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Chapter Text

Shouts of alarm and the clatter of armor heralded his arrival at the castle gates. A rumble like thunder rattled and rolled through walls of stone, though unlike a storm, the source of the sound could very well threaten the integrity of centuries old masonry in a manner that neither wind nor rain ever could muster. Guardsmen reached for their weapons as the rumbling and the shouts grew louder, almost deafening as the heavy wooden door shivered on its hinges, but none drew the swords sheathed at their hips. They had their orders. Nervous eyes leapt to the tall, imperious skeleton seated upon his throne—his cracked visage sporting an inscrutable half-smile, his violet eyelights like polished shards of amethyst.

His majesty Wingdings Gaster, The Great Alchemist King of Truelab, remained impassive, the picture of serene dignity as he sat with thin hands steepled before him, a swarm of summoned constructs flitting closeby, each gleaming a different hue as they acted upon their master’s will. One of the constructs held his staff, a gilt artifact of vast power said to be from an era when gods themselves walked amongst mortals—it was a sphere of crystalized mana flanked by golden wings perched masterfully upon a sleek rod. There was no denying the sheer volume of raw magic the king emanated, his muted indigo robes always rippling at the edges, as if caught by an errant breeze, his royal halo floating effortlessly above his head, the massive crescent of carved, metal feathers deceptively weightless, as wings ought to be.

The corners of the king’s mouth pulled higher as the noise died to an almost nervous chatter. Armor creaked and clattered. Heavy footsteps threaded upon stone. Then, the oak door strained, as if acted upon by a tremendous force. A summoned hand of sapphire flew to the latch that held the door shut against intrusion, and lifted it free. Breaths were held, the air thick with the bitter scent of fear. Their king was powerful. Surely he would not let the castle be taken without a fight? They were commanded to take no arms against this trespasser, to trust in their monarch’s great wisdom. In silence they watched the door swing open and a glittering barbarian prince step forth into the throne room.

Flanked by pallid members of his majesty’s royal guard, the brute stood tall above them. He dwarfed even the king, who was not a small monster by any metric, his form both towering and broad. Though he wore some armor, the blood-and-gold pieces seemed more ornamental than practical, angled and styled in a manner wholly exotic to those that lived their whole lives within Truelab’s borders. Like the royal family, he too was a skeleton, and his ill-gotten riches of false nobility hung about his bulky form like trophies. Long strands of beads, of precious metals and stones, shimmered beside bits of bone or claw or feather. They danced about his neck, dripped from his belt and even draped halfway tastefully over his reptilian feet to offer the impression of wearing shoes. An odd touch of civility from a creature known for its primitive nature.

The barbarian flashed his fanged smile, more gold glittering at the corners of his mouth, emphasizing enlarged canines. Slitted eyelights like embers from the forge swept the room, settling on the king with disconcerting clarity and intelligence. The openly worn scars on his skull from brutal fights he survived, the ridged brows sloped heavy over narrowed sockets, and blood-colored horns jutting from his skull—all were reminders of his inherent otherness. No amount of fine clothes or jewels could mask the fact that he was not one of them.

If not for the soul beating behind his ribs, one could hardly call him a monster at all, but rather, a beast.

Dragons were known for violence, greed and destruction. They were nothing but a nuisance...and so rare that they were almost relegated to myth. Yet here was one, wearing a bipedal shape, his true form compressed behind this almost diminutive disguise. He wouldn’t normally fit in the throne room.

“I assume your presence here is a declaration of intent?” Wingdings inquired, rising from his seat in a smooth, liquid motion. The dragon’s smile broadened and he clicked his teeth, a rough, raspy rumble tumbling from his chest. The king inclined his chin and spread his arms in welcome, “Very good. I am pleased you found our terms agreeable, Lord Red. Come, let us take this discussion to a more private location.”

The guards shifted and the dragon eyed them in return, the suspicion palpable and mutual. He was vulnerable like this. Surrounded by armed men in the heart of enemy territory. But whether due to trust or pride, Red breathed a thin puff of scarlet smoke through his teeth, before trailing after the king into a small room fit for conferences with those of rank. It was subdued compared to the otherwise grandiose decor. A round wood table with eight chairs around it. The floor softened with animal hide rugs. The walls covered in shelves full of trinkets, and plastered with intricate maps of the world.

Sitting at the two of the chairs were Wingdings’ sons, whom both rose to their feet when the door to the room opened. One was of similar height and features as his father, though he stood with an unflappable confidence in ornate, gleaming armor, the family crest engraved on the chestplate. A warrior, trained and tested. The other hardly resembled his sire at all—he was short with far more rounded features, and clad fashionably in a manner that offered an illusion of a broader chest and wider shoulders. However, it was in his eyelights and expression that the family resemblance showed itself, in an impassive smile that didn’t reach his sockets, and a scholarly gleam in his guarded gaze.

The taller son laid a hand on the smaller’s shoulder, before politely dismissing himself, his presence no longer permitted. He peeked briefly at Red before hurrying past, leaving his brother, father and the barbarian prince all alone, save for the captain of the royal guard that remained steadfast by the door.

Wingdings motioned to the son that remained in the room, “This is my firstborn, His Highness, Sans Gaster, Crown Prince of Truelab.”

Eyelights of scarlet and white met for the first time.

Insanity.

This whole affair.

But it was insanity for the sake of a peaceful resolution. Truelab was a generally pacifistic kingdom, and though they had an army, which Prince Papyrus was groomed from youth to be the general for, they weren’t truly prepared for war. Much less a fruitless fight with a dragon, which were notorious for their bloodthirsty nature and resistance to magical attacks. It was possible they could have slayed the beast, but at what cost? And if they failed, its ire would have no doubt doubled, and his terror along the countryside would have become warped with vengeance.

After all, the dragon’s current claim to territory was a small, neighboring kingdom that did decide to take the hostile approach when he came onto their lands. Not only did they lose the fight, but control of the land entirely. Rumor had it he made a lair of the castle, and took taxes in heads of cattle rather than in coin. The citizens that did not or could not flee had been living under the barbarian’s rule for the past couple months. From what little word that traveled from there to Truelab through trade, the kingdom still hobbled along through long established laws and practices, the nobility working as quietly as possible, so as not to rile the dragon’s anger and end up in its belly.

Why the dragon strayed from where it lived previously was a mystery until a fortnight ago.

Reports of the dragon raiding farmlands on the outskirts of Truelab reached the royal family. Wingdings consulted his scrying glass, while Sans, ever the scholar like his sire, took to the library. The king voiced a desire to find a resolution that did not result in fighting the dragon, and Sans, at first, like most people, monster or human, dismissed it as impossible. One did not have peaceful resolutions with dragons. One either slayed or was slaughtered by it. They knew no other way but greed and gluttony.

