Chapter Text
“As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.”
Moby-Dick or, The Whale, Herman Melville
James Potter always thought he’d die an interesting death. Sword-fighting a dozen opponents, wrestling a kraken, facing a maniacal wizard bare-handed, or something equally as daring. Right now, however, he’d accept the gallows, as uninspired as that is. Just… anything other than starving to death in a damp dungeon that stinks of his own waste.
Exhaling a huff, he rubs his glasses with the tattered hem of his shirt, chasing some comfort in the familiar motions. James pushes them up the bridge of his nose and looks around his cell, but the clearer lenses do not reveal any escape.
He wonders how long it’s been since he was captured and thrown in this cursed place.
Ugh, captured.
The mere word sends a shiver of shame through James’s spine. He can’t believe it happened, can barely remember the fateful night, pissed out of his mind as he was — it’s all a blur of green-clad guards screaming and swarming his crew to try and take Sirius.
Sirius.
It hadn’t been a choice, really, to stay behind and give his friend a chance to flee to the docks, back to the safety of The Marauder. James could only lose his life if captured. Sirius stood to lose himself.
James would never have let that happen. He would die a thousand times — including this slow, boring death — to save the boy who is the other half of his soul.
He just wishes it would happen already!
How long does James have? Another week? It’s hard to track the time when his sole source of light is a torch flickering just over the bend of the dungeon’s labyrinthine walls. His only true indicator is his body, which is weak but not yet failing. He is now sure the bucket of clean water they’d provided that first day was cruelty rather than kindness — just a way to extend his misery, as death by dehydration would have been much too quick.
He wishes he hadn’t drunk from it.
James sighs and tries to get comfortable on the cold slab of stone. A nap might speed up the time until his inevitable demise.
He is drifting in and out of a fitful slumber when something changes. James pushes himself up against the wall, his mistreated back complaining at the movement. The feeble torchlight brightens, and his whole body buzzes with anticipation at the sound of footsteps.
“Finally!” James hollers, though his voice is weak with disuse. “I was beginning to think the mighty kingdom of Slytherin had run out of rope!”
“Shush!” his visitor hisses, coming into view at last.
For a second, James’s heart seizes in his chest. Did Sirius break their oath? He is about to shout at his friend when he registers the details — the slighter frame, the shorter hair, the unprecedented contempt shining in those gray eyes.
They have never met, but James is certain this is the younger prince, Regulus Arcturus Black.
Before James can find his voice again, Regulus continues, “And for your information, they would have used the guillotine on you.”
“The guillotine? On me?” James asks, forcing a grin. “I’m honored.”
“Shush,” Regulus repeats, fishing out an object from the interior pocket of his travel cloak. A key. “You’d do well to keep silent, pirate. We’ll only have one chance at this.”
Never one to heed orders, James holds a hand to his heart. “I’ll have you know, pirate is a derogatory term! We much prefer explorers of the sea.”
Regulus huffs, annoyed. “You have looted half a dozen royal ships in the past year alone,” he argues, though he still opens the cell to free such a criminal.
“They were at sea, and therefore, open to being explored.” James pushes himself from the stone cot, ignoring the emaciated malaise of his muscles, the darkening edges of his vision. He squares his shoulders as he walks toward the prince, half expecting the haughty little thing to slam the door on his face.
Regulus only motions him forward with an agitated wave of his pale, slender hand. “Come on! We don’t have all night!”
You can have all night with me anytime you want. Incorrigible flirt that he is, the words rise on his tongue out of habit, but James bites them down. He doesn’t actually want to offend the prince’s sensibilities — at least not until he’s out of these dungeons.
“Of course,” he says instead, pushing his feet as fast as they will go. “Wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting, Your Highness.”
Eyes widening, Regulus asks, “You know who I am, then?”
“The family resemblance is hard to miss,” James tells him, already heading away from the cell. Good riddance. “Aren’t you coming, Your Highness?”
Regulus huffs again, but says nothing as he walks past James, taking the lead. James watches the prince, trying to get a read of him, trying to reconcile this prickly person with the soft child Sirius had described with such fondness.
“We must make haste, Your Highness. The guards will return soon.”
