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aphelea · 11 months ago

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like an old enemy (keefitz)

Ao3 Link

hi @when-wax-wings-melt i was your secret santa!! apologies for the late gift, it got slightly longer than expected, but i hope you enjoy this keefitz royal AU :)

(also thank you @song-tam for hosting this!)

quick note: the fic is non-linear and the scenes alternate between the adult and child/teenage versions of fitz and keefe, with excerpts of letters in between.

Summary: There’s a long pause before Keefe finally replies. “I swear to the moon and the stars, Fitz. I would never, ever kill the only person who ever loved me like a son.”

And how could Fitz’s will ever hold against that?

(Or, the story of two princes, through childhood wonder and wartime unrest.)

Warnings: vague mention of vomiting and canon-typical violence

The guards find Fitz in the garden at sunrise, pen in hand as he attempts to write a letter to be sent with tonight’s delivery to Candleshade. He is surrounded by drafts deemed unworthy of his intended recipient’s eyes—though, these days, Fitz thinks that nothing he could write would ever be truly worthy enough for him. No words could ever fully communicate what he needs to say—and yet he tries anyway.

“You’re here early,” Fitz says, upon hearing approaching footsteps. He pats his pockets frantically and sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t have any payment for the delivery right now. Or a delivery at all, actually.” He turns, expecting to see the palace’s messenger—but he is instead met with the carefully blank faces of five goblin guards, each quickly moving to surround him. Grizel, his personal bodyguard, stands in the middle, but she refuses to meet his gaze—Fitz’s first clue that something is terribly wrong.

“Your Highness,” one goblin begins, after a long moment of tense silence. “I—”

She’s cut off by a scream, loud and harrowed, from inside the palace. Immediately, Fitz scrambles up and reaches for his own sword, but is stopped by Grizel’s outstretched arm. He casts her a quizzical look, but she only shakes her head and looks toward the doors.

“Who did this?” comes the next cry, now in his mother’s voice. Fitz’s heart stops for a moment. He’s never known such anguish from her.

“Grizel?” he asks, and his voice wavers dangerously. “Who…”

Fitz can’t bring himself to say the words. Of course, it isn’t the first time that rebels have come after one of their own—he still vividly remembers the night of Jolie’s death, and how the fires had been so deceptively warm for a moment—but today, of all days? If he knew better, he’d take it as a sign from the universe.

But even the universe could not have prepared him for the words Grizel utters.

“King Alden,” she says quietly, and the world stops for a moment.

Even the birds are silent, as if mourning alongside him.

Fitz’s throat thickens. He’d seen his father just hours ago, in this very garden. They’d spoken about the state of the world, and as always, he’d told Fitz that there was no reason to worry about the rebels, and Fitz had scoffed and told him to stop treating him like a child. Was that truly the last thing he’d said to him? The last thing he would ever say to him?

His turmoil must be evident on his face, as Grizel reaches out and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. But he can only stare at the ground, unblinking.

“I thought the palace was secure,” he says, after a long moment—ever since rebels burned the old Havenfield Palace, the Alliance kingdoms have been incredibly careful with who enters and exits the palace grounds. Everglen is perhaps the most secure kingdom of the five—or, rather, it used to be.

From the grim expressions on the guards’ faces, that might no longer be the case.

“It appears to have been the work of a clever assassin,” Grizel says, and Fitz is surprised to see true fear in her eyes. In all his years of knowing her, nothing has ever shaken her composure, and certainly not enough to be plainly visible on her face. “They somehow exploited a secret entry into the palace just outside the gardens.”

A secret entry.

Fitz tries his best not to react, but he knows the recognition is all-too-obvious on his face. The only other person who knew about the path was…no, that’s impossible. He wouldn’t do this.

And Fitz wants, so desperately, to believe it. He wants to say that he trusts him more than anything—but when it comes down to it, in the final choice between right and wrong? Fitz isn’t sure where he would go.

Keefe has no reason to kill a king, he tells himself.

But the people he keeps company with certainly do, his mind rather unhelpfully supplies.

Fitz shakes his head, as if that will erase the presence of his thoughts. Why does he torment himself with speculation like this? He looks to Grizel, trying to appear as unshaken as possible, the furthest from his true turmoil. “Who did it?” he asks; the only way he has ever taken after his mother.

Grizel is silent and unreadable. But she has experience in stealth that the other guards do not, so the glances between them are all-too-obvious to Fitz now. “Who did it?” he repeats, raising his voice. “Who? Answer me!”

“Fitz,” Grizel warns, in that familiar way that tells him he won’t like the answer.

“Was it Alvar?” he asks, well aware that his voice is slipping into an unrestrained shout, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Quinlin? Biana?” She frowns, but remains silent. “Somebody just tell me!” He doesn’t realize he’s drawn his knife until it’s pointing at Grizel, tickling her throat.

Gently, she removes it, watching him with all the sorrow he’s not sure he deserves. “We recovered one of the many arrows found at the scene. It carried a…familiar flag.”

“Of the rebels?” Fitz asks. He knows the sign of the swan by heart; he has known it since it graced the cloaks of Jolie’s murderers, all those years ago. And it would make sense—too much sense, perhaps.

“No,” she replies, her voice so soft it’s barely a whisper. “Though that would be more predictable.”

“Then who?” Fitz asks, racking his brain for another group that would both want his father dead and shatter him badly. He doesn’t exactly keep close connections with many people, personally. With war looming over them, it’s easier to trust nobody but the people he loves.

Grizel lets out a shaky breath. “It carried the flag of Candleshade.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

Fitz leans over and throws up in the roses.

Dear Prince Keefe,

Hi! It’s me. Fitz. Obviously you know that, because what other royal from Everglen would be writing to you (unless you’re secretly pen pals with Biana, which would be weird since she doesn’t even know how to send a letter yet. Also, her handwriting is atroshous atrocuos atrocious.) I figured since it takes forever to get from Candleshade to here, it might be easier for us to send letters while we can’t see each other. Although, my father says that your father is coming over next month for a trade meeting, so maybe you can come then?

