sworn to a blood pact, promise his fidelity and loyalty. In times of war, Henry will be his general. In times of peace, his advisor. When the prince is married, Henry will serve as best man. Any children he has will be godfathered by Henry. Henry will never marry. He will never have children. He will stay by the prince's side until death, advise his children, guard the throne until they come of age. It is an honor to be named companion. In a way, it is a kindness, granted by Philip. A loophole to his condition. No one questions a celibate companion.
The journey is long and treacherous. The terrain is rough, the sun beats hot, dust fills Henry's lungs. He is accompanied only by Shaan, his horse, David, and the few possessions he has. Philip has paid Queen Ellen his weight in gold as compensation for Henry. This will pay for Henry's life. He will not receive any money from his family. Shaan, as well, has been paid handsomely. He will stay on as Henry's protector. He may marry, if he chooses. Henry does not think he will.
The palace is small, but beautiful. Terra-cotta walls are painted in bright hues, reds and golds. The throne room is warmer, much more welcoming than Philip's. The floors are a dark wood, and a fire roars in the hearth. Despite the heat of the day, the kingdom grows cold at night. Henry does not mind- it is familiar to the mild temperatures of home. It is the heat that haunts him.
He kneels, as taught, before the queen. Shaan had refreshed him on the history during their journey- the king abdicated, leaving the throne for the first time to a woman. She has since remarried, but her new husband is not king. It is strange, Henry thinks, that when a king remarries, his new wife becomes a queen, but if a queen remarries, her husband is only a consort. The rules were written long ago, he supposes. There is no way around them.
The queen's smile is as warm as the hearth, but Henry dares not look. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, like he has been instructed. A door opens somewhere. Footsteps pad along, make their way towards the throne. A familiar voice speaks, and Henry's blood chills.
"You may stand."
Slowly, Henry does so, and contains himself when he meets the light brown of the prince's eyes. He has grown, in the years since Henry has last seen him. His skin is tanner and he is taller. Still several inches below Henry, but he carries his height well. The light fabric of his tunic does not hide the lean muscle he has strengthened over the years. It's so light it is almost see-through. The boy smiles, and Henry crumbles.
"Welcome, Prince Henry of Wales," the prince says. His voice is as smooth as Henry recalls. "My mother tells me we are to be companions, you and I." Henry does not speak. He has not been asked a question. The prince raises an eyebrow. "You may speak. You are a prince in your own right, you do not need permission." But still Henry does not speak. He fears to do so will cause his voice to crack, will give away the truth. Queen Ellen takes pity on him.
"Alex, why don't you show Prince Henry the castle while his guard and Zarha get acquainted."
Alex looks to speak, but holds his tongue. His mother's voice is commanding, her looks even more so. Alex does not regard Henry, just tilts his head towards the door and leaves. Henry jogs to catch up with him. The prince's friendly smile is gone, replaced by a barely-contained scowl. He leads them through the palace but does not speak. He pushes open an old oak door and gestures for Henry to step inside.
Two beds are assembled- on large and slept in, the other small and new. Henry supposes that is where he will sleep. There is a warm fire and high windows, and books upon books are stacked along the walls. Henry sets his things down carefully on the bed and watches as the prince- Alex -sits on his own, legs swinging off the side.
"So," Alex says. "I suppose you and I are stuck together."
Henry swallows. "I suppose we are."
"I don't think this will be pleasant for either of us."
Something in Henry's heart sinks. The boy remembers, then, how rudely Henry treated him all those years ago.
"No. No, I don't think it will."
Alex does not speak to Henry after that, and Henry does not speak to Alex. They share their dinner together with Alex's family and trusted servants- his mother and step-father, of course, his sister, June, her handmaid, Nora. Shaan sits a ways off with a woman- Zarha, he guesses. He at least looks like he's enjoying himself. Alex is vibrant, laugh echoing throughout the hall, kicking his sister beneath the table. Henry marvels at the nonchalance of it all. Philip would not allow laughter at the dinner table. He would certainly not allow servants to join them.
They only exchange pleasantries after that, "good morning"s and "good night"s. They follow Alex's schedule: 5am running, tutoring at 7, free time after lunch. Then training in boxing, spear, sword, and bow until sundown, music lessons, dinner, and bed. It's grueling- Henry, though powerfully built, is not skilled in the art of fighting. He excels in music and tutoring, but nothing else. Alex spends his free time avoiding him, and Henry is content to curl up beneath an olive tree with a book. At night, when Alex thinks Henry is sleeping, he will sneak girls into their room. Henry will put his pillow over his head so as not to hear. He tries not to imagine Alex making those noises, doing those things to him, but his dreams always betray him.