James is so enthralled that his heart almost leaps out of his chest at the new voice. His eyes land on an old man, quite reminiscent of an overgrown bat, who stands waiting for them, carrying a torch.
“It’s all right, Kreacher,” Regulus says, much gentler than he’s been with James. “We have an hour. I made sure of that.”
The old man — Kreacher — must be a servant, judging by his livery, though he looks at James with such superiority that one would think he was Cygnus Black III, the King of Slytherin himself. “The pirate won’t be a problem?” he asks Regulus, though his eyes don’t leave James.
“Not if he wants to live,” Regulus replies, and there’s that.
James concentrates on following his saviors, his entire body crawling with cold pinpricks. He could really use some food right now, but he doubts Regulus thought to bring him a snack.
“Why are you helping me?” he asks to stave off the fog in his head.
Regulus spares him only the barest of glances. “Because my brother is idiotic enough to consider you his best friend. It’d break his heart if your big head were to be severed from your body.”
“Aw,” James coos obnoxiously. “Did he really say we are best friends?”
Regulus does not deign to respond. He only holds up his hand in a sign to halt. Contrary to popular belief, James has some sense of self-preservation, so he does. Kreacher deposits his torch into an empty bracket and exits the damp corridor through a dingy door that James only now notices.
“Once Kreacher gives us the signal, we’ll have a few minutes to make it to the horses unnoticed,” Regulus explains, voice low. “Stay close to me and be quiet.”
James nods, which he instantly realizes is a mistake. His vision swims, and he leans against the wall to keep himself upright. Regulus watches him, frowning, but does not ask.
The wait is mercifully brief.
Around a quarter hour after he disappears through the door, Kreacher returns carrying two sheathed swords strapped to his back. He moves with surprising speed for an old man, his expression grim as he shuts the door behind him.
“The guards have left their posts, Your Highness.”
Regulus straightens. “Good.”
Kreacher shrugs the weapons from his shoulders and presents one to the prince. Even through the sheath, James can tell this is a proper sword — long and balanced, meant to be used, not some ceremonial ornament. Regulus unhesitatingly accepts it, fastening the leather strap across his chest and settling the blade against his back.
James can only hope the little prince won’t hurt himself. Sirius has spoken of his brother over the years — quite a lot, mind you — but he only ever described a shy boy who spent his days either buried in books or trailing after his older brother through palace corridors; all that before he was sent to a seminary to join the bloody clergy. Regulus was raised to be a priest, not a warrior.
“Here,” Kreacher grunts, reclaiming James’s attention by thrusting the second weapon into his hands.
It is nothing remarkable, with a plain leather-wrapped steel pommel, likely taken from the guards’ armoire.
The weight of it nearly makes James moan.
Fuck, how he missed not being entirely defenseless.
“If you ever turn that blade against Master Regulus,” Kreacher says, watching James adjust the strap across his shoulders through narrowed eyes, “I shall personally ensure it is the last thing you do.”
James blinks. The threat is so absurd that he almost laughs. Almost. Kreacher might be old enough to be his great-grandfather, his hunched frame barely reaching James’s chest, but… something in the old man’s eyes exacts a nod from him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.
It’s the truth. He would never hurt Sirius’s little brother, and beyond that, Regulus is risking his life to save his. James is a pirate; they take life debts rather seriously.
Kreacher’s distrustful expression does not waver, not until Regulus intervenes, “I’ll be fine, Kreacher.”
For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Kreacher softens. Concern creeps into the lines of his face as he reaches forward to straighten the hood of Regulus’s cloak.
“Be careful, Your Highness.”
“I will. I promise.”
The old man keeps fussing with the prince’s cloak until Regulus steps forward and wraps his arms around him. When they part, Kreacher’s eyes are suspiciously bright in the torchlight, and Regulus isn’t faring much better.
Well. This is much more emotional than James would have expected a prince to be over a servant.
“I will miss you,” Regulus whispers. “Take care of yourself, Kreacher.”
Kreacher nods, sniffling. “Safe travels, Your Highness.”
Regulus offers one last wet smile before turning away.
James follows him through the door. They plunge into a mesh of servant tunnels that twist beneath the palace like the roots of an oak tree. James would have been hopelessly lost after the first turn, but Regulus navigates them with sure steps.