(Please come. Biana and I are really bored without anyone else our age around.)

Anyway, I used that goop you gave me earlier to prank my bodyguard. It worked! She was stuck to the wall and I swear it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Biana and I were laughing so hard that the other guards ran in because they thought we were choking! Then we had to get her out, sadly, and Grizel was pretty mad, even though some of the other guards were definitely laughing too. But at least I didn’t have to do my sword fighting training. So thank you! I’m sending some ripplefluffs along with this letter as a thank-you gift.

(I didn’t make them, though. I’m still banned from the kitchens after that prank we pulled last time.)

Oh, and on that note, I also found…

The first time Fitz speaks to Keefe, it’s by Jolie’s insistence. They’re eight years old, sitting in the gardens of Everglen and pointedly avoiding each other’s gazes—it’s the first time that the prince of Candleshade has ever visited, and he seems to be much more interested in his sketchbook than speaking to any of the other children. Though Fitz isn’t exactly interested in being social, either; he’s still sulking from being banned from the meeting room, despite the fact that he’s certainly old enough to be discussing grown-up matters. And if Alvar is going to be there, then why isn’t Fitz allowed? It’s all stupid. And unfair. And stupidly unfair.

The Princess of Havenfield, to her credit, listens to all of Fitz’s concerns. She doesn’t let him leave, of course, but at least she doesn’t treat him like a baby like other adults. This appeases Fitz a bit—but that still doesn’t mean he wants to run around the gardens playing games with his little sister and her new best friend. He’s not six anymore.

“I know you’re not,” Jolie says, sighing. “But I’m sure they would still really appreciate it if you joined them. Hey, you two, what game are you playing?” She directs the last sentence to the two girls who are currently galloping around a tree and waving sticks around wildly.

Princess Stina stops and grins. “Super Cowboys!” she shouts gleefully, then returns to hitting the air violently. Woltzer, Biana’s bodyguard, watches the whole situation with clear discomfort—it’s only a matter of time before he’s forced into playing one of their characters. Likely as whatever thing they’re killing.

Jolie raises an eyebrow. “And what are you cowboys fighting?”

“Rebels,” Biana answers, glaring at whatever imaginary person she must see in front of her. “We’re fighting rebels!”

Jolie pales, ever so slightly, but she still manages a smile. “See?” she tells Fitz. “You can play a…rebel-fighting cowboy.”

“I don’t want to be a cowboy. I hate cowboys.” Truthfully, Fitz doesn’t know much about them, but he definitely doesn’t want to be running around with a bunch of babies. He’s almost nine. If he’s going to be a good prince for his kingdom, he has to give up on childish pretend games now.

“Why?” Jolie asks. “Cowboys can be fun.”

“Yeah, but you only think that because you live in the land of cowboys. That’s different.” Fitz has never been to her kingdom, but he remembers learning about Havenfield during his diplomacy lessons—while it’s certainly not lawless, the towns on its outskirts are nowhere a prince should be sent to. Plus, it’s the closest Alliance kingdom to rebel country, so danger is always lurking around the corner outside the capital.

Grizel snorts behind him, and Jolie sighs. “Look,” she tells him, standing up, “it’s fine if you don’t want to play with them. But your father told me to watch over you here, so don’t plan on going anywhere else. At least, nowhere where I can’t see you.”

Fitz only wrinkles his nose and turns away. Why can’t his father just trust him? Alvar’s been attending Alliance meetings since he was nine. And Fitz has excelled in all his lessons; he’s done even better than his brother in most of them. And he’s not ignorant, either—he knows why today’s meeting was called. He’s heard the whispers of the growing rebel conflicts in all the kingdoms; he’s heard the rumours being spread about the real reason the Crown Princess of Havenfield was sidelined to babysitting instead of speaking for her kingdom. Rebel sympathies, they say. Will Princess Jolie’s first act as queen be removing her kingdom from the Council Alliance? Who was the mysterious commoner seen at her Winnowing Gala? Is she truly planning on betraying her country?

“Maybe you can talk to Keefe, then,” Jolie says, after a moment. “I’m sure he’d like some company.”

“Who?” Fitz asks, and then notices the boy sitting on a bench near them, drawing quietly in a sketchbook.

The boy—Keefe, apparently—looks up upon hearing his name. “I’m fine, actually,” he says, then returns to his drawing without giving Fitz so much as a glance.

Fitz scoffs. “Yeah, me too,” he says, moving to sit on the furthest possible bench that’s still in Jolie’s sight. Which, unfortunately, isn’t far. He should really ask his father to build more benches in these gardens.

For at least ten minutes, they sit in tense silence—Keefe, with his nose buried in his sketchbook, and Fitz, sulking and glaring at the dirt beneath him. Jolie and Grizel are having a conversation about the hardships of babysitting, or something. Fitz tunes them out.

Then, he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to find Jolie looking at him with raised eyebrows. “What did the ground ever do to you?” she asks, gesturing to where he’s kicked up enough dirt to create a small hole in Everglen’s perfectly pristine path. Oops.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Fitz replies. It’s a lie.

She sighs. “Why don’t you two just talk to each other? I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend you earlier. Besides, you two must be about the same age.”

Fitz huffs, but he knows she’s not wrong. He can’t sulk like this forever, after all. And the artist in front of him does look to be closer to his age—which is refreshing, since Fitz is used to spending all his time with either his six-year-old sister or his nineteen-year-old brother. Life in the palace isn’t exactly conducive to healthy social development, anyway.

So he sighs, gets up, and sits down next to Keefe. “Hi,” he says, in a perfectly normal and very chill way.

“Hi,” Keefe replies, still focused on his drawing.