It is not until the next week that Alex finally speaks. Henry is lying on his back on his cot, pretending to be asleep, blanket up to his chin. Alex finished with a girl some time ago- he swears he could hear her cry through the door when she left. Alex never sleeps, and neither does Henry.
"Henry," Alex whispers into the darkness. Henry cracks an eye open.
"Hm?"
"Are you awake?"
"Yes."
A pause. Henry hears the shuffle of blankets moving and turns. Alex is on his side, looking at Henry with wide brown eyes. It's strange, the way he looks at him now. Not with malice, like before. Something kinder. Kinship, maybe. An understanding.
"Do you think I will be a bad king?" Henry searches Alex's face for a hint of humor, an upturned lip, a mischievous eye. But there is none. He takes a moment to think.
"...no. I think you will be a great king one day."
Alex's scowl is disbelieving. "You're only saying that because you have to."
Henry actually laughs. "I'm your companion, Alex, not your yes-man." Alex's eyes change again. Henry squirms under the scrutiny.
"Promise me something."
"Anything." He hears the words come out before he can stop them, but Alex doesn't seem to notice.
"We'll never lie to each other. Do you promise?" He holds out his hand. With a shaky arm, Henry grips it, shakes.
"I promise."
Then, as if nothing happened, Alex rolls onto his back and goes to sleep. Henry tries to do the same, but his hand is burning.
The next night is the same. They do not talk the whole day, but in the small hours of the morning, something between them breaks. It is Henry, this time, who speaks.
"Alex?"
"Yeah?"
He doesn't know what compels him to ask. Perhaps it is jealousy. Perhaps morbid curiosity. "Those girls you bring to our room. Will you marry one of them?" He expects Alex to laugh, but he doesn't.
"No. I don't think so."
"Then who will you marry?"
Alex shrugs. "Nora, I suppose. Our families are old friends, her father is wealthy and a Lord."
"Do you love her?"
Alex turns his head now, gives Henry a peculiar look. It's far too serious for Alex's face. It doesn't fit. "I think I could. If I had to."
Henry does not press the issue further. His friendship with Alex is fragile. He does not want to push him too hard and ruin it, not when they're finally talking.
"What about you?" Alex asks after a while.
"What about me?"
"Who will you marry?"
"No one. I will never marry."
"Oh. Right." Alex pauses. "Did you want to?"
"No, I didn't."
"Why not?"
He takes a breath. There's no point hiding it from Alex- they're stuck together for life, after all.
"I don't like women."
"Oh."
And that is the last they speak of it.
***
After their initial few conversations, their friendship grows. Henry begins to enjoy his lessons, even though Alex beats him in combat every time. Alex turns sixteen and grows another inch. Henry makes fun of him for being short, and Alex mocks Henry's terrible archery. It's a teasing, rival-like relationship, but a relationship nonetheless. It's easy between them- they can sit in silence without it being awkward, or they can talk for hours and hours.
Henry tries to push down his feelings for Alex. It's unrealistic- Alex is the only son, the prince, the heir. His duty is to marry Nora and be with her, not Henry. No, he will marry and have children and Nora will be able to touch Alex however and wherever she wants. And Henry will watch.
Alex stops bringing girls to their room. He does not tell Henry why, just says he doesn't want to anymore. Henry lets it fill him up with a secret happiness. Sometimes little moments with Alex can keep him going for days- an accidentally brush of the hands during swordplay, the juice of a plum dripping down Alex's chin. Alex straddles Henry one day during training and he has to excuse himself for an hour.
They swim in the lake, naked and uncaring, and Henry hopes his blush will be mistaken for sunburn. Alex is the bravest person he's ever met. He doesn't care if what he does is silly or embarrassing, because there is no way to embarrass himself. Henry wishes he had that kind of bravery.
At some point, they start sharing a bed. Alex's skin is hot against Henry's, soft breaths sending curls tickling Henry's cheek. He does not sleep for the first week, content to watch Alex. He's been sleeping better, lately. Henry does not dare wonder if he's anything to do with it.
Six months pass, then a year. Henry and Alex are joined at the hip- neither goes anywhere without the other. Henry is seventeen now, Alex sixteen. They're both done growing, for the most part, and their training has gotten more intense. Alex will be expected to lead armies one day with Henry at his side. Henry hopes it never comes to that.