At last, the stale air disappears behind them, the midnight breeze whipping at James’s face. He inhales as fast and deep as his lungs allow, sure that he will never again take fresh air for granted.
Thick clouds gather in the sky above, swallowing the stars and dimming the full moon that provides their only light. Regulus doesn’t stop walking, and James follows him across a stretch of open ground before realizing where they are.
The bloody gallows.
Rows upon rows of them rise ahead, black silhouettes against the dim lawn, their ropes swaying placidly in the wind.
James stares. “Interesting route.”
Regulus merely shrugs and continues onward.
Perhaps he should feel unsettled by the sight after days spent awaiting execution, but James mostly finds himself wondering what sort of prince decides the quickest escape route runs directly through the execution row. Regulus is much more entertaining than Sirius ever suggested.
The gallows eventually give way to the outer edge of the grounds. Beyond them rises the farthest section of the palace wall, partially hidden by a cluster of ancient trees.
A mare and a stallion await beneath their branches. The rich chestnut of their coat is unmistakable even in the weak moonlight; purebred desert horses, worth their weight in gold. James is almost offended to see them laden with supplies like common farm geldings.
He slows his steps as he takes in the baggage — blankets rolled in pelts, waterskins, and several bulging leather sacks whose contents he can only guess.
“Packed thoroughly, I see,” James jokes.
Regulus follows his gaze and frowns. “We have a long journey ahead.”
“We?”
The look Regulus aims at him very much asks, Are you dimwitted?
James looks from the prince to the pair of horses and back again. “You’re coming with me.”
Regulus gives a short nod as he checks the straps securing their cargo. “Yes.”
James really wants to ask for more information, but he recognizes they’re in a bit of a time crunch. “Right,” he says. “And where exactly are we going?”
“We can discuss that once we’re out of the city.” Regulus grabs the reins of the second horse and offers them to James. “Can you ride?”
James snorts. “Oh, Your Highness,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m excellent at riding.”
“Good,” Regulus replies. “Take it, then.”
James cannot decide whether Regulus chose to ignore the innuendo or…
Regulus frowns. “What?”
Ah. He’s just painfully innocent, then.
James bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. “Nothing.”
The prince looks unconvinced but appears to decide there are more pressing matters at hand. He shakes the reins impatiently.
“Mount the horse, already! We need to leave before the guards realize you’re gone.”
James salutes him. “Ay, ay, Captain.”
He did not lie to Regulus. James is excellent at riding — including the lewd connotation — but he has never mounted a horse while half-starved. The movement makes his vision swim for a second. He grips the stallion’s mane to steady himself before twisting the reins in a proper grip.
Across from him, Regulus mounts his mare with the practiced ease of… well, a prince.
James settles into the saddle and looks back at the palace looming against the dark sky. If he never steps there again, it will be too soon.
Regulus gathers his reins. “Ready?”
“Lead the way, Your Highness,” James replies with a grin.
Regulus nudges his mare forward at a brisk trot. James keeps the stallion as close as he can as they brave a small path through the shelter of the trees until a postern gate emerges from the shadows. It is so narrow that he almost misses it, an inconspicuous slab of wood set among the ivy-covered stones of the palace wall.
“It’s the old supplier entrance,” Regulus says. “It hasn’t been used in years. Kreacher unlocked it this afternoon.”
James hums, straining his ears for any sound of guards beneath the steady song of the crickets. He hears nothing, and they emerge onto a narrow service road, unchallenged.
His hackles rise. This feels too easy.
The capital lies at the foot of the hill that houses the palace, dark and silent beneath the cloud-choked sky. They circumvent it to avoid the city guards, keeping the horses concealed in the surrounding woods. With each step he puts between himself and those blasted dungeons, James relaxes further.
Either Regulus is remarkably competent, or the palace’s security is absolute shit. James doesn’t care as long as he’s free.
The word has barely taken form in his thoughts when movement erupts from the darkness ahead.
“Halt!”
The shout is followed by the unmistakable ring of unsheathed steel. James’s hand goes instantly to the sword at his back, eyes darting back and forth as he takes in the half dozen guards that surge onto their path. The insignia on their breastplates is unfamiliar, but their emerald green uniforms definitely belong to the royal household.