“Uh,” Fitz starts, but he doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s then that Keefe finally looks up and meets his gaze, and it’s then that Fitz suddenly realizes who the boy in front of him is: Keefe Sencen, Prince of Candleshade. Of course, how could he not have realized? He’s seen the king and queen of Candleshade dozens of times, as Everglen’s closest ally. Fitz had been vaguely aware that they had a son, though he’d never stopped to think about him much.

“Want a cookie?” Keefe says, after a long moment of awkward silence.

Fitz stares at him. “What?”

“Here.” Keefe shoves a cookie in his face, and Fitz accepts—at first, for politeness, but then he takes a bite and he’s not sure he’s ever tasted a cookie this good. “I made them yesterday.”

“You…made these?” Fitz replies, frowning slightly. He’s never even been in the Everglen kitchens. And he doubts he could make a cookie that’s even edible, much less tasty.

Keefe shrugs. “Yeah. I like baking. It takes my mind off things.”

“Wow,” Fitz says with wide eyes. “I wish I had time to learn that. I feel like I spend all my time in lessons or training or something.”

Keefe snorts. “Oh, I’m supposed to be doing that. I just skip.”

Fitz’s jaw drops. “You…skip? Your lessons?”

“Yeah,” Keefe replies casually—clearly, he has no idea how much he’s just completely overhauled Fitz’s mind. “If I don’t want to be there, I just don’t go. Besides, I already know pretty much everything they try to teach me.” He pauses and wrinkles nose. “Except for the sword fighting stuff. That stuff sucks.”

“Woah,” Fitz breathes. “That’s pretty cool.”

The longer they talk, the more Fitz starts to forget about the meeting he’d so desperately wanted to attend. Something about this boy—a boy like no other he’s met before—is entrancing, the only puzzle Fitz has ever encountered that he hasn’t been able to decipher immediately.

He resolves, that night, that one day he will figure out the mystery of Prince Keefe Sencen.

No matter how long it takes.

Dear Keefe,

I think something serious is happening. You know how your father arrived in Everglen over the weekend? I’ll admit, I was kind of disappointed that you weren’t with him, but I think I understand why now. He, King Grady, and my father have been locked in the King’s office for nearly three days now—and every time I see them, they have these terrible, grim expressions on their faces. I’ve been asking everyone for information, but nobody will tell me anything! Not even Alvar. He keeps telling me that everything is fine. What a liar.

I know that it’s something to do with the rebels, though. I can see it in their eyes.

Anyway. I just want to make sure you’re okay, since I heard that there were a lot of rebel attacks in Candleshade recently, and you haven’t responded to my last letter yet…no pressure to respond quickly, of course. I just like knowing that you’re not dead.

I miss you I hope you’re okay, Keefe…

“You have a lot of nerve asking me to come here,” Fitz says. He doesn’t turn around; he won’t give Keefe the satisfaction of looking into his eyes, no matter how much he desperately wants to.

Keefe’s breath is warm on his neck—it’s December, and Fitz is so, so cold without someone to hold—and he sighs. “And yet, you still came.”

“I need to know why,” Fitz says. He keeps his gaze trained on the horizon, even as Keefe moves to stand in front of him, begging for his attention. What attention does he deserve? The attention of a prison guard, perhaps. Not a prince.

Keefe shakes his head in Fitz’s peripheral vision. “I didn’t know,” he says, and Fitz can only scoff.

“Didn’t know what?” he says incredulously. “That I would find out? Your kingdom’s flag was on the arrow that killed him! They found footprints on the path behind the roses—the path that only you and I know about. I’m not stupid, Keefe. I know what that means.” Fitz is well aware that he’s shouting, now, but they’re deep enough into the woods that he doesn’t quite care anymore. He directs his fury at the air beside Keefe’s perfectly-maintained curls—of course he has the nerve to look pretty even among all this pain. Fitz wouldn’t expect any less.

But Keefe only stares at him, with something akin to grief in his eyes. “Fitz, please,” he begs, stepping forward. “Look at me.” And if they were just a few years younger, Fitz wouldn’t have hesitated to do so; after all, most of their childhood had been spent following each other blindly. Now, though, they are both hardened by the war at their borders; now, Fitz shouldn’t trust Keefe as he once did, even if his faith in him has become muscle memory.

“Just tell me it wasn’t you,” is all Fitz can manage to say without succumbing.

There’s a long pause before Keefe finally replies. “I swear to the moon and the stars, Fitz. I would never, ever kill the only person who ever loved me like a son.”

And how could Fitz’s will ever hold against that?

So he gives in, and finally meets the gaze of the only man who could ever ruin him; it’s stormy, terrifying, and all too familiar. Under the moonlight, it reminds Fitz of their younger days—before war caught up to them, when they would spend most of their nights together running off to where they weren’t meant to be and ignoring the shouts from their bodyguards in favour of each other. He’s forced to remember that the boy in front of him is the same boy who taught him how to prank his tutors, years and years ago; the same boy who taught him that love is as easily taken away as it is given.

“What happened to you?” Fitz asks, and even he’s not quite sure what he means by it.

Keefe chuckles dryly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

It’s then that Fitz notices the bruises on his cheeks, nearly covered by the blood and mud smudged across his skin. “You’re hurt,” he realizes. He reaches out to examine further, but stops midway—he can’t hold Keefe like this anymore. They aren’t who they once were.

“Oh, that,” Keefe says, rubbing his face. “I lost a fight with some rebels.”

Fitz gapes at him. “What?”

Keefe looks away and moves his hair across his face, presumably trying to hide the extent of his injuries. “They attacked the palace three days ago. It shouldn’t have been as bad as it was—we have more than enough forces to counter them—but they were one step ahead of us. As they always are.”

A million situations run through Fitz’s mind, but he’s studied the rebel tactics long enough to understand what Keefe is saying. “They had people on the inside.”