But as he reviewed musty, yellowed scrolls and hand sewn tomes of crumbling vellum, a curious pattern emerged that bespoke a different truth than what they knew. The origins of dragons were often detailed in lore and wildly varied. But old texts written in languages no longer spoken—translated by spells, word-by-word as candles burned to marked the passage of hours—wove a tale far different than any of the stories taught to children. How dragons were amongst the first monsters created by the gods and were kin to the elementals from whom the rest of monsterkind branched forth from. Unlike elementals, however, their nature was solitary and aggressive, which often put them at odds with their more passive kin.

A single ballad detailed of a dragon forming a peaceful union with her fire elemental lover. The language used was thick with metaphor, but Sans was certain that it described the pair’s eventual soul bonding and the birth of their first child. Unless the dragon whelping a volcano from the purest of love for her mate was to be taken literally.

It was not much, and there was a chance it was yet more fanciful nothingness, but if peace was the route Wingdings wished to take, then it was all they had to rest their hopes upon. Sans proposed that dragons were possibly monsters capable of negotiation and reasoning, and thus the royal family armed a messenger with a generous gift for the dragon and prayed. They expected the messenger to never return, to be devoured, but to everyone’s shock, they returned, shaken, but alive.

Apparently, the dragon hadn’t been hungry when he arrived and took to toying with him, curious as to why an unarmed monster was so close to his lair. The gift piqued his attention further.

“He s-spoke to me in b-broken Common,” the messenger stuttered in his report. “R-r-right into my head, he did. Musta plucked the words outta my m-m-mind.” After some soothing he continued, “I read him the letter and...I d-don’t think he knew most of what I said. B-b-but he picked up some. He...I...he said he wants a mate.” What the messenger gleaned from his brief conversation with the dragon painted a very clear and simple picture. The dragon left his territory and terrorized civilization, all because he couldn’t find or attract a mate where he lived before. And like any animal, he expanded his territory in order to secure resources, one of which potentially being the attention of another dragon.

Except, the dragon was not some simple animal.

He was also not needlessly bloodthirsty, as the messenger escaped his claws by claiming the royals who sent him to speak with him could possibly help him with his hunt in exchange for negotiations. That one moment turned into a diplomatic flurry hurried by hastening spells. It did not take long for an agreement to be reached. The dragon, Red, would ally himself with Truelab, in exchange for a suitable mate.

“a peasant girl without a family or dowry should be simple enough to find,” Sans said when his father mentioned the terms of the truce that he was having written up. But he knew by the look in his father’s eyes that it would not be that simple. It couldn’t be just anyone. Suitable, to the dragon, meant strong magic. Suitable, to the nobility in the kingdom the dragon took over, meant proper breeding befitting the ruling house. Suitable, to Wingdings, meant politically sound.

Suitable meant one of Truelab’s princes.

Wingdings arranged the union quietly, calling Sans and Papyrus to him to discuss his intentions only after sending word to Red to come to the castle to wed his future mate on a specific date. Logically, as second son, Papyrus was to be married to the self-made prince. Sans was the heir, Papyrus was the spare. Both of them were groomed from birth to know their place and to expect to marry for politics. But before WIngwings could declare Papyrus’ engagement, Sans interjected.

“i will do it,” he said. “i will marry the dragon...prince.”

Though he was the heir by right of being born first, over a decade more to his name than his younger brother, Papyrus would make for a better king. Sans was small and delicate since birth, childhood plagued by fragile health that left him wholly unsuitable to non-scholarly pursuits. It meant he was well-read, like their father, and arguably just as magically gifted, but he was far from as physically impressive. Sans’ adeptness with magic stemmed more from a dire need for control, which was drilled into his skull since he was old enough to manifest constructs, as it would have been terribly easy for him to accidentally blow himself up as a child, his soul and body too frail to risk any slip with a spell.

Papyrus was charming, sociable, strong—everything one could want in their king. While Sans was far quieter. He could be charming, if the courtiers were to be believed, and he was in possession of a sense of humor and wit that his brother could not claim. (Subtlety was often lost on the other, who favored directness over the delicate dance of innuendo.) Though while Papyrus was of a hearty and joyous disposition, Sans was prone to melancholy and fits of pique, which were often attributed to his health and reclusive youth, where friends were few, and none of which he was able to keep into adulthood for various reasons. Papyrus was perfect for the kingdom’s future prosperity—always ready for a spar, or a party or spot of hunting. While Sans...well… He couldn’t say he exactly dreaded the day he would take on his father’s mantle as king, but for all his grooming, he couldn’t claim to want the role either.

Politics were exhausting. He would have been happy living out his days as a scholar, reading and practicing magic. But such was not his lot in life. And he had a duty to his people. That duty entailed knowing when the step aside and when to step up. Now was such a time.

Thus, in a whirlwind it seemed, he was thrust onto the ledge of a brand new life. A willing sacrifice.

As the dragon, Red, stepped into the room and Papyrus reluctantly left (he insisted on keeping Sans company until the last moment), he braced himself for what he agreed to do. Sans lifted his gaze to meet that of his betrothed and fought down a shudder. If Sans reached the dragon’s hip when standing then it would be a miracle. One of those clawed hands, encased in leather as they were, could easily wrap around his skull and crush it. Despite the way he ostentatiously oozed exotism, power and wealth, there was an untamed wildness to him. Perhaps it was the paint under his sockets, smeared along the edges like a savage readying for war; or the scandalously bared feet, adorned with jewels rather than hidden from sight, that marred his guise of civility. Or perhaps it was the strings of teeth, claws and feathers strung on cords of hide dangling amongst no doubt stolen riches that made the biggest crack. Regardless, there was no mistaking Red for anything other than a barbarian playing at nobility.

It was only when Red hit him with a CHECK that Sans realized they had been staring at each other, unspeaking and still. Sans startled at the rude breach of proper etiquette, one did not simply CHECK another person’s stats outside of a FIGHT without permission. He bit down the urge to scold the other for his impropriety when suddenly, Red was across the room, rounding the table in a few strides. Before anyone, including Sans, could think to react, Red plucked Sans up by the middle and held him aloft, eyelights freely roaming the prince’s form, smile broad with the same approval a farmer gave for an especially prized hog before it was butchered for a feast.

Heat flooded Sans’ skull and grabbed uselessly at the hands wrapped around his waist. This was how he died, dusted in his own home, in front of his father, by powerful claws squeezing his spine until it snapped. He was distantly aware of the Captain of the Guard summoning a spear and his father intercepting her with a pair of hand constructs and a shake of his head. A beat passed. His bones remained intact. The expression on the dragon’s face morphed into almost childlike glee, “small. strong magic. strong, strong magic. dragon in blood, must!”