James supposes it doesn’t matter which of Regulus’s relatives set the ambush because the first guard raises his spear and charges.
So much for an easy escape.
Adrenaline smothers the weakness in his body.
It doesn’t disappear, but his empty stomach, his aching muscles, the dizziness lingering at the edges of his vision — all of it becomes secondary to the far more immediate concern of not being skewered.
James yanks the stallion sideways. The spear whistles past his ribs.
At least they didn’t aim for the horse. That would have just been rude.
In one fluid motion, his sword is withdrawn. Steel crashes against steel. The impact thrums through his arm all the way to the shoulder.
God, that feels fucking good.
The rhythm is familiar — the solidity of the horse beneath him, the weight of the blade, the enemy just begging to be felled.
Another guard closes in from the left. James parries the man’s strike and slashes across his forearm. The attacker cries out, dropping his weapon as blood spatters over the dirt.
James uses the small reprieve to track Regulus’s position. He doubts the guards would hurt their prince, though he won’t bet either of their lives on it.
He finds Regulus only a few meters behind him, engaging two opponents at once.
The sight nearly distracts James enough to get himself killed.
Sirius’s descriptions have done his brother a tremendous disservice. Regulus can fight, and he does so… beautifully.
He lacks Sirius’s reckless ferocity but only because he doesn’t need it. His movements are efficient — precise. His every strike lands.
Years of noble sword lessons, James realizes, and Regulus must have been an ardent pupil.
Still, they are outnumbered.
One of the guards feints high before swinging toward Regulus’s exposed side.
James reacts.
He drives his horse forward and intercepts the blow with enough force to wrench the sword from the attacker’s hand.
Life debt: paid! It must be a record!
James grins, staring at the man’s terrified eyes. “Bit rude to stab your prince, don’t you think?” Then he buries his sword in the man’s mouth.
He has no time to relish in such a beautiful kill. His rescue has left his own flank wide open.
Pain explodes across his back. Not a blade, fortunately. A rock from one of the men Regulus disarmed. It’s nearly enough to unseat him.
James swears violently as he struggles to regain his balance. The world tilts, his vision darkening, and for one horrifying second, he thinks he’s going to plummet.
“Duck!” Regulus yells.
James gathers the last of his wits to obey. He drops flat against his horse’s neck. Something whistles through the space where his head had occupied a mere second earlier.
A dagger.
The attacker behind James makes a wet choking noise, slipping from his saddle and colliding with the ground with a dull thud.
Well. There goes the payment of the life debt.
There is no time to dwell on it as another rider surges forward, replacing the footed guards.
Reinforcements.
James strikes him down, only for another to take his place.
It’s all a blur from there.
Hooves thunder against the forest floor. Horses scream. Steel clashes in a relentless cacophony that echoes through the night.
James’s lungs burn. His entire body is fueled by adrenaline alone.
The guards keep coming. Too many.
James loses himself. He is made of reactions. Regulus slots himself closer to him, and together they dance.
Enemy riders lie scattered across the road. Some dead, some soon to be. The last survivor takes one look at James’s blood-splattered grin and Regulus’s raised sword and decides he has somewhere else to be.
Coward.
James would mock him if he could spare the breath.
“He’ll get more!” Regulus shouts. “Go!”
James does not need to be told twice. He spurs the stallion forward, and the forest blurs around him. With every galloping second, the battle’s borrowed strength drains out of him, and the dull ache of his muscles throbs into agony. His hands shake as he sheathes the blood-slick sword. His stomach twists in his throat, burning, burning, burning.
Cold sweat breaks across his skin.
James sways on the saddle.
Fuck.
He is not winning this particular battle.
Ahead of him, Regulus rides at a relentless pace, his attention fixed on the road. James wants to call out. Wants to tell him to slow down. He can barely gather enough strength to grip the reins to keep himself upright.
The world melts into horse, road, Regulus.
Horse,
Road,
Regulus,
The stallion follows obediently after the prince’s mare, weaving through the trees while dawn struggles to break through the blanket of clouds overhead. The forest around them emerges from the darkness; trunks become visible; the undergrowth glistens silver with dew.
James barely notices any of it.
Horse,
Road,
Regulus,
Horse,
Road,
Regulus,
Gradually, the rhythm dissolves. His entire world narrows to the violent twisting of his stomach.
