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“Do you know what my name is, darling?” England asks, his expression mild as if he were out on a midday stroll, as opposed to fucking his cock in and out of Alfred’s willing body.
In contrast, Alfred lies beneath him gasping out his pleasure. His nails are clawing at England’s back, desperately trying to pull him closer. His heaving gasps are England’s only answer.
England has asked him this same question every day for a hundred years; Alfred hasn’t bothered answering in fifty.
There’s a story about a beautiful maiden who struck a deal with a Creature: her firstborn child in exchange for a boatload of gold. Confident she had outsmarted it—she had no plans to marry, let alone have children—she took the gold without a second thought.
But not even two years later, she fell in love... and found herself pregnant.
When she gave birth, it was to a beautiful baby boy.
The story goes that when the creature came for her son, the woman was prepared. Cunning in her own way, and unwilling to let the creature get the upper hand again, she goaded the creature into making a bet. First, she said, "What is your name? Surely I cannot hand over my son to someone whose name I do not even know?"
"I cannot give you my name, fair lady," the Creature replied. "Names hold power, and I do not hand over power so freely."
Her eyes gleamed. "Surely a name is a poor receptacle for power? Why, anyone could guess a name!"
"I assure you," the Creature said, "the name of one of my kind is not so easily guessed."
"Even so," she argued, "someone might get lucky. I'm unbeatable at dice, and everyone says I am lucky. I bet I can guess your name, Creature."
The Creature disagreed—vehemently—but was so certain she would fail that he allowed her to make a wager: if she guessed his true name, he would revoke his claim on her son.
"Is it Frederick? John? Blake? Bud? Bowser?" she teased.
At each guess, the Creature only laughed and shook his head.
But on her tenth try, the woman grinned. "I think I know your name, Creature," she said—and spoke his secret name aloud.
The Creature howled and wailed, but he knew he had been tricked. Bound by his own word, he had no choice but to leave the woman and her son alone.
And of course, the woman lived happily ever after. Her son grew up healthy and strong—and they never saw the Creature again.
Or so the story goes.
Alfred is newly eighteen when England comes for him.
He’s walking home from work—a small school with only eight students, where he teaches basic reading and arithmetic—when he notices a horse-drawn carriage keeping pace beside him.
It’s odd. He’s almost sure the carriage hadn’t been there a second ago.
I must be really tired, he thinks.
A man steps out of the carriage, and the first thing Alfred notices is that he is exceptionally handsome, with messy light-blond hair, striking green eyes, and even more striking eyebrows.
The second thing he notices is that the man must also be exceptionally wealthy. He’s dressed like the aristocracy, wearing a dark suit and pristine white gloves—the kind of gloves that would be hopelessly stained in any profession other than sitting around and being rich.
Alfred instinctively smiles at him, even though his mother had always warned him about doing such a thing.
The man smiles back and says, "Hello, Alfred."
Which -
“How do you know my name?” he asks. He is suddenly alert, because his mother has spent years warning him of many things, to the point that Alfred doesn’t quite remember what all of the warnings were, only that strangers knowing his name must be one of them.
The man keeps smiling, and steps closer. Alfred tries to step back, but finds that he can’t.
“I know your name because you’re mine,” the man says.
And then Alfred’s world goes black.
Alfred is England’s, because the stories are wrong.
The creature—"Call me England, creature gets a bit tiring, don’t you think?"—and the fair maiden never made a deal for riches. She never knew his real name.
The true story is still about a beautiful maiden, but in this one, she falls pregnant out of wedlock.
The father is a nobleman, already engaged, who would never leave his comfortable life for a kitchen maid. The maiden is fine with this, and fine with raising her child on her own, because she had loved them from the moment she knew they existed.
Everything was going perfectly well, until the day she started bleeding.
And bleeding.
And bleeding.
And she knew that if it didn’t stop, she and her baby would both die.
This is where England comes in.
He never knew how she learned about him—only that one day a woman summoned him in order to bargain for the life of her child.
"I have a sister who will care for them. I can die. But please... let my child live."
"Young maiden, you are not destined to die today," England said. "Only your child."
The maiden was not happy with his answer.
"Let me die instead," she begged.
"That’s not how it works. No life can be traded for another—not truly. No two are the same."
He paused, considering.
"But... I can offer you a deal. It comes with a guarantee: eighteen years with your child—a son, by the way. If you win, you keep him for the rest of his life. If you lose, he will be mine after his eighteenth birthday. I will treat him as one of my Court. He will be safe. But you will never see him again."
Desperate, the maiden agreed—though not before making him repeat his promise: the boy would live. He would be safe.
"If you can guess my name, maiden," England said, "he is yours. If you cannot, he is mine."
Alfred’s mother had been obsessed with names when he was younger, he remembers. She had pieces of paper all around their little cottage, filled with names from books and stolen from travelers who passed through. Jeremiah and Josiah. Kallen and Maurice.
A true name, though, is made of more than one name. It is layers woven together into a single thread.