Sans stilled at the utterance of those gruff words, thick with an accent that was impossible to place. Each syllable was heavy with the rough inflection of a wholly foreign speaker, as if the words were ill-fitted upon his tongue.

“unhand me at once!” Sans demanded when he regained enough of his sensibilities to unstick his thoughts from the roof of his mouth. “we are not married as of yet, and this is highly improper.”

Red huffed in a manner that was best described as laughter and continued to dandle Sans like a doll, “good clutching hips. make healthy eggs—”

“what do you mean by eggs?”

“—accept truce. sans make good mate.”

His new mate was tiny and adorable.

How could Red not scoop Sans up and hold him close upon seeing him? Despite his dainty stature, his mate brimmed with magic, his internal wellsprings deep and vast, just like his sire’s, though far more contained within. He had never met another being with such great pools of mana within their bones, thus it only made sense that somewhere in the Gaster lineage, there was a dragon. It used to be more common, the mateship of dragons with other breeds of monsters, in the long ago age before his parents were shellbound.

Now, not only were matings between their kind rare, but so were dragons themselves.

Beyond his little brother, whom he raised from an egg after their parents were killed in a clash with humans, Red had not met another dragon. He had been too young to raise a hatchling, no territory of his own, but Red would never regret snaring that lone egg and fleeing with it when those deathemongering monkeys came to raid his parents’ den for their hoard. It was hard parenting Edge, when he was still cutting his adult fangs, but it filled the grief laden void in his soul. Now, that precious egg was a dragon grown, off testing his teeth, full of youthful aggression and the need to prove himself. He didn’t even need to kick Edge out of the nest, as dragons were wont to do when their offspring became old enough to start picking fights out of an instinctive drive to claim territory and establish a sense of dominance. No, his brother instead left on his own accord, snarling about how lazy Red was, and how pitifully easy it would be to dust him and take his territory as his own.

Red couldn’t be prouder.

But alas, with Edge gone (though he was not without means of contacting him), Red found himself unsettled. In those long, dangerous years, Red claimed resource rich territory, built an impressive hoard and established himself. Contentment turned to restlessness when his nest fell empty and long ignored instincts were left in want of satisfaction. In short, Red wanted—needed—a mate. A companion to ease the loneliness that came from a generally solitary life, as well as give him children. Lots of children. Edge was the joy of his life as a hatchling, and watching him grow into a fully-fledged terror, nearly twice Red in length and wingspan, was an incomparable delight.

However, finding a mate was not simple. Hostile trespassers were far more common than potential partners, and after zealously gathering and defending his territory for all of Edge’s life, earning his share of battlescars, Red knew for certain that there was no one within the boundaries that was a match. In the past, when their kind was more plentiful, a large territory and hoard was enough to attract a mate, but those were not the days they lived in. Red’s desires drove him to expand his range, to claim new resources in some primitive, instinctive hope that he would find what he needed.

Instead of a mate, he found fights.

Fights that he won.

But despite moving his den to the furthest edges of his territory, no one came. Nor could he sense another of his kind to seek them out.

However, he never expected a monster to be bold enough to approach his den unarmed and without a desire for violence. Much less for it to lead to him securing the mateship he craved for so long. How fortunate it was that dragons had a natural gift for language, and his recent stint around monsters allowed him to pick up fragments of Common, enough that he could understand generally what was being said. Though speaking it was a different matter. Common had utterly nothing shared with his native tongue. The words felt misshapen. If only elemental languages had remained the norm, as it was far easier to communicate his thoughts that way.

Red was, however, confident he would master this new language. Especially given he had motivation in the form of a soft, little bundle of bones that was already squeaking at him. He lowered his mate back to the ground, but did not release him, the desire to snarl at the others in the room and flee a powerful urge. His smile strained at the corners.

“...sign papers....wedding…”

He blinked and glanced at Wingdings, who likely had been speaking to him while Red was engrossed with his new mate. From prior discussions, he understood that they had some convoluted courtship and mating ritual that involved signatures and festivities and far too much talking. His soul fluttered with discomfort. Crowds. Loud noise. None of it sounded pleasant in the least, not when it was far more sensible to steal away with Sans without involving anyone else. He would sign the papers. Swear himself to their treaties and truces, for his was a dragon of his word, but there were compromises he would NOT make. They came to HIM. HE had final word. And Red wanted Sans tucked away in his nest, round with clutch and adorned in treasures from his hoard.

“i take new mate home now,” Red declared, interrupting Wingdings. The monarch’s lips pressed shut, but his eyelights burned with inquiry. He tucked Sans close to him, gazed down at his flushed little mate who was so overwhelmed by him that he struggled to meet his eyes. That was fine. They would become familiar with each other soon. Sans would stare at him with adoration when Red had a chance to properly court his favor. “no wedding.” Sans tensed. “much people. much noise. not like. say mate-mine. is mate-mine. simple.” Red tried to pull Sans closer, to hold him flush against his form, but Sans struggled and squirmed.

“w-wait,” his little mate stuttered out, cheekbones a charming shade of sapphire. “too fast.

Red reluctantly loosened his grip, though not enough that his shy mate could escape, “we go?” Sans shook his head.

“Your eagerness to solidify the treaty is admirable,” Wingdings said. “However, I must ask for a little of your patience. Even without a ceremony, a marriage between my house and yours will require a few formalities to be met. They will not take long. Come tomorrow morning, all should be in order. It will allow for my son to finish gathering his belongings and say goodbye, as we had originally planned for there to be a formal wedding, which takes time to arrange.”

Red stroked a hand over his little mate’s skull, earning more squeaks of protest. While he did not like waiting, he would do it. He could be patient. It took this long to find a mate, he could spend one more night alone. His eyelights flickered to the guard still in the room. However, if anyone attempted to slay him while he allowed himself to be vulnerable...he would not only take Sans, but he would raze this whole kingdom to the ground, and leave nothing but smoldering ash behind.

Chapter Text

“You are troubled.”

Sans tucked the tome in his hands into the ornate cedar chest of personal effects he was packing himself, before slowly turning to acknowledge Wingdings with an incline of his chin. Servants were minding a majority of his belongings, stowing clothes and less important trinkets into traveling trunks. While it was uncertain how they would transport everything, the act of meticulous organization, putting away the summation of all parts that lead him to this place in life, offered a modicum of comfort. An illusion of control. By his own hand, he could line up the spines of priceless books, with their hand-sewn pages covered in precisely drawn calligraphy. He could lovingly encase aging scrolls into their protective tubes of wood or finely beaten rolls of gold. Every herb or spice or oddity he kept for experiments were tucked away, wrapped carefully so as not to break. And of course he paid careful attention to the special stargazing lens his father invented for him, so he could better observe the night sky from his window when Sans was too ill to leave his chambers as a child.