It does not feel like hunger.
Hunger had come and gone days ago — this is sharper, meaner. His body is so weak it protests its very existence.
It takes him far too long to realize Regulus is speaking.
“But the southern road is probably watched,” he says. “We’ll cut through the forest until we reach the river. It’ll be slower, but—”
“Stop.”
It comes out as little more than a rasp. The wind steals the sound away.
James swallows; his throat feels lined with sand.
“Regulus.”
This gets the prince’s attention. He looks over his shoulder. “What?” he asks, concern overtaking his features.
Perhaps James looks even worse than he feels, which is remarkable since he feels like death.
“Stop…” James pauses, gathering enough breath to finish the sentence. “Need to stop.”
Regulus reins in his mare so abruptly that she tosses her head back in protest. James attempts to do the same, and luckily, the stallion obeys.
He is unsure if he dismounts or skitters from the saddle. Either way, the moment his boots touch the ground, his legs buckle beneath him. Gravity raises the earth to meet his face.
James blinks, and Regulus is kneeling beside him. Did he lose consciousness? Or is the prince impossibly fast? A hand grips his shoulder; the other pats him down in search of injuries. James can only stare at those gray eyes, full of fright.
“Where are you hurt?” Regulus demands. “Did someone cut you?”
The storm brews overhead. Spring branches sway gently at the edge of his vision. It would be quite peaceful if Regulus weren’t so agitated.
“Tell me!”
“Food,” James mumbles.
Regulus stares at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence. When none comes, understanding slowly dawns across his face. “Oh.” He rises so abruptly that James almost topples further.
His companion disappears toward the horses, and James lets his head fall back against the damp earth. Somewhere nearby, birds sing. The sound is almost enough to lull him back into unconsciousness before Regulus returns carrying a loaf of bread roughly the size of James’s head.
Now that is true nobility. James could kiss him.
Instead, he snatches the food from Regulus’s hands and tears into it.
Bread. God. Bread.
It is slightly crushed but still soft. It is the best thing he has ever tasted.
James does not chew, too busy devouring. Crumbs spill down the front of his shirt and catch in the stubble growing along his jaw. His hands shake as he tears off another piece and stuffs it into his mouth, heedless of the blood still staining his fingers. The bread seems to vanish the instant it touches his tongue, his body seizing upon every mouthful with greedy desperation.
“Slow down,” Regulus says. It falls on deaf ears. If the prince expected James to have some decorum, he should have brought less appealing bread.
It doesn’t occur to him that the warning is less about etiquette and more about—
James barely manages to turn his head before everything comes back up.
As it happens, there are consequences to swallowing half a loaf in less than a minute, especially after such protracted fasting.
By the time the retching subsides, James is bent double, breathing hard and wishing the earth would open beneath him, if only to spare him from the agonizing lurch of his guts. Not to mention the embarrassment. His ego protests the undignified display before a pretty prince.
James risks a glance upward and finds Regulus staring at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and alarm.
“I told you to slow down.”
James wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles. “In my defense, it was very good bread.”
Regulus frowns deeper. He doesn’t take his eyes off James as he uncaps a waterskin and shoves it into his hands.
“Rinse your mouth.”
James obeys. The water is cool, washing away the sour taste lingering on his tongue. He already feels mildly better when Regulus presses something green into his palm.
“Mint leaves,” he explains, settling back on his heels, still watching him.
The herb is fresh and fragrant, its taste cutting through the nausea until James feels vaguely human again.
“What is wrong with you?” Regulus asks at last.
James huffs a laugh. “In general or…?”
Regulus glares at him. “Prongs.”
The moniker is spoken with such distaste that he finds himself saying, “James. My name is James.”
“Oh.” Regulus blinks, taken aback for a second. James wonders if his surprise stems from the confession or the idea that an infamous pirate has such a common name. “All right, then, James. What is wrong with you?”
James sighs and leans back against the nearest tree trunk. The rough bark presses against his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I told you, I needed food. Your prison wardens must not be very competent because I wasn’t fed at all during my stay.”
Regulus goes completely still.
“Actually.” James frowns. “How long was that? How long was I down there?”