Alex is bright and beautiful and warm and perfect. His smile is sunshine, his touches are hot coals. Henry is struggling, now, to contain himself, with Alex's lips so near his in sleep, or his arm casually thrown over his shoulder. He begins to withdraw, the winter of his second year. He no longer goes swimming, he does not share the bed. Alex doesn't ask him why, but Henry can see the hurt on his face.
He snaps, one night. They're sitting my the stream, watching the moonlight ripple over the water. Alex's hand accidentally brushes against Henry's and he jumps, moves away. Alex frowns, pretty eyes scrunching up and pink lips pressed tightly together. He folds his arms over his chest, and Henry knows he's been caught.
"Okay. What's wrong." It is not a question. It is a command from a prince. Henry feigns ignorance.
"Nothing's wrong."
Alex rolls his eyes. "Please. You've been acting strange for months." He hesitates, and Henry sees his eyes are wet. "Was it something I did?"
"No," Henry breathes, shakes his head. He moves closer again. "no, you've done nothing."
"Then what is it?"
"Nothing--"
Alex shoves Henry. He does not fight back. He deserves it.
"We swore we'd never lie to each other. You promised."
Henry sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "I can't tell you. You'd hate me."
Alex is in his face now, a hairsbreadth away, and Henry goes still. It's not a look of anger he gives him. Sadness. Betrayal.
"I could never hate you."
He's closer still, shoving at Henry, fists now full of his tunic, and Henry can't take it. He grabs Alex by the shoulders and kisses him, then and there. For a horrible moment, Alex's hands do not still, and he fears he's fighting. He braces for Alex to pull away, tackle him to the ground, punch him. But it doesn't come. Alex's hands fly to Henry's neck, blunt fingernails dig into pale flesh. Henry takes hold of Alex's waist, pulls him into his lap. Alex's legs settle on either side of Henry. His lips are pliant, as soft as he imagined, opening so willingly for Henry's mouth. It is like all those dreams Henry had, wishing he were beneath Alex instead of those girls. He has to pinch himself because Alex is kissing him, touching him. He thinks he could die of happiness. Perhaps he already has.
***
He is twenty when he is called to war. The wife of an allied king has been stolen, forcing noblemen to pick up the banners for their kinsmen. Henry does not want to go, but Alex does, and he would follow Alex to the ends of the earth if he had to. He tries to stop him. Begs, pleads, do not go, there will be other wars. But it is a matter of pride. More than that, it is a matter of prophecy. Alex will be the greatest warrior of them all, it is said. He will be showered with gold and praise and fame. He will win glory in this war, but he will not return from it.
They have one last night at home before they are set to go. They are in bed, Alex's head on Henry's chest, tracing his skin. Henry has his arm around Alex's waist, hand resting on his hip, that sharp jut of bone he loves so dearly. They have not spoken of the war in days. Now might be his last chance.
"Don't go," Henry whispers. He hears Alex sigh, breath warm against his chest.
"It's done, Henry. I must."
"You mustn't," Henry sits up against the headboard, watches Alex looking up at him. So beautiful, so innocent, still untainted by the world. He does not want to learn that. "we can hide. You and I have enough money, we'll hire a ship to take us to some distant land--"
Alex sits up now, too, places his hands on Henry's cheeks. "Sweetheart. There is nothing else to be done. I have chosen my fate."
Henry places his hands on Alex's wrists, shakes his head. "It's not fair." He sniffles as Alex presses sweet kisses to his jaw, nose, forehead.
"Prophecies have been wrong before."
"What if this one isn't?"
He presses a kiss to Henry's lips. "Then I will make it wrong."
***
He is twenty two when Alex dies. It is not sudden. It is not relief. It is a slow, painful death, Alex in his arms in the middle of the battlefield, bleeding, gasping. His skin is cold and his eyes are afraid. Henry does not notice the battle raging around them. He does not care to. Alex places a bloody hand to Henry's cheek, wipes away tears with the pad of his thumb.
"Don't cry, my love," he says, softly. His voice is dry and cracked. "we will see each other again."
***
Henry is twenty three when he dies. A great pyre is built, and soldiers, kinsmen, noblemen alike weep. His mother is there, and his sister. Henry does not see. They mix his ashes with Alex's in a golden urn and bury them under an olive tree together. With his lover by his side, he is at peace.