“father. i was not expecting you.”

“Your company is most desired this evening,” Wingdings seemed to almost glide as he entered Sans’ bedroom, his many hand constructs fluttering like birds to every corner. They were as mindful as Sans with the delicate objects in the prince’s collection, but to assume they would be otherwise was foolish given the nature of their summoner. The king used them to help in his experiments; wrapping jars was a simple task for them to complete. “It will be our last meal together before you leave to cleave your life unto another’s. Your betrothed has already declined an invitation, citing a need for quiet and little taste for our cooked delicacies.” Oh wonderful, of course the barbarian did not eat cooked food. He likely enjoyed his meals raw and bleeding and still kicking him in the skull. “You look most...cross, my son.”

“do i? apologies, father, his earlier rudeness has spoiled my mood, i’m afraid.”

“He is quite expressive,” Wingdings laid a hand, his real hand, on Sans’ shoulder. “A most unusual man.”

“he is not a man at all,” Sans rebuffed. He turned, though did not lift his gaze to meet his father’s, shoulders pinched forwards with bruised pride. “he is a beast. an uncultured, barbaric beast!”

“And yet you were the one to first acknowledge his potential capacity to be more. To be a monster like you and I.” Wingdings cupped his chin and tilted his face up, offering a slight smile. “While it is true his manners are most lacking, he is not of our culture, and that must be acknowledged. He is most honest and open in his desires. Is honesty not a virtue worth honoring?”

Sans wilted, “as you say. you are most wise, father.”

Wingwings stared for a moment, long and considering, “I wish you every happiness, Sans. This duty you have taken upon yourself should be met with an open mind. For your own sake.”

“it matters not,” Sans replied with a bitter laugh. “i know what i agreed to do. that is to be the spouse and broodmare for the barbarian. i will not fail in this.” He pulled away from Wingwings. “i will attend dinner. if i might have a minute to compose myself?”

“Very well. I shall see you then.”

The alchemist king seemed to glide away, his ever rippling robes fluttering in nonexistent breezes of pure magic as he vacated the room. Sans stared at the door when it shut behind him, the walls of the room creeping inwards, tighter and closer until he was in a coffin, not a gasp of air left behind to quell the burning in false lungs. His mouth twisted into a grimace, sternum aching as if the Angel themself thrust a heavenly sword through brittle bone to hollow out the core of him. Like the celestial bodies above, he was only dust strung together by magicks, and in the end, that dust would be reclaimed. Born of the stars, all the Angel’s children were, but to the stars they would never return, instead their essence would be gathered by the wind and swept across the lands to nourish the fruitfulness of future souls yet to beat. Sans let out a breath and the walls retreated to where they belonged, no longer shadowy beasts that wished to swallow him whole, their bellies full of constellations.

He chose this path. And he was not helpless. No, even a monster as feeble as he held the capacity to protect himself. To alter his own fate should circumstances prove disastrous. Sans went to his desk and picked up his leather-bound grimoire, the cover lovingly detailed with gold leaf, the pages within filled with his own script in severe black ink.

“Too strong, too frail,” his tutors often whispered when they thought him out of earshot. He was never to be a great sorcerer like Wingdings. The cost to his health would be too great. Even practicing magic as a youth wore him down into days of fatigue and fevers. Sans had uncalculated potential absolutely wasted by the shell which contained it.

“You could die,” the royal physicians told him when he was just a boy. And when asked why using his magic left him so weakened, they offered only weak explanations to placate a child. “Imagine trying to keep a storm within the egg of a quail. It pushes out and out, weakening it, thinning it, even the slightest tap could crack the shell. And through that crack, the egg would shatter apart.”

But he persevered. He survived. He learned to control the storm, though he never dared unleash it, lest it overwhelm him. Sans still exhausted himself from time-to-time, his studies pushing his physical form’s limits as he perfected absolute control over his magic, but if he never did so, the book in his hands would not nearly be so extensive. Gingerly, Sans flipped the pages until he found one transcribed from his father’s own grimoire, one he studied to bridge a gap of knowledge that connected other spells, but never used. Hoped he never would have to use.

A trembling phalange traced the simple incantation. It was supposedly untraceable and without the same hazardous risks as potions. But it was irreversible. He could render himself barren. It was Sans’ purpose, one could say, to bear the barbarian heirs. And it was a purpose he resigned himself to serve when he agreed to marry the dragon prince. But if Red proved to be a brute, a beast of cruelty… Well, Sans could ensure their union would be fruitless. Dragons were notoriously resistant to magic and poisons and the like, so he had every doubt he could slay him even in a fit of desperation, but nobody else would need to suffer but him.

It was tempting, for a soulbeat, to whisper the incantation now, but Sans was not without integrity. He would honor his vows of matrimony as long as Red honored his.

So he shut the book and tucked it amongst the others, a hand dropping to his sternum to rest above the fluttering, wingless bird that made the cage of his ribs its home.

He had dinner to prepare for this evening.

Stifling.

This whole castle filled with servants and guards, bustling like a colony of ants before a spring rain, was dreadfully stifling; too crowded with halls too narrow. Every inch of it smelled of sweat smothered by perfumes and the king’s magic. Red wrinkled his nasal bone and did his best to ignore the overwhelming odors and noises. But the little chamber he was relegated to as a guest for sleeping was within the heart of the castle. There was nothing he could do to escape. Taking himself outside to sleep on the lawn was tempting, but Red did not live as long as he did to risk losing his life to a stray ‘hero’ in Wingdings’ court.

So he settled for a walk through the castle's corridors, a hulking behemoth skulking about with bent shoulders to prevent his horns from scraping against the ceiling or entangling with hanging lanterns. Guards and servants alike flattened against the walls to avoid his path, faces pale, reeking of fear. The rattle of grown warriors within their metal shells they called armor grated against Red’s senses. He flashed his fanged smile at them, savored the way their hands twitched in helpless, aborted reaches for weapons they could not draw on him by their king’s own decree.

The sooner Red could leave this place, the better. He would take his adorable little mate to the privacy of their den where they could make beautiful clutches of eggs together.

His menace softened into a smile as he pictured his future with Sans.