Silence stretches. The prince’s eyes are twin hailstones. A knot forms in James’s stomach, twisting along with the hunger.
“Reg— er, Your Highness?”
“Ten days,” he replies at last, voice barely above a whisper.
James sucks in a breath through his teeth. He had assumed perhaps five days. Six at most. “Ten?”
The prince nods.
Well.
It could have been worse, James supposes. At least he managed to fight his way through the guards before his body gave in.
“I didn’t know they were starving you,” Regulus says, and the utter horror in his tone catches James off guard. “I swear, I didn’t. I would have done something about it.”
And the ridiculous thing is that James believes him. The prince seems genuinely upset at his mistreatment, porcelain face drawn tight with anger.
James waves a dismissive hand and pretends the motion does not nearly cost him his balance. “You did do something about it.”
Regulus shakes his head, ebony curls swaying. “Before that,” he insists. “They delayed your execution to see if Sirius would come for you, and I… I waited for him, too. I didn’t know they would starve a prisoner.”
Not even a pirate? James wants to ask, half-dismayed, half-endeared by such naïveté. However, the prince is so distressed, he only shrugs. “You got me out. That’s what matters.”
Regulus looks unconvinced, though he lets the subject die in favor of feeding James. He tears off a small piece of bread to offer.
“Here, try again,” he orders. “Slower this time.”
It is entirely absurd to be fed small bites of bread by a prince like some sort of royal bird. James supposes that, as a pirate who never shuts up, he would be a parrot. He would laugh if he weren’t so busy chewing.
Regulus supervises him with such vigorous vigilance that it reminds James of Minerva McGonagall, his former governess.
This second attempt proves far more successful than the first. The bread settles in his stomach without incident. James feels less hollow, though it will be a while until he recovers his strength.
Satisfied that James is unlikely to perish in the next minute, Regulus relaxes. “Better?” he asks.
James is now fed enough to recall some manners, so he swallows before answering, “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good,” Regulus says, passing James some more water. He glances upward, where the clouds gather in an ominous mass above the treetops, so dense that dawn has surrendered to their shadows. “Can you stand? We should get moving. Bellatrix’s men are sure to be tracking us, and I want to make it to an inn before the storm starts.”
James stares at him.
There are poor ideas, then there are terrible ideas, and then there is a prince and a pirate walking into a public establishment together.
James opens his mouth to protest, but he does not even know where to begin. Should he explain that half the kingdom is probably looking for them by now? That Regulus remarkably resembles the face stamped onto every coin minted in Slytherin? That they can’t possibly get away with renting a room?
However, because he is still recovering from starvation and incapable of organizing his thoughts, James only asks, “Bellatrix?”
“Yes,” Regulus confirms as he gathers the remainder of their supplies, repacking the waterskin and the surviving quarter loaf of bread before fastening the bags shut. “My cousin.”
James pushes himself upright and follows Regulus toward the horses who have wandered a short distance, contentedly cropping at the dewy grass beneath the trees.
“Why would your cousin’s men try to kill you to get to me?” he asks. James has never been humble a day in his life, but even he can recognize that capturing a common pirate is not worth shedding royal blood. “Did they not recognize their prince?”
“They recognized me. I was their target,” Regulus says, checking the mare’s saddle straps one final time before placing a boot in the stirrup and swinging himself onto her. “Bellatrix wants the throne — her birthright.”
James pauses halfway through mounting his own horse. “Because she’s the king’s eldest child?”
“Yes.”
That is, admittedly, a compelling argument.
James has never given much thought to succession laws, not when they’ve always served him well. However, he can see why Bellatrix would resent the crown passing over an eldest daughter in favor of two younger nephews.
“She can have it,” Regulus adds, gathering the reins. “Neither Sirius nor I want it.”
Most nobles are constantly trying to relieve each other of the head on their shoulders to win a throne; entire wars have been fought over weaker claims than Bellatrix’s. And yet, here sits Regulus, referring to the throne as if it were an unwanted piece of furniture people keep trying to leave in his room.
James is busy biting down a snicker when the prince continues.
“I just wish she weren’t trying to kill me for it.”
Well. That.
James searches for an appropriate response and finds none. Sorry that your cousin wants you dead sounds a little inadequate. It doesn’t matter because Regulus only nudges his mare forward, all too impassive about his ordered assassination.