One does not simply guess a true name.
His mother’s obsession had petered out when he'd turned seven or so. Instead, she had made herself fully available for Alfred. They weren’t wealthy, but she was a doting, loving mother. She taught him to cook, bake, and clean. Most importantly, she taught him to read and write - a luxury not afforded to many in their village.
He knows now that the disappearance of her interest had come with the realisation that one cannot guess a name. Instead, she had decided to make every second with her son count.
England offers Alfred the same deal. "Of course, if you figure out my name, you can leave and go back to your mother and your job and your small life. Until then, you are mine"
"Is your name Dylan Parkinson?"
"No, Alfred. That is not my name."
England’s aristocracy is a facade. He dresses well, and the room he and England stay in inside the looming castle he takes Alfred to is beautifully furnished, with a four-poster bed in one corner and a gorgeous mahogany desk and bookshelf in the other. A tiny cot laid out by the foot of the bed is the only break in extravagance, which England makes clear is the only place Alfred is allowed to sleep or sit. He doesn’t mind—it’s better than the scratchy collection of hay and linen he was used to back home.
Outside of England’s room is another story. It’s dirty and dilapidated, and the few pieces of furniture there smell strongly of mildew and rot. For some reason, England seems to want nothing to do with the rest of the castle.
In the same way, England doesn’t seem to want anything to do with him, either. Mostly Alfred is forced to sit around while the man goes through paperwork. Paperwork for what, he doesn’t know. Was there some kind of Creature bureaucracy?
Alfred tries to escape a total of one time, wherein he twitched slightly with intention and England said don’t even think about it, then put him to sleep for an hour. It doesn’t seem worth it to try again.
“What am I even here for if I’m just gonna sit here and watch you stare at pieces of paper?” he complains.
“Look,” England sighs. “Unfortunately, I don’t actually have a use for you yet. Maybe a spell will require a human sacrifice at some point, then you’d be handy, but as of right now just... sit still.”
Alfred carefully ignores the mention of human sacrifice and stands up, hands on his hips. “How about I clean your house and like, cook for you and stuff? You eat, right? Sitting still is impossible for me—my mum used to say I needed to be walked like a dog.”
England waves him off. “Yes, do that, if you want. Just remember that I’ll know if you try to escape and that I can’t be poisoned.”
Alfred, who had never even considered poisoning another huma—err, living being, balks at the statement. “What the—I don’t poison food! That’s sacrilege! And just you watch, this castle is going to look amazing!”
He doesn’t think England really cares what he does as long as he’s not constantly hovering and bothering him, so Alfred decides it’s perfectly alright for him to make all the decisions regarding what to do with the rest of the non-England occupied castle.
He needs to take whatever freedom he can get, after all.
"Is your name Aaron Baker?"
"No, Alfred, my name is not Aaron Baker."
Alfred knows he’s a good cook. His mama was a kitchen maid for royals, and she’d taught him everything she knew. Still, the awed look on England’s face when he tries Alfred’s stew is worth more than every compliment the villagers had given him over the years. This is a being of magic, and yet he still looked at something Alfred created as if it was out of this world.
“Maybe I won’t use you for human sacrifice,” England says, two bowls later. Alfred takes it for the compliment it is, and grins back at him.
He doesn’t know when or how it starts, but Alfred starts eating with England, sitting on an actual chair instead of on his cot. Then, he starts talking with him. He asks questions about what England does when he’s not making deals with desperate women, and finds out that there is Creature bureaucracy, and that England somehow leads it.
“Wait, you’re the King? Why are you living in an abandoned castle?”
“Our royalty do not work in the same way yours does. I must always be alone, except for my intended and my Court. The Court is made up of … well, individuals that I own. Since I prefer not to do that whole ownership thing—well, before your blasted mother wrangled a deal out of me—here we are.”
“And what, you don’t have enough juice to spruce up the castle by yourself?” Alfred asks, incredulous. A castle didn’t seem like much compared to keeping a dying unborn baby alive.
“There are … rules. Strange hospitality rules. It’s very stupid and not worth explaining. That is to say, I can not use magic on a home, even if it’s mine.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Quite.”
"Is your name Rumpelstiltskin?"
"Rumpel—what? What kind of name is that? No, that’s not my name!"
"I saw it in a book and thought it’d be good to try it!"
It takes three years for Alfred to complete the castle renovation to his exacting standards. Every day, England asks him if he’s figured out his name, and Alfred takes a guess.
Most of the time, they’re names of people he once knew, though sometimes they’re names he reads from books in the large library he’d found on the fifth floor (of eight—which is honestly just excessive, no one can blame Alfred for taking three years to finish everything).
Mostly, though, Alfred doesn’t put as much effort into it as he should. If his mother couldn’t do it, there’s no way he can.
The day he finally finishes, he barges into his and England’s shared room to demand he see the fruits of Alfred’s labour, since he knows England would never see any of it otherwise.
When England needs to leave, he just pops out of existence to wherever he wants to go. No need for doors. No need to look around.
