Osmond is sure the offer of an escort is supposed to be a polite, kind thing to do, but it only sets him even more on edge. It was hard enough to stop the fairy from killing all of them during a five-minute conversation. ‘By Asgard, how am I going to keep them all alive for hours?!’

‘Especially considering this?!’

“Pardon our commander,” Captain Russell croons, leaning over into their space as she rides her horse nearly shoulder to shoulder with their own. “Commander Sandford has just been nominated as one of the three templars for the next Galahad position by the Round Table. He ran a tight ship before, but now, not even a wayward ant is allowed through.”

“It is no problem,” the fairy says, glancing at her briefly with a pleasant smile, and Osmond knows the fey wants nothing more than to silence her in a more permanent manner. “I understand the need for caution.”

She smiles brightly, reaching over and placing a hand on the prince’s shoulder. Outwardly, the fey doesn’t move, but Osmond can feel his muscles tighten under his hand, body locking up in alarm. He glances up, trying to get a read on the fairy’s thoughts, but he’s not looking at Osmond, eyes firmly trained on the female templar.

Osmond guesses she's pretty. His view is a bit skewed. He's met fairies after all, and no creature can compare to a fey's beauty. Not to mention the impossible beauty of the fey prince himself.

“It’s so nice to have a real gentleman out here,” and even Osmond isn’t so unromantic as to not get the innuendo in that. He can tell by her face that she thinks she’s being subtle, but she’s about as subtle as a brick to the face.

The prince does an admiral job of keeping the distaste out of his tone. “No need for the compliment, good miss.”

“No need for your flattery either,” she chuckles, batting her eyelashes a few extra times, “just call me my name” and Osmond’s heart does a violent flip as he thinks, ‘She can’t really be?’ “Nich—”

He doubles over in fake pain, loudly coughing to drown out her voice, stopping her from making the worst mistake of her life.

The Unseelie steadies him, concern pulling down his smile, but when Osmond looks up, those dull honey eyes are swimming with amused flecks of gold. The prince knows it’s all a ruse.

Still, the fairy plays along, gentling his voice and layering his tone with false worry. “Are you alright?”

Osmond nods his head, even as he makes himself cough a few more times, doing his best to really sell the bit so the act won’t look too intentional.

“Ah, here,” and the fairy reaches behind him, toward a bag Osmond knows wasn’t there two seconds ago. No one bats an eye at the magically appearing item—more fey magic at work, no doubt. From the bag, the prince pulls out a gourd, the sloshing inside an obvious clue as to its use as a waterskin.

Stiffly, Osmond accepts it. He tries hard to not stare at the obvious runes inlaid with gleaming paint that glitters faintly in the dark; little snowdrops line the handle, and the stopper is topped with a tiny living tree. It’s the most fairy object he’s ever held in his life. Yet again, no one bats an eye at the unusual item. Osmond really wishes templars were taught anything about fey because this is honestly getting ridiculous.

Osmond sends the fey prince a hard glare. He can’t drink this. The prince hasn’t declared it a gift outright, and Osmond is a bit murky if water counts as food, but he isn’t taking any risks. He is not being tricked into completing one of the Three Acts of Transference.

“Number one rule when dealing with the fey,” he could hear his teacher preach, back when he was allowed to take feyer classes with his siblings. When they still held hope he would one day outgrow his illnesses and be able to take up the creed like the rest of them. “Never tell them your name.”

“I thought the first rule was don’t make a deal?” Ward had asked, face scrunched in confusion.

“That is the first Unbreakable Oath of the Feyer, not a rule,” their teacher scolded, sending a disappointed glare toward Osmond’s younger brother. “You can never make a fey deal without your knowledge. The fey always need your verbal consent. Had you finished your reading like I asked, you would know this.”

Properly chastised, Ward slumped down in his seat, hiding his teary face behind his books. Osmond reached over to give him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“Now what is the second rule?”

“Do not complete any of the Three Acts of Transference,” Herry answered. Even back then, almost five years Osmond’s junior, he was wickedly bright.

“And those acts are?” The teacher’s eyes landed on Osmond, pointedly glaring at the hand placed on his younger brother’s shoulder. Slowly he pulled it back, unable to feel the shame the teacher expected from him. Still, he strengthened up to answer.

“Do not partake of their food,” Osmond repeated, having long since memorized them, “do not give thanks, and do not accept a gift.”

“Good,” his teacher nodded, quickly turning around to write them down on the blackboard. “Now pay attention, this will be on the test…”

And the rest of the memory swims away from him.

Osmond frowns at the gourd. There’s no guarantee that it counts, but still, he makes no move to drink it.

“Sooooo,” Captain Russell begins again, drawing the word out until the prince turns back to her once more with false interest, “where exactly do you hail from?”

“Beyond the Fluxxen Forest.” And Osmond's heart nearly stops beating. Only fey called the forest that. Surely their cover was blown now. These people can’t possibly be that dense, can they?

“Fluxxen…?” and she snaps as it finally clicks. “Oh, do you mean the Forest of Ruin?”

How?! Osmond thinks desperately, torn between being relieved and offended for the templars’ sake that they all seem to know so little about fairies.

“Are you from the Kingdom of Yane then?”

The fairy smiles. “Something like that.”

Osmond can’t help his sigh at that obvious joke. At least the prince is enjoying himself enough to not brutally massacre them all.

“Mysterious,” she giggles, and Osmond agrees with the other templar he can see over her shoulder rolling his eyes. He desperately wishes he could be anywhere else but here. Hopefully, she won’t keep this up all the way through the Plague Fields. “Can I at least get your name then?”