His mate draped in furs from Red’s prized hunts, those courtly clothes shed away for sleep, nothing but pearly, perfect bones on display as he lounged in their nest. Sleepy, welcoming smiles as Red returned from patrolling his territory, admiring his skills and dedication, eyelights roaming Red’s far larger form. A welcoming gesture. An invitation to join him in the nest and nap beside their children, still shellbound, yet to arrive in the world and experience its wonder and cruelty. This image, Red would savor it. Protect it. Claim it with greedy hands and clutch it tight to his chest. A beautiful future with his mate. He need only practice patience a little while longer.

Red blinked free of his fantasy at the now overwhelming scent of food. Cooked and spiced until its flavors were ruined, the meat toughened and bloodless. He had to be close to the kitchens or the dining hall. He listened. The clatter of eating utensils on plates and the soft murmur of voices told him it was the latter of the two. Those who eavesdrop rarely hear well of themselves, but...he strained his hearing, listened to the murmuring voices of his soon-to-be mate and his family.

“—allowed to want these things.” Wingdings said. “We can address this with Lord Red in the morning.”

A beat of silence then Sans replied, “no need to bother, father. boyish daydreams and whimsies are for children. to want and push for a formal ceremony, just trappings and decoration for a ritual secured on paper, would only cause grief i suspect. my future husband has no want to be wed in such a fashion and provoking him to offense could end poorly. it would be selfish to put my desires above the good of my people. this arrangement must occur and i will comply with the conditions he set.” He laughed, a self-depreciating, tired sound. “besides, it wouldn’t do to entice some woebegone hero to crash the ceremony by attempting to slay lord red at the altar. i have...accepted this.”

“If you are most certain…”

“i am, father. that means you must have a grand wedding for us both, papyrus.”

“WHEN A FITTING SPOUSE IS FOUND FOR MYSELF, I SHALL MAKE SURE OUR WEDDING IS THE GRANDEST IN THE LAND. IN YOUR HONOR, OF COURSE.”

A laugh, this one more genuine, “thank you. heh. you never do things halfway.”

“TO DO SUCH WOULD BE MOST DISHONORABLE. AND I AM A NOBLE PRINCE.”

“the most noble and courageous.”

“INDEED!”

Red stepped back, away from the voices and left the family to continue their discussion in private. His smile faded, and grumpily, he returned to his chambers to sulk, mulling over the information he learned. They agreed to let him leave with Sans come morning. To lay aside the wedding ceremony and its uselessly frivolity of noise and crowds. He wanted nothing more than to gather Sans up in his arms right now and flee back home, his instincts already at war with the delay. But there was a twinge inside of his chest. A seed planted, roots already sprouting.

Sans wanted a wedding.

Between the denials and the acceptance, Red heard the yearning. The sacrifice of his personal desires. He could take Sans home in the morning, and his little mate would likely offer no protest, voice no displeasure. But it would be a victory that tasted of lies. They already called him a brute and barbarian. Crude and uncultured. Stealing Sans away without granting him his little ceremony would paint yet another layer of that image in their minds. But did it matter? Did he care?

Red took to his chambers for the rest of the evening, thinking on what he heard, sleep evading him the entire night.

“i shall be ready to travel shortly. my servants are making final preparations. we merely need to know how my belongings are to be transported for them to finish their task.”

It was morning and Sans was on task, dressed to travel in a simple tunic and trousers, his soft slippers replaced with riding boots. The dragon prince stared down at him from the doorway of the guest chambers, which he had to duck to peer through. Sans’ face started to burn a little against his will. While it would generally be considered inappropriate to dally at another’s bedchamber, they were technically espoused ever since Red finished signing the papers the previous evening. All that was left was the consummation of their union and it would all be legally binding until their deaths. It was...terribly romantic, wasn’t it? Two strangers entangling their lives together for the sake of a treaty, not a verbal vow or flower in sight.

Sans swallowed down the bitter well of disappointment that climbed up his throat to try and make a nest in his mouth. He would be civil. He would be dutiful. This was his husband now.

“mate-sans. want speak,” Red said in that growling accent of his, the words catching on tongue and tooth in an animalist way.

“you have my time and attention...my lord husband.”

Red’s face shifted at that. He was indeed an expressive man. Where the nobility knew to school themselves, to feign any emotion they chose and mask their moods behind a facade of calm, Red had no such grace. He was in possession of no such dignity. Tired curiosity was replaced with troubled pensiveness which quickly morphed into a grimace, as if what he wanted to say were foul with sourness. “mate-sans want...wed-ding.” He paused, his jaw working as he continued, “wedding. mate want. yes?”

Despite the redundancy, the message was clear, and Sans was a bit staggered by it. Yesterday Red was in strict opposition to the very notion, but today, he was folding, though with evident reluctance.

Sans offered a polite bow of his head, “it matters little. a ceremony is not required for—”

Red pushed through the doorway to loom and Sans sputtered, backpedaling, sweat breaking out on his skull as he craned his neck to look even higher to meet his husband’s gaze. The dragon could so easily crush him with a careless grab. His breath stank of burning embers as he leaned closer, thin wisps of crimson smoke curling between gleaming fangs, “ask not if matter. ask if want. mate-sans want?” He leaned heavy on the word want like an order or a dare.

“very well, if you must know,” Sans snapped, composure slipping, ire creeping through grit teeth. “yes. i do want a ceremony. i want a wedding with my family bearing witness. even if small and held in the gardens, with guests as few as to be counted upon one hand, i want a formal wedding. the lack of one feels improper. satisfied?”

“yes.” Red straightened up. “want mate...happy. give mate-sans what want. be happy.”

“ah...how...thoughtful of you. but you were adamant on there being no ceremony. too long away from home. crowds. noise.”

Red shifted, as if trying not to squirm with discomfort, “small. need small. not stay long. bad. need go home.”

“...are you saying you will tolerate a small wedding if it is quickly arranged so we may return to your territory in haste?” A nod in affirmation. “a small wedding would take weeks, months even.” Red blew smoke uneasily through his nose with a huff. “but i do not require much. a fortnight?” No, that look certainly said that was too. “a sevenday?” No? “ you do not even have to stay at the castle here while the wedding is being planned, you can go home and return when the formalities are prepared.”

“agree.”

“pardon?”

“seven days. i go mine den. come, wedding, we go mine den.”

“you can traverse our lands and back in that short of time?”

Red preened, “fast.”

“magic i would bargain.”

The dragon only grinned, “agree?”

Sans’ soul fluttered just a bit at the unexpected consideration and compromise, “yes. we are in agreement. i will inform my father. you...will permit guests, yes? perhaps an old friend or two?” Red nodded and Sans found himself smiling, “very well. my thanks, lord husband. fare thee well on your travels.” Red, having not arrived with much beyond what he wore, left the room and eventually the castle. The mannerless barbarian did not even stay to break his fast.

