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How cruel it is, to want something you can never truly have.
Conrad’s father said that to him once. He wasn’t a wise man, nor a kind one. To this day, Conrad didn’t know if the words were a quote from a fine work of literature or a misremembered line from a song of the latest bard in Lima’s long list of conquests. In the end he supposed it didn’t matter; Lima was right.
Through the window of the castle, Conrad watched as Alm stood silhouetted by the sun. Beside him was Anthiese, her arms raised. They stood on only a small raised stage in the field outside the castle; the public balcony, made for proclaiming from on high, had been out of use for many years.
Ten years. Ten years ago today, they stood together and announced a new dawn for the continent. Ten years ago, Conrad stood and watched his sister with pride and truly noticed Alm for the first time.
Nine years ago, they married. Eight years ago, Alm tugged Conrad ever so gently into the closest lockable room and kissed him until they were both gasping for breath.
Yes, Conrad knew the truth in his father’s words just as surely as he knew the sting of envy that shot through him when Alm and Anthiese linked hands in front of the crowd, their voices raising in a unanimous cheer.
They cheered for a lie; their joy now would never be seen again if they knew the truth.
The address was followed by a dinner, the greatest event of the year. Conrad couldn’t attend — he was needed behind the scenes. He’d eat later, with the rest of the castle staff, and he’d take his slim slice of solace in not needing to see Alm and Anthiese sit together, pride of place, king and queen.
He did not, never had, and never would begrudge his sister the crown. She was a wonderful queen, kind and daring and never afraid to take the steps needed towards change. What she lacked in understanding of the lives of the common farmer or miner, she made up with in education of the realm and politics, understanding of the traditions that had brought the south together for so long.
And where her flaws could not be replaced by her virtues, there was Alm. Alm, radical and blunt and unafraid to offend. The needle to Anthiese’s thread. They completed each other, the perfect couple, and Conrad…
There would be no real royal couple, neither with or without him. Anthiese’s interest — unlike her brother’s or husband’s — did not lie with men. In some ways, Conrad knew he helped them stay together in the eyes of the people and the court. Hair of the queen’s colour could be found on the king’s pillows. Having an escape through a private relationship helped the public one seem less strained.
Yet, at the same time—
“I was six years old when I told my father I was a boy.” Conrad didn’t know why those words, of everything he could have said that night, tumbled from his lips. It wasn’t what he meant to say, and Alm’s brow creased in confusion. “Sorry. I’ll get to the point.”
Alm smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of Conrad’s head. It eased something — though what exactly, Conrad didn’t know. He just felt better. “I know. Go on.”
“None of us got to talk to him much.” Alm knew some of this already — half from Conrad, half from his sister, in very different kinds of conversations. “But this was important. I had to talk to him about it, or maybe I didn’t— I just know I did, and maybe my mother was disappointed that I used the time for something like that. It gets a little jumbled.
“He wasn’t all that imposing, physically, not even in my memory. But he always did it, maybe because there was usually someone else in the room who might describe the scene— he’d have me sit with him on the throne. And I sat there and I told him, and he said… it was cruel, that I should be born this way.”
“Cruel?” Alm had made his love of Conrad, however he looked and whatever body he had, abundantly clear to him. He wouldn’t understand what his father had been getting at.
“Because someone like me was born wanting something I could never truly have.”
Alm huffed. “He was one to talk.”
It was difficult not to smile at that, even if just a little. “He really was. But he drew that line: things his power and wealth could buy for him, and things they couldn’t. Having a different body from the one I was born in, living the life of a man… that wasn’t one of them.”
Alm paused for a moment, waiting for him to continue, but Conrad was done; that was the end of the story. There was no ‘but’, no happy ending where his father realised there were still things that could have been done to make Conrad happier. When Conrad said nothing more, Alm sighed.
“It wasn’t the fact of your birth that was cruel,” he said, “just your father.”
“I think the fact of my birth is a little cruel too.” Conrad tried to laugh about it, but it sounded forced. He probably shouldn’t have even bothered trying to hide from Alm; now Alm just fixed him with that concerned look of his, eyebrows knitted together in a way that had forged a lasting line there over the years they’d known each other. “If I were in her place…”
“Then we’d be in a marriage arranged for political convenience,” Alm pointed out. Rightly, as usual. “I don’t know if we could have stuck that out and stayed us.”
Conrad knew he had a point, but there was still a little bitter bite of jealousy. Alm and Anthiese had never really had a relationship — as a close adviser to the throne, Conrad had always known this. Every appearance was performed, each statement carefully drafted by neither of them. It was a facade, one they’d always been happy to keep up, but it meant… well, there was really only one thing it could mean: he and Alm would never be able to have their own relationship publicly.
And no matter how right Alm was, or how wrong his father almost always had been, Conrad was back where he began: wishing for something he simply couldn’t have.
If he could just accept that, maybe things would be easier. Conrad could settle for all that he had and abandon the jealousy, the fear. Together, they could embrace all the advantages they were afforded and move forward as an interconnected trio. There would be sacrifices, but they’d be worth it. They had to be.