They guide their horses deeper into the forest. The path narrows between ancient trees; their branches knit together overhead, almost like a tunnel. James inhales the open air to remind himself that he’s free, reveling in the scent of earth and wind.
“Do you know where Sirius is?” Regulus asks, a few minutes into their journey.
The thought of Sirius — alive and well and far away from the machinations of royal succession — sustains James more than the bread did. “I do,” he says, raising his voice above the muttering of thunder. “We have a rendezvous.”
Regulus shoots him a glance over his shoulder, too fast for James to decode the coldness in his eyes. “Where?”
Well, James supposes the little prince has saved his life enough times to be trusted with the information. “Gryffindor — right over the border, near Godric’s Hollow.”
His reaction is subtle, but James notices the stiffening of Regulus’s shoulders, his fingers tightening around the reins. It is not entirely unexpected. The kingdoms have a long and bloody history between them. Regulus won’t be much safer there than inside the court of snakes he’s fled.
Still, he does not complain. “Come on then.” Regulus presses his heels against the mare’s sides, urging her into a faster trot. “We have a long way ahead of us, and we’d do well to outrun the rain.”
• ☼ •
They do not outrun the rain.
It starts as a drizzle, just a few scattered drops slipping through the canopy, but soon the water grows teeth. Its bite is frigid, as if the sky has forgotten they are well into spring.
The downpour dissolves the forest into dripping silhouettes. It gathers in James’s hair, his clothes, his saddle. The narrow trail turns into mud, then into a steady stream as the ground slopes downward. Overhead, branches sway and groan through the quickening wind.
Ahead of him, the mare neighs, ears pinned back as she tosses her head to the side in protest. The stallion is just as dramatic, snorting in open irritation and splashing his hooves through the puddles.
As disgruntled as the horses are, they do not compare to Regulus.
His ebony curls are plastered against his forehead in sodden ringlets. His cloak is darkened by the rain, hanging heavy over his hunched shoulders. He swipes futilely at his face every few seconds, looking utterly miserable.
Regulus looks like a drowned cat.
James, however, does not mind the rain.
It might be colder than he would expect at this time of year, but he has weathered storms much worse than this. James has faced seas that shattered masts and threatened to swallow his ship whole, has clung to slick rigging while waves fought to steal the breath from his lungs. Compared to that, a horse ride in the rain does not qualify as hardship.
James even appreciates being washed clean. Ten days in a dungeon have done no favors to his personal hygiene, and he is glad to be rid of the layers of grime and blood that had adhered to his skin. If his hands weren’t — literally — tied in the reins, he would be scrubbing at his armpits.
Aside from his spectacles, which are a constant nuisance, forcing him to wipe the lenses every few minutes, James is right as rain.
He laughs quietly to himself. He’s so funny. His puns are great.
James only worries once the mud rises to the horses’ knees. Thunder has reached them, roaring loud enough to rattle James’s chest. The spooked animals jump, and the riders are forced to shorten the reins lest they deviate from the path. James runs a steadying hand over the stallion’s neck, but he remains tense beneath him, ears flicking at every sound.
Frightened horses are more dangerous than armed men, often injuring themselves and others in their desperation to flee. The last thing they need is for the animals to get their legs tangled in drowned roots. Bellatrix’s guards are much less fatal than broken necks.
Another flash of lightning illuminates the forest; thunder instantly follows.
Regulus nearly loses control of the mare.
James exhales and wipes rain from his glasses once again. “We need shelter,” he calls over the deafening downpour.
Regulus can’t afford to look back as he argues, “We’ll lose daylight!”
“There’s barely any light as it is!” James insists. “We’ll lose more than a day if the horses break their legs!”
“Fine!” Regulus shouts back. “Look for shelter!”
They continue for another several minutes, climbing into rougher terrain. Rocky outcroppings emerge from the forest floor, and the flood gives way to loose stones that shift beneath the horses’ hooves.
Then, through the curtain of rain, James catches sight of a dark opening nestled into the hillside. A cave. Relief drenches him along with the rain.
“There!” he calls, pointing at the entrance.