Keefe nods. “They knew every weakness in our defense, and every single passage in or out of the palace. Even the ones I thought only I knew about. I was only able to run because Ro fought them off behind me.”

That means… “So the rebels killed my father, then.”

Keefe pauses. “I don’t know. I’ve been on the road for three days—I didn’t even know he was dead until I got into town. But I can’t imagine that my father would choose to make an enemy out of our only allies.”

Fitz sucks in a breath. “Which can only mean that Candleshade has fallen.” It seems almost impossible, but if what Keefe is telling him is true…then the rebels have grown much more powerful than he ever thought.

“This is the start of the real war,” Keefe says quietly. “They’ll stop at nothing to take down the Alliance. And with your father dead…Everglen is definitely going to be next. It’s an easy opening for them.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to prepare for a fight,” Fitz says. “After that, hopefully, we can help you reclaim Candleshade.” And with it, perhaps, they can reclaim some of themselves too.

At this—strangely—Keefe’s face falls, and he winces. “About that…” he begins, and suddenly, he won’t meet Fitz’s eyes. “I’m leaving.”

Fitz stares at him. “What?”

“I can’t stay here,” Keefe says. “You said it yourself—people think I’m a killer. And even once I tell them I’m not, if they believe me…what can I do? The rebels need me dead to end the line; they’ll be searching for me everywhere. I’ll only bring death to your door even quicker.” He chuckles, though it’s as dry as the winter air surrounding them.

The idea is so absurd, Fitz can’t even believe it’s coming out of his mouth. “So, what, your best solution is to run away?” Fitz snaps. “You have a duty, Keefe! A duty to your kingdom, a duty to your legacy, a duty to—” He stops himself before he can say something ridiculous like a duty to me.

Keefe scoffs. “I have no obligation to a kingdom that despises every bone in my body.”

“You’re a prince.”

“I’m well aware,” Keefe snaps. “Not all of us are as obsessed with our legacies as you, Fitzroy.” The name is like a punch to the stomach; it’s a dirty trick, hitting where he knows it’ll hurt Fitz the most.

The reply tumbles out of his mouth before he can fully process what he’s saying. “Then maybe you should just leave!” Fitz says. “Clearly I can’t stop you.”

For a moment, the devastation is evident on Keefe’s face, But it’s gone in just a second, replaced by a fiery determination unlike any Fitz has seen before. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

Is this what you want, Fitzroy?

“I’m not the one who called you here. I don’t care what you do,” he lies. “I haven’t cared in a long, long time.” Lies, lies, and more lies. Keefe can see through it, of course—he knows Fitz better than to believe anything he says out loud.

“Fine,” Keefe says. “Then I guess this is it.”

He turns, and Fitz can only watch, frozen, as Keefe mounts his horse. Say something, his mind begs him, Tell him you don’t mean it! But wouldn’t that be too easy?

He waits silently, until Keefe is entirely out of earshot, before he mutters one final wish to the wind—perhaps Keefe might think he’s forgotten about what today is, but of course, he hasn’t. He can’t. “Happy birthday, Keefe,” he says, hoping that the wind can carry his message home.

Then, he begins on the path back home, and resolves to forget that this—that Keefe—ever happened.

He fails, obviously.

Keefe,

Do you see her too? In your dreams, in your nightmares…Do you hear her screaming? Because I do, every single day and it doesn’t stop please Keefe you’re the only one who understands

Look, I know there’s snow piling outside my window, I know it should be icy and frigid and terrible without a fire on—but somehow I can’t stop feeling like every inch of me is warming up, exponentially and endlessly until I’m burnt to a crisp. Like a pig on a spit, forever roasting.

And logically, I know we’re not there anymore; I know I’m safe behind the walls of Everglen—well, as safe as anyone can be, in these times. But somehow, for some reason, I can’t stop feeling like I’m still stuck in Havenfield, doomed to watch her burn forever.

I guess what I’m asking is…does it haunt you too? Does she haunt you too?

You’re the only one who saw it like I did. Running to the woods for just a moment, and then we come back and the world’s on fire right in front of our faces…were we the last people she saw? The last people whom she trusted, I mean.

Or maybe I shouldn’t be asking these kinds of questions. It’ll only make it worse—at least, that’s what my mother says. But what does she know of real terror?

I think life was easier when I saw the rebels as this distant, intangible thing. I used to be obsessed with being allowed into Alliance meetings, and I never understood why they wouldn’t let me in when I knew so much about the war—but I understand now. I had the information, but I didn’t truly know them. I didn’t have the fear that’s required to really understand what they’re capable of. I didn’t have these dreams that remind me of how cruel the world can really be to people who don’t deserve it.

I do now, though.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because nobody else listens? My mother tries, but she just can’t understand what I’m feeling. And my brother keeps ignoring me, for some reason. I’m trying not to read too much into it.

I just wish you were here, Keefe. Being around you is kind of like a cure for everything, you know? Like I’m a walking wound and you cauterize me. Or maybe you burn me. I’m not quite sure yet.

The unfortunate consequence of sneaking out of the palace at night is that the much-harder process of sneaking in has to occur eventually.

The first time Fitz and Keefe find themselves in this predicament, they’re fifteen, and regretting many of the night’s decisions as they stare up at the heavily guarded palace in front of them. Sneaking out hadn’t been incredibly difficult, surprisingly. It’s Grizel’s day off, and her substitutes aren’t quite used to the antics of the young royals yet, so they’d employed Biana to distract the goblins—with a promise to do whatever she wants for the next three days—and had successfully lowered themselves out through a first-story window. Easy.

What’s less easy, however, is getting back in. They’ve searched for an easy entrance back into Fitz’s room for nearly an hour, now, to no avail—and Fitz is starting to shiver, in the cool autumn air.

“Do you want my cloak?” Keefe asks, and he doesn’t even wait for a response before slipping it off.