After informing his father of the news, Sans returned to his chambers to draft a letter. The castle was in a flurry, trying as quickly as they were able to prepare even the minimal trappings for a formal wedding ceremony. It would take place in the back gardens where the golden flowers bloomed so prettily this time of year. Muffet would work her eight-legged magic in the kitchen and cook a feast of Sans’ favorite dishes and bake flakey wedding pastries with imported white sugar dusted over the top. And that meant only two things were left for Sans himself to handle: Contacting the tailor for his marriage robes (no doubt Red would stand at his side in that exotic armor, dripping with stolen wealth), and inviting the guests. Or in this instance, guest.

Lord Grillby,

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

Sans paused before continuing his missive. It would be brief. They were friendly, after all. Or as friendly as a baron and a crown prince could be without a scandal. Grillby was originally a friend of his father’s from war times, and when the dust was swept away by the wind and the battlefields returned to being farmland, he was gifted land and a title for his service and valor. The fire elemental was married once, a long time ago, but was now widowed, with no interest in remarrying, and instead took on his niece as his ward when her parents died. She was his heir as he had no children of his own. Sans grew up with Grillby as a frequent guest of the court. His ill health made playing with his peers difficult, and he had only one real friend his age as a child, which meant he often spent his time with adults.

Grillby was always patient with him. A soft spoken man, he preferred to listen. He would sit and let Sans pester him for hours with questions and stories. And when Sans grew up, Grillby remained a steady, constant presence, offering guidance and wisdom like an advisor might. A good man was Grillby, forgiving too. When Sans came of an age and mind to indulge too deeply into spirits, he made a right fool of himself—flirting clumsily with the older monster, whom he’d long since developed an attraction towards—and Grillby merely brushed the encounter aside come morning as the alcohol playing tricks with his youthful soul, confusing his feelings of friendship for more. Nothing happened.

But that did not stop Sans from fantasizing from time-to-time afterwards of what could have been had Grillby been less of a gentleman. To be chaste as a royal was most important. He could not share his soul with just anyone. But...Sans yearned with a melancholy fit for theatre for years. Until Red entered his life, he fancied the idea of propositioning Grillby properly on the assumption Sans was in a loveless union and the heirs already made. It wasn’t uncommon amongst nobility to discreetly find their pleasures outside of the marriage bed. He would have been fair about it. Made certain his wife knew she could take lovers as long as she was mindful to never be caught in her affair.

Life had a way of sharply altering its course on a whim.

No longer was Sans to be future king of Truelab. Any fancy to one day seduce the widowed elemental into his bed was squelched.

And now he had the opportunity to see his old friend one last time before possibly never speaking to him ever again, depending on whether or not Sans could redeem Red’s claimed territory’s...political situation. THAT was a complicated bureaucratic disaster he was not looking forward to solving, but needs must.

Sans took a moment to look over his penned missive before signing his name at the bottom with a flourish. He would send it now. With luck, the baron would receive it in time and come to the ceremony.

”I found a mate.”

Red held the delicate scrying glass in his claws. It was a rare and powerful artifact he stumbled upon decades ago and added to his hoard without hesitation. A hoard that was now firmly moved from his old den to this new one of human construction. He was tempted to burn the whole castle down, but settled for emptying its halls, finding it satisfactory for his needs. And he was most glad he did so. Otherwise, how else would he have met his new mate? Sans. Pretty, tiny and full of magic. He was adorable. And though dragons tended to favor bigger mates, Red found himself enamoured by the small monster, whom he dwarfed in size twice over.

Perched upon his hoard of glittering treasures, the stone walls blocking out light and weather, Red was...content. He would not be happy until his mate was in their nest, round with a clutch, but they would get there. Soon. Very soon.

”I DO NOT SEE.”

His drifting thoughts were brought back into focus by his brother’s gravely growls. Dragon-speak was far more natural upon his tongue than Common. Simpler in nature, it conveyed ideas, concepts, rather than a sound equating to a word. Even so, it was easy to express his latest adventure with Edge, and how he was bringing home a mate soon. First, however, there was to be a mating ritual in accordance to Sans’ culture. Edge’s sharp and scarred visage—reflected in the surface of the glass, framed by delicate golden filigree—contorted with consternation.

He promptly scolded Red for mating the monster prince. Informed him of how foolish he was to make himself vulnerable by assuming a humanoid form (Even now! When he had no need to be so small and weak looking.) After he was done being loud and ornery, Edge then blew a puff of smoke. Coming from his massive, draconic form, that smoke clouded the scrying glass for a few soulbeats. When it cleared, his gaze was considering.

”I WILL COME. I WILL MEET YOUR MATE.”

Red scoffed at the notion, ”No. Too soon. Come to my den later.”

Nobody wanted nor needed a temperamental young dragon causing a scene during their mating ritual. Edge would no doubt scare all the little monsters by being giant and terrible and quite capable of being a castle-sized nuisance. His brother was a terror and Red was proud, but a few decades to dull the eagerness from his claws would serve him well before he attempted to interact with non-dragons.

Edge blew more smoke.

Red clicked his teeth.

They would converse for a while longer before Red dismissed the image of his brother. Red let his sockets slip shut with a sigh, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Soon. Very soon. His life would not be so empty anymore.

Chapter Text

Large hands roamed Sans’ petite frame. They were bold, absolutely shameless as they tugged at clothes to get to the fragile bones underneath. Sweat beaded and dripped in thin rivulets down Sans’ skull, paths curving as every drop skimmed down his cervical vertebrae and pooled in the high collar of his tunic. His breath quickened and he shuddered, gasping futility for air to cool him as a vulnerable whine escaped. Soul pounding, he lifted his own hands to cover the large ones that just finished pulling off his cloak and tossed it to the floor like a soiled rag no longer fit for scrubbing.

“w-wait. please,” he begged. “s-slow down.” It was too much. Too fast. He couldn’t breathe. Surely he would perish right there if this continued, erupting into flames from the heat burning through him, inflaming his joints and boiling non-existent lungs. The smell of smoke entrenched itself into his senses. He coughed and gagged to no relief. He started to struggle and strain. Except he was not bound to pyre choking on smoke and smoldering ash as flames devoured brittle bones. He was upright and bound by his own terror. Paralysed and helpless as gloved claws plucked at the ties and buttons and buckles holding his many layers in place.

Another plea escaped him as his ribcage was swallowed by a large palm wrapping wholly around it, claws resting along his spine. Sans sought purchase against scalding leather, trying to wedge phalanges underneath to wrench even a tiny gasp of freedom.