Regulus follows the finger, squinting through waterlogged lashes until his gaze fixes on the cave. He does not seem happy about it, but the horses startle at another crack of thunder, and he says, “Fine.”
James immediately turns his stallion toward the hillside, Regulus guiding his mare nigh behind. The animals require little encouragement, both eager to escape the relentless rain.
The cave is far too cramped for such a party, but it’s also dry. James shakes water out of his hair, much to the prince’s distaste, especially when the horses follow suit, spraying droplets everywhere.
“We should start a fire,” James says, looking around the space. The bare stone won’t keep them warm.
Regulus glances toward the deluge outside. “With what?”
James follows his gaze. They have no chance of acquiring kindling there — every scrap of dead wood is thoroughly soaked. He can only hope Regulus packed something flammable enough to warm them. The thick leather bags have kept their provisions dry, and James rummages through the supply of food, a spare change of clothes, and—
“Is this gold?” he asks, dumbfounded.
“Yes,” Regulus confirms without sparing him a glance, too busy feeding apples to his mare. “We might need funds.”
Funds, yes, but not a whole satchel full of gold coins. James is certain every bandit in miles will be able to smell the small treasure and murder them before Bellatrix can say coup. He sighs. That’s a problem for later.
They have nothing that can be responsibly burned, as the clothes can offer much more warmth when worn than kindled. James abandons the futile search to attend to his own horse, who contentedly crunches on several apples. He deserves it for carrying James through rain and mud and attempted murder.
Besides, there is no need to be parsimonious. They have enough gold to buy an orchard.
By the time the animals are appeased, both men are shivering and in desperate need of dry clothes.
Privacy is a rare commodity aboard a pirate ship, even for its captain, so James does not hesitate to strip. The prince’s sensibilities, however, are much more prudish. His face becomes such an alarming shade of mottled red that James fears Regulus is about to pass out.
James snickers but turns his back to continue changing. He can hear Regulus’s feet shuffling as he does the same.
The replacement garments are only dry by comparison. They have absorbed enough moisture from the air to feel damp but are much better than the sodden fabric he peels from his skin.
James raises his shirt to wipe his glasses, and even half-blind as he is without them, he catches Regulus staring at him. There is no embarrassment this time, only horror as he notices James’s protruding ribs.
Ten days without food have left their mark. Most of the lean muscle he’s cultivated throughout the years has disappeared — his bones jut out more than they should, and his stomach looks hollow despite all the bread he’s eaten since the escape.
Regulus does not draw attention to it, not with words at least. He only gathers a small feast of apples, hard cheese, dried meat, and yet more bread, and deposits it beside James.
They eat in silence as the afternoon fades into evening. The temperature steadily drops inside their little hideout. Without a fire, the damp cold is quick to settle in their bones. Regulus stiffens, attempting to conceal his shivering, but soon his teeth are clacking despite the blanket around his shoulders.
The sun has yet to fully set when James notices the faint purple hue in the prince’s lips.
“We should share the blankets,” James says, forcing all traces of teasing out of his voice lest the prince doubt his intentions. “We’ll be warmer that way.”
Regulus draws the fabric tighter around his shoulders. “There is no need. I am fine.”
Oh, and James knows that tone all too well. Sirius shares this mulish stubbornness. He knows he could argue himself bluer than Regulus’s lips and not win this argument, so he does not bother to try.
James crosses the small space to where the prince is curled against the cave wall and drops down beside him.
“What do you think you are doing?” Regulus demands in a squeak that’s not very princely.
“Saving your life,” James replies, burrowing himself under Regulus’s blanket at the same time he layers his own on top.
“Do not be daft. I am not d—”
His words are cut short when James drags him closer to his chest. Regulus’s bony, chilled limbs grow entirely still. It feels like holding a bloody block of ice!
“You saved my life; I won’t let you die from exposure. That’s almost as boring as starvation.”
Regulus huffs, miffed little thing that he is, though James’s warmth smothers all his further objections. It gathers beneath the blankets and slowly seeps into his skin until his body stops shaking.
“See?” James asks against his hair, which still smells of rosewater despite all the rain. Royals. “Not so bad, is it?”
Regulus grumbles something that sounds like, Worse. James chuckles and brings him closer still, hands meeting at the narrow curve of his waist.
“Good night, Regulus.”