“Won’t you be cold?” Fitz replies, staring at his friend with wide eyes—Candleshade is considerably warmer than Everglen, so there’s no way Keefe is used to the cold here. Fitz isn’t even used to the harsh winters of his home, and he’s lived here his whole life.

Keefe shrugs. “I’m really not cold, and your nose is turning red, so.”

Fitz probably turns even more red at the comment. “I’m fine,” he swears, and Keefe raises his eyebrows. “...Maybe I’m a little cold,” he concedes.

With the admission, Keefe grins and reaches around Fitz’s shoulders to wrap his cloak around him. He’s forced to step closer to pin it shut, and Fitz finds his face burning once again at their proximity. Please don’t notice, he begs, but of course, the universe hates him.

“Are you okay?” Keefe asks, frowning. “You look a little weird.” He hasn’t moved, yet—he’s still just inches away from Fitz, so close that he can make out all the little scars on Keefe’s face.

“I’m fine,” Fitz replies, and he knows he’s staring. But how can he not, when Keefe is so close?

What he doesn’t expect is for Keefe to meet his gaze with equal intensity, a small smirk growing on his lips. “Are you?” he asks, with a teasing lilt to his voice.

And for a moment, Fitz is stunned speechless.

Then Keefe leans forward, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and steps back as if it’s just a casual motion—as if he hasn’t just stopped and started Fitz’s heart all in the span of two seconds. “Hey, what’s that?” he calls, already running toward a random patch of roses before Fitz can say a word.

Not that Fitz knows what he would say, if Keefe had waited. He can’t confess to feelings that he doesn’t understand.

So he runs after Keefe, as he always does, bracing himself for the pain of the thorns. Hopefully the healers don’t ask too many questions about his cuts and bruises from the night—though it’ll be obvious to them once they notice that he matches Keefe. (It’s nice, knowing that they’ve been marked together. Even when the wounds fade, his memories certainly won’t.)

“What are you doing?” Fitz whispers once he finds Keefe crawling beneath a particularly thick rosebush.

“There’s something beyond this,” Keefe says, pushing forward. “Something hidden in the roses. I think it’s a clearing of some sort.”

Fitz scoffs. “Why would there be a hidden clearing in the middle of our gardens? What could we possibly have to hide—”

“I found it!” Keefe suddenly exclaims. “Come on, come through!”

Well. That’s certainly strange. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way through the dirt, wincing each time a thorn catches on his clothes. Thankfully, he has Keefe’s cloak to protect his arms—though he can’t imagine how scratched up Keefe must be, with only a sleeveless tunic to protect him.

After a minute of fighting a maze of flowers, Fitz emerges in a dark clearing, with flowers above blocking the moonlight. The ground beneath him is dusty, and he realizes with a start that this isn’t just a clearing—it’s a path. “What the hell?” he mutters, and Keefe snorts.

“It’s a bit concerning that the Prince of Everglen isn’t aware of a secret passage into his palace,” Keefe says, and Fitz can tell he’s grinning even without seeing him.

“This goes all the way into the palace?” Fitz asks, glancing around at the little he can see.

“Yeah,” Keefe replies. “I followed it to the end. Turns out, Everglen isn’t quite as secure as it claims to be.”

And Fitz really shouldn’t be celebrating a secret breach in the castle’s defense. But clearly, no potential intruder is aware of it, since no-one seems to have discovered it…so there’s really no harm in using it himself, right? “You know what this means, Keefe?” he asks.

“What?”

A Keefe-like grin makes its way onto Fitz’s lips. “This means we can get in and out of the castle any time we want.” It’s both a terrifying and exhilarating thought—for the first time in his life, he’s free. At least, in some sense of the word.

Keefe laughs. “I guess you’re right,” he says, smiling softly. “Oh, and, by the way, I have a gift for you.”

At this, Fitz raises his eyebrows. “A gift?” he repeats. “Why? It’s not my birthday.”

Keefe shrugs. “I just thought you would like it.”

“Oh.” Oh. It’s a strange feeling, to be known like this, and Fitz loves every second of it. He watches Keefe bring something out of his pocket and hand it to him, gentle and delicate, and it takes him a moment to realize what it is—then he’s blushing wildly again. “Is this a rose?”

Keefe smiles. “Yeah. It’s classic, you know?”

Fitz does know. In fact, he knows quite well, since he’s read practically every novel in the library…but Keefe can’t possibly mean it like that.

In response to his shocked silence, Keefe steps forward and tucks a strand of Fitz’s hair behind his ear. His hand then falls to Fitz’s chin—still as gentle a touch as ever—and Fitz can barely breathe. Maybe he’s reading far too much into this, but… “Isn’t a kiss classic, too?”

Keefe grins. “I suppose it is.” And Fitz doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting to hear it, or how long he’s been waiting to step forward and hold Keefe’s face like this—like a lover, like a dearest friend. But he holds him, now, and it feels like releasing a breath of air he never knew he’d been holding.

Keefe’s lips are as soft as morning sunlight.

And Fitz’s world has never been so peaceful.

Dear Keefe,

I wish we could live forever. Just you and I, immortals for eternity—wouldn’t it be fun? We could look at the stars together, every night until the end of the world. We could speak as we wish and love as we’d like and nobody would have the guts to bother us…we’d be gods, really, in our own little world.

But since we aren’t immortals, I think I’d like to know you for every remaining night of my mortal life. And who knows how long that will be?

Truthfully, Keefe, I’m terrified. I’m terrified that this war will take over our lives and we’ll forget who we truly are amidst the chaos. I’m terrified that I’ll become someone who you don’t know how to want anymore—I fear, sometimes, that I already am.

I just wish you and I could stay the same forever. I know it’s ridiculous—impossible, even—but wouldn’t it be nice to have something constant in our lives?

Just promise you’ll never let go of me, Keefe. Not until our dying breaths.