“mine-mate~”

Sans screwed his sockets shut, refusing to look at his captor as he breathed more suffocating smoke into his face before licking his neck, fangs grazing bone. He could so easily crush him with an errant squeeze of the hand or tiny little nip of teeth. Helpless. Sans was helpless. He was going to die. The barbarian was going to brutalize him to death.

He reached inward for his magic but it wouldn’t answer his call. It too was being boiled into submission.

Then, a rush of cool air whisked across his bones.

“make lots eggs now~!”

Sans gasped and flinched as sweat-damp layers joined his cloak on the hard stone beneath him. His sockets sprang open in time for a tongue to invade his mouth, capturing any protest. Nude and exposed in every possible way, the immolation was flooded away by a frigid wave that crashed and swirled and left him shivering. Red stared back at him with primitive lust—an animalistic desire for a mate he found desirable for begetting offspring upon. That was, after all, what Sans was to him. A way to reproduce in a world hostile to dragonkind. Nothing more.

“monsters do not lay eggs,” he found himself saying. “we make soulings.”

Red leered, fully clothed and armored and bedecked in his stolen riches. Then he blew a ring of smoke right into Sans’ face, blinding him and choking him with searing ash once more. Big hands went to work, Sans’ body just a doll in a puppeteers’ wicked grasp. His whole form trembled as he was twisted and contorted into all manner of positions on that cold, unforgiving floor, Red muttering about mates and breeding and eggs.

His skull burned with humiliation. There was nothing he could do. This was his husband. He was sold to a brute and he would be used and hurt until the barbarian inevitably broke him by being too rough.

Idly he wondered if it would hurt to fall to dust…

Then those hands suddenly gentled. Touched like a lover might. For a brief moment he was not on a cold floor, but in a familiar fantasy, warmth pleasant against him as he sought fumbling kisses from an older, wiser man. He touched knowingly. Carefully. Always a gentleman.

“lord grillby?”

His lover didn’t speak, just silenced him with the promise of passion.

Passion that slipped like campfire smoke through his phalanges and was replaced by a heaviness in his body. Those overly large clawed hands were back, petting, stroking, smoothing over the grotesquely engorged swell that extruded from his temporary abdomen. Sans slowly allowed his gaze to drift down, horror welling up into his mouth, sour and acidic.

Eggs.

There was not a souling’s dust shell collecting into a solid form within the cocoon of his magic. No, instead hundreds of tiny eggs like that of a fish floated within him, swollen and translucent, with little red cores beating at the center of each.

“more~? mate-sans need more eggs~?”

Sans wanted to cry and scream and fight, but he was once more frozen, unable to resist whatever wickedness Red had planned. His magic couldn’t take any more. It would rip and all the eggs would fall out and he would hemorrhage to death—

“mate-sans can take more.”

Those words were dark and ominous.

Predatory.

Sans braced himself for pain—

—then woke up.

For the first time in a long time, Sans found himself in the castle’s chapel, kneeling in prayer before the altar. It was quiet in the early morning, only a single priest tending the hallowed halls, dawn slanting through stained glass windows, setting depictions of the Angel aglow with a fiery radiance. The royal family paid their respects every holy day, but it had been a long time since Sans came to the chapel without obligation as his motivation. He was a man of logic rather than faith and had been since he was old enough for desperation to metamorphose into apathy. There had been many dark moments in his youth where he begged the Angel—any of the other gods who might be listening—for help. For a cure.

But there was no miracle.

No visions or signs.

Nothing.

Just quiet mutters between healers and pitying looks. He would always be fragile and prone to poor health. He was lucky to be alive and would forever be trapped in a body that could fail him should his magic fall even a fraction out of control.

“please. protect my kingdom. may this marriage be the right thing to ensure peace.”

Even if his youthful pleadings went unanswered, he could hope his sacrifice would bring blessings. He was fortunate that he was only wedded to a dragon and not offered to Red on a wooden stake. Though such a comparison roused memories of why he was here in the first place. Ever since Red left and the castle was abuzz with preparations for the ceremony, he was plagued by vivid and disturbing dreams. The most recent of which left him in sweat soaked bedding and some rather uncomfortable bodily functions he did his best to ignore and rid himself of with cold water.

Sans looked up, wishing for a moment that the gods were more substantial. That the Angel could step forth from those windows on dainty, bare feet, their androngenous humanoid visage obscured by a gilt halo of wings. Perhaps they would strike him down for his pitiful demands, take the sword they once turned upon themselves for the betterment of monsterkind and render Sans a scattering of stardust upon the stones.

He was answered with silence, a dappled rainbow drenching the chapel floor and the sole occupant kneeling within it.

Inhaling slowly, Sans rose to his feet and steadied himself. Outside of these chambers he was to be the picture of refinement and composure. He folded his hands behind his back and straightened his spine. He lifted his chin and swallowed a shuddering breath. If his worst fears proved true, he still had his grimoire full of spells. One way or another, the Angel blessing him or forsaking him, he would do his duty.

As he left the chapel, he took notice of the guards that waited for him, each upright and silent, hardened through years of diligent duty and on high alert since the dragon turned their defenses into little more than child’s play. However, there was a new face amongst them, youthful and his features almost comically arranged into an overly serious expression. When he noticed Sans’ stare, he smiled broadly, overjoyed with the attention, but that quickly turned to terror that he’d done something wrong. Nervousness replaced joy and then back to the parody of professionalism, face flushed, sweat creeping down his face.

“Is there something amiss, your highness?” One of the senior guardsmen inquired, voice deep and weathered with age.

“no. i was just…reminded of someone i once knew as a boy. your trainee is expressive. earnestly so. that is…rare i have found.”

The guard glanced at the boy who was sweating more now, “i see.”

“carry on.” Sans moved past, lost briefly in those brief, innocent days that were threadbare memories of happy times. He never had many friends growing up, and fewer still that were peers. Sans was the odd one. The outcast despite his status. Though never overtly shunned, the others children were often wary of him, some even superstitious enough to think he might be an omen of bad fortune and his sickness would curse them as well.

Amongst them was the eldest son of a noblewoman whom his father considered an advisor and friend—still did, as far as Sans knew, even if she stopped attending court after her husband passed, claiming grief as her reason, and a woman in mourning was not expected to attend such functions. Her son was a cheerful, exuberant little skeleton about Sans’ age, who was, very strangely, not the heir to his family name and estate. Instead he was a page, training to become a squire and then one day a knight.

While highly peculiar, Sans found himself prone to favoring the page’s company over that of the other, higher ranking noble children. And he would use his princely influence to demand the boy’s companionship on the days they were both at the castle. The boy never judged him. Never whispered behind his back. He was kind and honest and dutiful. He wanted to be the best knight ever and swore he would one day serve at Sans’ side as his vassal. He even once made Sans a crown of wildflowers to wear while they played, mindful that Sans could not do much in the way of running or roughhousing like other boys, taking to heart his role as protector of a future monarch.