“Ah, yes,” and Osmond can feel something shift in the air. His body tenses, the iron in his blood heating up at the sudden oppressive weight of fey magic smothering them.

Fear and anger war inside his heart, along with a dark thing Osmond is trying to not listen to. Why should I care about these foolish templars? Are their lives worth so much hassle? Wouldn’t it be easier if they were dead?

He glances around, already resigned to see the Wild Hunt emerging from the darkness, ready for war. But there’s only the other templars, none of whom react to the sting of fey magic. Most likely they can’t even feel it, not with all their layers of divine protection.

The only one who looks the slightest bit on edge is the kid, who whips his head around to scan the area, confused eyes locking on Osmond’s worried ones. His frown increases for a second, genuine fear starting to creep up his face, before he steels himself, shooting Osmond a wobbly grin.

And that settles whatever complicated emotions are twisting in his chest. Osmond’s thoughts are suddenly perfectly clear, unclouded by the dark poisonous thing hiding in his blood.

In the grand scheme of things, does he want these templars dead? No. But he is getting tired of playing the distraction and peacekeeper between their ignorance and an unamused fey prince.

‘Ah, fuck it,’ he thinks, bracing himself for the absolutely mortifying experience this is about to be.

He spins around, glaring at the woman as he reaches up and shoves her hand off the fairy’s shoulder. A normal person would tumble from their horse, but she’s a templar. So, while she fumbles a bit, she easily rebalances on her steed, looking deeply offended.

“What was that for?” she demands, squaring her shoulders, heavy metal armor gleaming in the torchlight.

Osmond doesn’t back down, straightening up himself, glaring back at her. “Not taking a hint.”

The hint, of course, that she’s messing with things far beyond her and fucking around with a fairy is not only a one-way ticket to Helheim, but a promise of a painful life on the way there.

Osmond can feel all the eyes of the templar squadron shift to him, evaluating his sudden outburst. But the gaze that feels the heaviest is the one coming from directly behind him. The prince’s stare is almost a physical weight on his shoulders. The back of his neck tingles, as if expecting to be grabbed at any point. The heavy sting of iron grows heavier for a second, its weight almost enough to make Osmond buckle before it lifts.

“Apologies, good miss,” and the fairy leans down, casually invading Osmond’s space as if it’s something he’s been doing for years, an easy confidence that seems inherent in every action he takes, “it would seem, my dearest here got a bit jealous.”

“I am not jealous!”

“Ah, right,” he easily concedes, somehow managing to lean down closer, nearly smothering Osmond in the process, their cheeks brushing as the fey gives him a little mischievous smirk before turning to face the templar woman once more, “he’s just a little worried, then.”

“You—!”

“Ahh, come on, Captain Russell!” one of the other men jeers from the circle. “Leave the poor man alone!”

“Yeah, Captain!” another agrees with a laugh. “He risked his life to bring his sweetheart into the Plague Fields in the dead of night on a new moon. You don’t stand a chance!”

“That—!” she splutters, clearly at a loss for words.

“Captain Russell,” the templar commander calls, “cease your taunting of our charges.”

She huffs, face still beet red as she nods stiffly.

“Sorry about that,” she grumbles. “Was just trying to have some fun. Don’t take any of it to heart.”

Osmond’s fairly certain she means every bit of it, but she’s thankfully backing down. Hopefully, now everyone will take the hint and leave them alone. Especially because he has something he needs to solve with the prince.

“Can you stop calling me that?” Osmond hisses, trying to keep his voice down from the templars flanking them on all sides.

“Dearest?” the prince asks with a smug smirk that shows that he already knows how much the stupid endearment bothers him.

“Yes,” he agrees, “even Dandelion was better than this…”

The prince smiles, something a fraction gentler. “Then Dandelion it shall be.”

The hand returns, gently curling into his hair, almost affectionate in its soft touch. Osmond tries not to shiver at the contact. He has already gotten used to the cold touch, and he is not admitting that it feels weird to be without it.

“Dandelion does suit you better,” the prince agrees, tilting his head as if to better admire Osmond, ink-black hair spilling over his shoulder, “a wild, beautiful thing.”

Osmond huffs at the lie. Already wondering if he’s made the wrong choice allowing the fairy to tease him more, but “dearest” carried far too much weight. Made it so easily sound like they were something more. Because if Osmond just focused on this moment, he could almost believe in a silly lie where he became a feyer and picked up a beautiful if a bit pompous traveler who was something more than just a friend. And, Osmond hates how the lie swims in front of his thoughts for longer than it should, an idle daydream that’s one of his brain’s cruelest jokes to date.

“You can stop lying about how great I am,” Osmond grumbles, more on edge than he’s ever been in his life. He’s not suited to this lying business at all.

And by the dark thoughts that continue to circle his head, it would be easier if Osmond stopped playing this stupid game of lovers, but he mostly likely wouldn’t ever forgive himself. Some righteous feyer he would make if he ever completed the Joining, he’s not even worth being someone called “good," either.

“Oh, Dandelion,” the prince sighs, and it's tinted with such amused fondness, Osmond startles, looking up sharply just to make sure the prince is actually talking to him.

Their eyes meet, the false honey-brown brightening almost back to the familiar glittering gold. “Do you forget, false Iron-Blood?” he teases curling his hand more around Osmond’s neck and bringing him closer, so close that their breaths share the same air and Osmond can smell the crisp scent of snow clinging to the Unseelie's skin even through his human guise. “Fey cannot lie.”