Conrad had never been very good at settling for what was set out before him, and acceptance of his circumstances wasn’t something he was at all interested in.
That, and… Alm had to know. It was only fair that he heard, and Conrad couldn’t rest with it hanging over their heads, a blade ready to fall that only Conrad could see.
“People are talking about heirs.”
Alm blinked, but the confusion gave way almost instantly to understanding. “So that’s what this is about.”
This time, Conrad really did chuckle— mostly at himself. Of course he’d been transparent; he always was, to Alm. “It was about the rest of it too.”
Alm laid a reassuring hand on Conrad’s shoulder. “I know. Tell me what you’ve heard?”
Politics wasn’t usually something they brought to the bedroom — it was far too dry, and letting it seep in felt, to Conrad, like they were both knowingly ingesting poison. He supposed this time was a little different.
“It’s been quite a few years since the end of the war, now,” Conrad clarified. “Neither you nor Anthiese are as young as you were. Obviously people aren’t doubting the stability of Valentia for now, but as time passes…”
“The longer it goes on, the more people will talk,” Alm surmised. “But Conrad… talk can’t change anything. We were never planning on having a child.”
“The marriage is one of convenience,” Conrad shot back. It didn’t feel too much like a discussion in a debating chamber yet, and he just hoped it would stay that way. “If it’s not serving its purpose, why have it at all? Legitimate heirs are one of the most important parts of a royal marriage.”
Alm scoffed. “An heir can always be illegitimate, even in a marriage. If we really needed one, I’m sure we can find a child living in a backwater village. It’d be in keeping with tradition.”
There was a playful lilt to his smile, but he sounded almost serious. “Are you sure?” Even attempting to voice it made Conrad sound like a fool in his head, but he needed the confirmation. “I don’t want to be— holding you back from something you feel you need to do. Valentia will always be my first—”
“I’m going to stop you there.” Alm set a single finger, movement decisive, over Conrad’s lips. “I don’t want Valentia to be your first priority. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but I think we already crossed that line a long time ago, hm?”
“I can’t exactly disagree when you put it like that.” It had been selfish for them to even start this — its discovery beyond a select few could ruin everything. Alm couldn’t, under any circumstances, be seen to have multiple partners or a partner outside of his marriage. The baggage left behind by Conrad’s father was too great, too fresh in the minds of the Zofian populace.
They wouldn’t trust it if Alm seemed the same way to them, even if the two kings couldn’t have been any more different. That was why they could never have more, why no one would ever be able to see them as they were, and Conrad still wished for it. He wished for too much, and no amount of knowing it could never come true would stop him.
“So please, set your heart at ease.” Alm leaned in, hesitating only for a moment before he pressed a kiss to Conrad’s lips. “Nothing to do with heirs or succession is your problem — and it won’t be for a long time yet.”
Technically, Conrad held the solution within himself. He would be capable of having Alm’s child, and with the familial relationship between himself and Anthiese, there’d be enough similarities between them that the child would pass as one of the royal couple.
The first time he’d ever thought about it, the very concept had Conrad’s blood running cold. He didn’t want that; so again, it was him holding back when his being just a little different would have made everything so much easier. Not that Alm had ever or would ever suggest anything like that, not unless Conrad brought it up first, but…
“It’s still hard.” Conrad tipped his head forward, his forehead meeting Alm’s. Everything felt quieter and easier when it was just the two of them like this, but still he couldn’t set the thoughts aside. “Knowing how different things could be, or how much security we’d stand to gain from a handful of sacrifices.”
Alm let out a sigh, both affectionate and long-suffering weaved into the sound. “You and Celica are both impossible. Where did your family get the self-sacrifice from? Your father certainly didn’t have any.”
Conrad’s answering laugh took him by surprise. Some days, they all preferred to forget what came before the end of the war. At other times, it was downright hilarious. “I’ll take your point there.”
“Good.” Alm reached one hand up to thread it through Conrad’s hair. It was a good feeling; grounding. He probably needed more of that than he thought right now. “Because I think I should get to veto any and all suggestion of necessary sacrifices from you. Look at me, please.”
Conrad withdrew slightly; Alm’s hand kept him close, their eyes meeting. Alm’s eyes were far from the first feature Conrad noticed about him, but they were definitely one of the most attractive.
“I am never going to leave you over politics,” Alm said, voice less the steel he was known for and more the rock of the castle’s foundations. It made Conrad’s heart soar. “There is nothing that could convince me to abandon what we have. I’ll swear it by the dragons if you want me to — I’d rather give up the throne than you.”
Conrad’s breath caught in his throat. “I—” How was he meant to respond to that? “That’s unfair, Alm. I don’t have half as romantic a promise to make.”
Alm smiled, half smug and half soft. “If you can’t promise a throne, forever would work.”
Now, it was easy to mirror Alm’s smile. “Then I suppose forever will have to suffice,” he answered. “I love you, Alm. And thank you.”
“I love you too.”
Maybe the world beyond the castle walls would never know them as they truly were. Maybe Conrad would forever wish that they could have what Alm and Anthiese performed for the crowds. But it was like Alm said — what they offered each other was enough, and enough it would remain.