He hasn’t seen a lick of the work Alfred’s been doing.
Honestly, Alfred expects England to hum and feign disinterest.
"Well, you’ve certainly kept yourself occupied," he’ll say. "Now we’ll need to find you another hobby so you stop bothering me while I’m trying to work."
But that’s not what happens.
England sees the clean floors and walls. The furniture Alfred had either built himself or bought from the nearby village (with money from the part-time teaching job he’d gotten, because England truly hadn’t cared what he did as long as he came back at the end of the day).
He sees it all—and whispers, "You’ve built me a home."
And then he turns around and shoves Alfred against the nearest wall, kissing him senseless.
Apparently, those dumb "can’t use your magic to build your own home" rules are tied to some kind of courtship ritual.
Alfred still has no idea what exactly those rituals are—mostly because, honestly, how is he supposed to remember anything when England is biting at the junction of his neck and shoulder, just hard enough to hurt so good?
“Hmm... beef stew.”
“Are you seriously guessing that my name is Beef Stew?”
“What? No, I’m thinking about what to make for dinner! ”
Five years after the day England ravished him against the wall of their newly renovated castle, Alfred realises he hasn’t aged.
“My darling, I despair for you,” England admonishes. “How could you not notice you haven’t aged? It’s been eight years!”
“Wh—I’ve been busy!” I’ve been getting fucked silly every night, I’ll have you know, he carefully doesn’t say. England is too smug already.
“Well,” England begins. “Technically, I own you, so you’re tied to my life force. And because I’m immortal, well… I’m sure you can extrapolate.”
“Oh.” Alfred takes a moment to think. “So if you didn’t own me, I’d be mortal again.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t be part of the Court, then.”
And then England would be alone again, doing magical paperwork in the same room. He wonders if the castle would fall into disrepair again, without Alfred around to clean or to repair anything that breaks.
“Huh.”
Alfred finds England’s name by accident.
The fifth floor library is one of his favourite places, and often he takes a few books to the school to read to the children.
Quite a few of the villagers stop by to listen to the stories alongside the children, and there’s been talk of doing night classes for any of the older folks who want to learn to read themselves.
One day he finds a book that looks a lot older than the others. It’s made of brown, aged leather, and has a strange, gold symbol embedded on it that somehow looks like an infinite amount of intertwining circles. When he opens it, the first page proclaims it to be the property of Prince Arthur James Kirkland. It’s a child’s diary, though the contents are confusing, as if the child was writing about fantasies as opposed to any real places or events. Maybe Prince Arthur was never actually a prince, but a boy with a vivid imagination?
He decides to take the book to the school to show one of the other teachers, a woman by the name of Agnes who loves all things fantasy.
Except when he tries to show her, she only looks confused and asks Alfred why he’s trying to show her an empty book.
He realises later what it means, and who the book must belong to.
A magical book, in a castle owned by the King of Creatures, who must have once been a prince, a long time ago.
This is England’s, whose name is Arthur. This diary was a record of his childhood, before he was an all powerful king.
Alfred has found out England’s name, but finds he’s more interested in reading stories of what he was like as a precocious child, running away from nannies and scaring mortals against his mother’s orders.
When England—Arthur James Kirkland—asks him to guess his name that night, Alfred says, “Cinnamon Buns.”
England’s wrung all the pleasure from Alfred’s body that it can handle, and then some.
Their last round had started with England on top, but somewhere along the way, he’d maneuvered Alfred onto his cock and made him ride him until he'd cried, cock unable to come with England’s magic wrapped tightly around it.
Eventually, England had sat up and licked into Alfred’s mouth, swallowing his broken cries as he finally, finally let Alfred finish.
Now, Alfred’s arms are wrapped loosely around his neck, Alfred’s head laying on his shoulder.
England lays him on the bed like a child, kissing his eyes, his nose, his lax, parted mouth.
When Alfred is comfortable, England slides in beside him, chuckling when Alfred immediately scoots closer, head finding his chest without a second thought.
Alfred’s clinginess after sex is a given—routine in the same way The Question is.
The thought makes England frown. He looks down at Alfred’s blond head, and asks a question he’s been wanting to ask for ninety years.
“Are you ever going to answer with my real name?”
He feels Alfred tense against him.
“What are you talking about?”
“About ninety years ago, I left my journal in the library for you to find,” England admits. “I wanted to give you the chance to go back to your village, see your mother again. But that night, when I asked you, you gave me a joke answer. And every day for the next forty years, you never once gave the correct one. Eventually, you stopped bothering to answer at all."
He hesitates, then adds, "I have to admit... I don’t understand."
Alfred turns to look up at him, and to his surprise, he’s grinning. “Have I managed to stump The King of The Fae? Why, I think I should be proud of myself for such a feat.”
Alfred presses a kiss to England’s chin. “It’s simple, really, and you’d think that after what we’d just done you’d get it.”
His voice lowers to a whisper. “I’d already decided by then that I quite liked being owned by you.”