“I heard about Keefe,” Biana says from the doorway, and Fitz startles. He’d been so engrossed in watching his ceiling that he hadn’t even noticed her come in—a luxury he doesn’t have, now that rebels could be coming for him any day now.

“What about him?” he asks, forcing himself to seem as nonchalant as possible.

It’s impossible to hide anything from his sister, after all these years together. “That he’s gone,” she states, three simple words for such a complex thing. “I’m surprised you’re not with him.”

Fitz scoffs. “I wouldn’t abandon our family like that. Especially not now.” Not now, when the throne where Alden should sit still lies vacant, with no agreement on who should fill it next. Not now, when there could be killers around every corner.

Biana’s expression softens, and she moves to sit beside him on his bed. “I know,” she says quietly. “But…don’t you ever wish you could? Just leave, and be free of all this. Be a normal person.”

Every single day, he wants to say. But these are times that call for his strengths, not his weaknesses. “That’s what the rebels want us to do,” he says. “Run away from our lives, and give them our kingdom without a fight. We can’t give up so easily.”

“But we can’t let our fear of them control our lives, either,” Biana replies. “Let yourself be selfish for once, Fitz. What do you actually want to do? Who do you actually want to be?”

Fitz laughs dryly. “When did you become so wise?” he asks, hoping to avoid a real answer. But she keeps her gaze sharp and steady on him, and he realizes that there is nowhere for him to run from this. “I don’t know,” he finally answers—the most honest he’s been with himself in a very long time.

Biana smiles. “Yeah. Me neither,” she says, and it’s strangely comforting.

But as peaceful as not knowing sounds, Fitz knows that he can’t afford to indulge it for very long. Perhaps, as a child, he’d been able to run and play to his heart’s content, but those days are gone now. Those people are gone.

“I can’t afford to be selfish, though,” he tells her. “Maybe in a few years, once this is all over, I can be who I want. But not today.”

For a long moment, Biana just looks at him, with something like sadness in her eyes. “Well,” she finally says, her voice wavering slightly, “I suppose you’ll make a great king, then.”

What?

Fitz sits up so quickly that there are spots in his eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asks, because there’s no way she’s saying what he thinks she is. Because that would mean…

“Alvar officially abdicated this morning,” she tells him, softly. “The throne is yours now.”

Fitz…doesn’t even know what to think. For as long as he can remember, he’s had a set path for his future—Alvar would be king, and Fitz would work by his side, a prince with the freedom to travel the continent, learning everything he possibly can. “Why would he abdicate?”

Biana sighs. “You know he and Dad were never on the best terms.” It’s true, though Fitz hadn’t understood why until he was nearly an adult. Alvar has always had drastically different ideas on how to run the kingdom, and there were certain things that Alden simply wasn’t willing to change.

The older he gets, the more Fitz realizes that neither of his idols are quite what they seemed to be.

“You know, you don’t have to do it,” Biana says. “You don’t have to bear the burden of the crown just because it fell to you. We have more than enough cousins to give it to.”

And the idea is tempting, for a moment. Handing off the crown and living life as a normal citizen, away from the pain that this palace has brought him…but he has a duty, both to his father and to his kingdom. Fitz was raised a prince, unlike his cousins—this has to be his burden to bear. It has been his burden since he was born.

“No,” he tells Biana. “I won’t run away. Not anymore.”

If this is what his destiny is, then so be it.

Fitz will be a king.

Dear Keefe,

My Winnowing Gala is set for November.

Isn’t it strange, how old we are now? I don’t feel old enough to get married. Or engaged, even. Though I suppose I don’t have much of a choice—with how long Alvar is waiting, my family is itching for a wedding. To bring joy to the citizens, if nothing else.

Anyway, I’m writing to you to ask if you can come. I need someone sane to be around while everyone is caught up in the chaos of finding me a perfect match. That, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve attended a single gala without you since we were twelve, and there’s no reason to change that now.

Also, I miss you.

Please come.

Fitz spends the first ten minutes of his Winnowing Gala hiding in his bedroom, watching the swarms of carriages arriving through his window. There can’t possibly be this many women here to see him. This must be more people attending than he’s met in his entire life—though given that he’s only ever had two friends who weren’t related to him, perhaps that isn’t much of a bar to set.

While he panics, Keefe is standing at the vanity, aggressively scrunching hair gel into his curls. “You look fine,” Fitz says, after hearing far too many frustrated grunts—and then he really stops to look at him. “More than fine, actually. You look incredible. So stop fussing around with it!”

“The beauty is in the details,” Keefe replies, carefully adjusting one singular strand of hair. “It has to curl away from my face. Not toward. That’s my secret to looking perfect everyday.” He sends Fitz a wink, and for some reason, Fitz’s face burns. Charming fool.

But he rolls his eyes anyway. “You would look perfect even if you dyed your hair green and shaved half of it off,” Fitz says, and immediately regrets it as a grin grows on Keefe’s lips.

“Good idea,” Keefe replies, that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eye—but before he can elaborate on his terrible plan, they’re interrupted by a loud banging on the door, accompanied by a chorus of shouts.

“Your highness, where the hell are you?” comes Grizel’s voice.

“You lovesick fools better be hiding in there, or I’ll kill you!” comes Ro’s.

“Fitzroy Avery Vacker, get your ass out here right now!” And Biana.

None are particularly promising.

Fitz immediately runs to hide behind his curtains—he can’t possibly go down there and speak to all those people, what if they hate him? What if he trips and falls in front of everybody? What if he scares off every single possible match?

(That last one doesn’t seem so bad, actually. It’s not like he wants to get married soon. He can’t imagine falling in love with anyone else, right now.)

Keefe grabs his wrist before he can fully tuck himself away. “Fitz,” he says, and his voice is suddenly serious. “You’ll have to go eventually, you know. Might as well get it over with now.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to have a Gala,” Fitz says with a scoff. “Suddenly you’re a fan?”