Of course, children knew little of the ways of the world.

It was possible the boy forgot Sans by the time he became a man. It had been a long, long time since he saw that page. Though he’d never forget that guileless smile and those bright, cyan eyelights.

Shaking his head, Sans returned to his duties, few that they were, in preparation for the ceremony. There was a final fitting for his wedding robes and guests to be minded. As the last day before Red returned stretched onward, the chaos grew more intense around him. Servants practically flew by, everyone ensuring that this hastily prepared ceremony would go perfectly.

A knock at the door to his chambers drew Sans from his evening routine. Tomorrow would be a long day, as Red was to arrive early before the ceremony, after which, they would go to his lair. A servant informed Sans that he had a guest: Baron Grillby.

“allow him in and bring refreshments from the kitchens,” he said, and the servant bowed her head before hopping off.

Then into the antechamber stepped his father’s friend and longtime infatuation. Grillby was a tall man, only a little shorter than Sans’ father and not quite as lithely built. His shoulders were broad and his stride that of a trained soldier, despite his long since retiring from his role as General. His was a frame that suited armor though he came to Sans in the well-fashioned finery of his current status, every article dyed black as was tradition for those in mourning. Much like his childhood friend’s mother, he never ceased to stop wearing dark colors, though he did come to court as it was less acceptable for men to seclude themselves from social duties beyond six months after the passing of a spouse. Though Sans couldn’t help but admire the contrast of vibrant orange flames and the stark black of his high-necked jacket.

“lord grillby, a pleasure to know you have arrived safely. come, take a seat. i admit i am surprised by your calling on me this late in the evening.” Sans escorted him to the lounge and they sat across from each other, a wooden table adorned with books and candles between them. Sans searched that amorphous face for an answer. Perhaps childishly. As if today was the day this man would discover some deep passion for him and had come to confess his undying love.

“I wished to offer my congratulations for your nuptials in person, as I have been informed it is a very exclusive affair. It is an honor to be included.” His voice was quiet and crackled with the trademark hisses and pops of Elemental. Though he could speak Common, this was his native tongue and one that Sans worked hard as a child to learn so that he could impress his father’s friend with his cleverness. ”If I may dare say, you have grown into a fine man and your dedication to the kingdom is admirable. Not many would have the fortitude to sacrifice their title and their way of life to protect their people as you have done. I am…proud. And I want only your happiness in your marriage. May you and your husband have a prosperous union and may that union better not just Truelab, but you both as people.”

Oh.

How kind.

”As you know, I am not one to wax poetic or offer long speeches or drawn out stories of wisdom. But if you have any concerns or queries you feel I might be able to answer…I will do my best.”

Right. Dragons and elementals were more similar than they were not, both very old, primitive breeds of monster. Sans could imagine a fire elemental like Grillby having certain similarities to a fire-breathing dragon, but it was difficult when one was refined and the other a barbarian. Sans swallowed as he searched for the right words and was given reprieve from speaking by the servant arriving with refreshments. Tea for Sans and a foul concoction of wine, cooking oil and charcoal for Grillby. There was bread and wood chips placed neatly on either side of the tray.

“i will admit i know little of what to realistically expect,” Sans confessed as he picked up a warm cup and let the steam bathe his face. “he is so…foreign to me. so…so crass!”

Grillby chuckled, ”You never spent much time around soldiers or other men. Men are often just that at their core. Men. People. With wants and dreams and desires. Is it crassness or directness?”

“both i suppose. he picked me up when we met, lord grillby. i, the crown prince! anyone else would have been executed for their audacity. then he babbled about magic and mates and eggs. he knows nothing of court or politics.”

”You are a scholar. Teach him what he needs to know. And be open to what he has to teach you. Not a lot is known about dragons in this era. Perhaps this will be the first step in restoring their kind peacefully into our society.”

“...” Sans allowed himself to pout. “i like you better when you do not speak at length. you have a distressing habit of offering reasonable advice and expectations.”

Grillby’s flames flickered as he laughed again, ”It is called age and experience. Though your father leaned upon me in war times due to my steady nature, I suppose. He always had such big, impossible dreams…and yet he turned those dreams into reality with a remarkable ease. I will never not be honored to be considered an advisor and companion to his majesty and allowed to watch his sons grow up in peaceful times into fine men.”

Sans sipped his tea as Grillby nibbled on a wood chip.

“lord grillby…i am…frightened. i do not desire this marriage nor what that marriage implies.” He looked up to find Grillby watching him. Non-judgemental. “but i will do my duty. he…appears capable of enough empathy that he allowed me to have a wedding ceremony. but beyond that i know little of him, just that he is very dangerous, even for someone like my father, much less myself.”

Grillby was quiet for a moment, ”My marriage to my late wife was arranged. Not as formally as the royals or other nobility are prone to doing. But my village was a small one. Most of us were family. There were no suitable spouses and I was of age to marry. My father returned home from business in another village and with him was a young woman, barely old enough to take vows, who he told me was my wife. And she loathed me.” He smiled, a craggy shape splitting across his ever shifting visage. ”She did not want to leave her home to marry a stranger. She was in love with another man whom her own father deemed a poor match. For the next month, she made certain I knew she was miserable. She would not cook nor clean and she threw pottery at my head every time I came home. She dared me to reprimand her. To take a hand to her and put her in her place as a wife.

A pause and another chuckle.

”I was frankly terrified of her spark. But…it was around then when the war reached my village. I had much more important things to fear than the woman I was to protect. When those invaders started throwing buckets of water and trying to smother out the flames that lived there, I managed to help her flee with the other women and children before they could hurt her. After the battle, when we were reunited, her temperament towards me had shifted. I believe she had thought that I would hate her and harm her, as her own family had not been kind and had so easily sold her to my father to be his son’s bride. But in that moment, when I had no reason but kindness to help her, I did. If she was dead, I could have remarried a woman who wouldn’t dislike me so intensely. Instead I made certain she was safe. Our marriage improved greatly after that day.”

“And you fell in love,” Sans murmured.

”Eternally. She will always be my soul’s devotion. My one and only.”

Sans swallowed, “thank you for telling me. i did not know.”

”Few do. Give it time, your highness. Perhaps you will find happiness in the least expected of things.”

With thanks for his wisdom, Sans bid Grillby goodnight and readied for bed. Not yet packed away was his grimoire, which he opened one last time to thumb through the pages and the possibilities within. His life would be forever altered tomorrow. He supposed he best accept his lot and try to sleep.