Keefe sighs, but his hold on Fitz’s arm never wavers. It’s a comforting constant, right now. “I didn’t want you to go through with it only because your family asked you to. I thought you, of all people, should get at least somewhat of a choice in who you love...but it’s too late to change that now, isn’t it? The Gala is happening. So we might as well show up, if all of this is in your honour.”

“I suppose,” Fitz agrees, electing to ignore the parts he doesn’t understand. He has his suspicions, of course, as to what Keefe is implying—they’re suspicions he’s carried himself, after all—but this is hardly the time to be thinking about that. Now that he is about to walk into the traditions of a prince, he cannot be bound to his past distractions.

Though his worst distraction still sits here, holding his wrist gently as if it were porcelain. And Fitz cannot bring himself to send him away. (He brought him here, after all, despite his parents’ protests—rarely are friends allowed to attend Winnowing Galas, but Fitz had insisted. He couldn’t bear to think about love for a whole night without the boy who personified it by his side.)

Another series of loud bangs on the door prompts Keefe to stand up, bringing Fitz with him. He sends Fitz a look—the kind only the two of them can decipher—and Fitz nods. He is as ready as he can ever be—which still isn’t quite ready at all.

“Finally,” Biana says when they open the door. “I’ve been fielding questions about you left and right. Your potential matches are awfully inquisitive.”

Keefe snorts. “Good luck with that.”

As it turns out, when they reach the gala, the attendees are indeed strangely curious about him—his favourite colours, his morning routine, his favourite things to cook, and more ridiculously irrelevant things. More than once, their conversations fall into awkward silence, because Fitz finds that he has nothing substantial to say to them. He isn’t actually interested in finding a wife here, anyway.

Though many of them aren’t even here for him—they’re only here to see the legendary palace of Everglen, and he’s simply their ticket inside. Which he doesn’t quite mind, except for when they’re swarming him and asking him a million questions about the size and the material and the location of the palace…things that he doesn’t know, and things that he cares even less to talk about.

And now there’s about twenty people trying to talk to him at once, and probably at least one hundred people surrounding him, crushing him, suffocating him, and suddenly Fitz just can’t breathe.

“Get me out of here,” Fitz whispers to Keefe, interrupting his conversation with some blonde Noble from Havenfield who looks eerily like Jolie.

Keefe mutters an apology to the girl—Sophie, apparently—and immediately slips out of the room beside him, a worried expression on his face. “Are you alright?” he asks, and Fitz shakes his head.

“There’s people everywhere,” he says. “Nobody is giving me space to even think.”

Keefe sighs. “Yeah, well, seeing how many people are on that list, I’m not surprised you’re overwhelmed.” He gestures to the wall behind them, where a long scroll is pinned to the wall, covered with a long list of names and check marks.

“Oh,” Fitz realizes. “That’s my match list.” He never even knew that they had taken it from his bedroom—but, then again, he had stayed as far away as possible from the gala planning.

Keefe walks forward to examine it, and Fitz’s breath catches. These two worlds—his duty and his choice, his head and his heart—were never meant to exist so close to one another. And yet, here Keefe is.

“Your number one match is Sophie,” Keefe reads out, his expression indecipherable. “She seems nice enough. Maybe you should consider her.”

The words are so incredibly foreign to hear—Keefe, telling him to marry someone else. Some stranger. As if Fitz was ever truly going to walk out of this ball engaged. He doubts he’s even capable of giving his heart to anyone else, now. He’s invested too much of it in one place. In one man.

“You know,” Fitz says, after a long moment, “I wanted it to be you.” It’s as close to a confession as he’s ever gotten, and Fitz regrets the words immediately after they’re spoken. Now, Keefe is staring at him like he’s said something outlandish, when it’s certainly nothing he didn’t already know.

After a minute, Keefe rips his gaze away from Fitz, and stares at the wall with the intensity of a thousand stars.

“Keefe?” Fitz says. If only he could read his thoughts.

Keefe shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the din of the Gala.

“What?”

Keefe sighs. “You deserve someone better than your kingdom and better than me. I’m not what you really want, Fitz. You just don’t know any better.”

And before Fitz can respond, before he can protest that he’s not a child, he knows exactly what he wants—Keefe is gone. Out the main doors, into the rain.

And the silence that lingers has never felt more suffocating.

Dear Keefe,

Happy birthday, you idiot.

I miss you.

Please respond.

What the hell am I writing?

I can’t tell what you want from me. You tell me to want freely, and then tell me I shouldn’t want you. You want me to live selfishly, and then claim I can’t live beside you. Do you despise me? Do you fear me?

Or is it that you’re too afraid of it all, yourself?

I know that I can be both your prince and Everglen’s. I resigned myself to living two lives, long ago—but you? You’ve always wanted more. More than your duty, more than our secrets—but when will it all be enough?

Part of me doesn’t even want to send this letter, because I know you won’t respond to it.

Happy birthday, Keefe. I hope you think of me.

His coronation is far too grand for the times, but Fitz lets it slide. The kingdom needs some joy, after all. (And a distraction from the fact that their new king, who is supposed to lead them through war, is barely twenty years old.)

There’s still over an hour before it’s set to start, but the hall is already filled with decorations and massive displays of opulence. The guest list is small, by Fitz’s own request—he can’t risk inviting anyone he doesn’t know well into the heart of the palace. It would be far too easy for someone to send an arrow through his throat while he’s distracted, even with Grizel’s extra security measures.

Right now, though, he’s more concerned with trying to find his siblings. In the chaos, he somehow managed to lose Biana, and Alvar is, of course, nowhere to be seen. Though that isn’t entirely unexpected; ever since Fitz had agreed to take the throne, his brother hasn’t spoken even a word to him. Alvar walks out of every room Fitz enters, eats only in his own bedroom, and refuses to even look at him. Fitz can’t deny that it hurts—in the span of just a month, he’s lost three of the most important people in his life, and only one is actually dead.

But he pretends to be unfazed, for the sake of Everglen. He can’t let his personal issues get in the way of leading his kingdom.

Through the crowd, Fitz suddenly notices Alvar, pushing through and running with some strange sense of urgency. Where could he possibly need to go right now? There’s nothing in that wing of the palace except for…

Except for Fitz’s room.

Fitz drops his staff and rushes after him.

But when he finally reaches his bedroom, he finds it to be empty. “Odd,” he mutters aloud. He looks around, but everything seems to be as he left it in the morning, with nobody else in sight. Fitz could’ve sworn he saw Alvar run up these stairs. Where else could he have gone?

He gets his answer in the form of cool metal to the back of his neck and a sudden, strong grip on his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” Alvar snarls, pressing his dagger into Fitz’s skin.

“Have you lost your mind?” Fitz snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t let you become King,” Alvar says. “I can’t let you continue this madness.”

Fitz scoffs. “What madness?”

“The madness of the Alliance, Fitz!” he spits. “Not one of these kingdoms truly cares about their people. Don’t you see? The endless exiling of so-called rebels, the matchmaking system—it’s all built for maximum control.”

“So your solution is to kill me?” Fitz replies, and he so desperately wants to run, but he needs to understand whatever curse has befallen his brother. This cannot be the man he idolized as a child.

“I had high hopes for you,” Alvar says. “You used to be more than a prince, you used to have passion! I really thought you would be the one to change things, when we were younger. Now I see you’re no better than your father.”

“Our father was a good man!” Fitz protests, but even he can’t entirely believe it.

Alvar scoffs. “Alden was a good king, but he could never be more than that. That’s why he had to go.”

It’s a strange way to word the statement, and to Fitz, it almost seems like… “You’re talking as if you killed him.” The idea is absurd, but the more he thinks about it, Fitz can’t deny its plausibility. In the months leading to the King’s death, Alden and Alvar had had such dramatic disagreements that practically the whole palace knew about them. Fitz had been too worried about Keefe to really pay attention, then, but…it certainly makes sense.

“Because he did,” a voice suddenly says from the shadows behind them.

Fitz’s blood runs cold.

Alvar’s dagger falls from his neck and he pushes Fitz to the floor, whirling to face the intruder. A cloaked figure emerges from the corner, a pair of curved blades in their hands—blades that Fitz is all too familiar with.

“Keefe Sencen,” Alvar sneers, stepping backward. “The disgraced prince returns.”

But when Keefe’s hood falls, Fitz is practically faced with a stranger—his face is decorated with scars from all manner of weapons, and his once-beloved hair is now a tangled mess that reaches past shoulders. No longer is he the man Fitz had known. This is someone new.

“I’m not a prince anymore,” Keefe says, bringing his hand to his chest where a small pendant sits—too small for Fitz to really make out what it is. But Alvar seems to recognize it, as his eyes widen.

“So the Black Swan have finally decided to emerge from the shadows,” Alvar says, reaching for the sword at his waist. “How cute.”

“Step away from the king,” is Keefe’s only response.

Alvar glances between the blades, both pointed at him, and Keefe’s dark scowl. “And what if I don’t?” he asks. “What will you do when the strongest kingdom in the Alliance falls to us?” He steps forward, drawing his own sword and matching Keefe’s stance.

Quietly, Fitz draws himself up to a sitting position. Neither Keefe nor Alvar are paying attention to him anymore—they’re too focused on each other, waiting for the first strike. And while Fitz knows that he and Keefe have been strangers for far too long, he doubts that Keefe’s skills in swordsmanship have improved enough over the past year to beat Alvar. He’d been a sword fighting prodigy in his youth, after all.

So while they circle each other, Fitz draws his own dagger from his pocket—a gift from his father, once upon a time. He wonders how Alden would feel, if he saw his sons now. Probably disgusted.

And then it all happens at once—Alvar lunges toward Keefe, and Keefe parries wildly though it’s clear he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Fitz scrambles to stand up, watching with increasing alarm as Alvar pushes closer and closer toward Keefe. There’s a clear winner, already, and Fitz knows this fight will not end until Keefe is too injured to fight any longer.

He watches Alvar kick Keefe to the floor, some unbridled fury in his eyes. And as he holds his blade above Keefe’s chest, Fitz realizes he has only one option.

He lunges and tackles Alvar to the floor, sinking his dagger into the skin above his collarbone.

It’s deathly quiet, for a moment.

Then Alvar starts gagging, and Fitz suddenly realizes that his hand is covered in blood. The blood of his brother.

“Fitz,” Keefe says, his voice wavering. “What did you do?”

Alvar squirms beneath him, and the horror of what Fitz has done washes over him like a wave of fire. “I had to,” he says, as if he can make himself believe it. “He was going to kill you.”

Keefe is silent, for a moment. Then, he says, “I didn’t think you would care if I died anymore.”

“No,” Fitz replies, laughing bitterly. “I didn’t think I would either.” Somehow, in the month since he’d left, Fitz had managed to convince himself that he didn’t care about Keefe at all. He’d convinced himself that he had finally grown out of his old distractions; that with the crown, he could be reborn with a fresh heart to give.

But the blood on his hands is proof that he can never truly break free of his childhood devotion. And the body beneath him is proof that he has let this love corrupt him beyond his ideals.

“I hate that I love you,” he confesses, and it’s as much a confession to himself as it is to Keefe.

Keefe rests a hand on his shoulder, as gentle as when they were kids. “I know,” he says. “I know you.”

I know you.

And Fitz hates that he’s right.

#kotlc #kotlc secret santa 2023 #i put random lore in here because i do plan to expand on this au someday. not today though #keefitz #oh and fun fact this about 8k more words than i ever expected to write!#august's writing!#sorry to anyone who is passionate about sword fighting. this is probably not super accurate

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