History
ARDOR WOULD LATER wonder if he’d dreamed that first garden ceremony.
He arrived early and found his consort pacing nervously among the lilies.
The simple breeding bed set up among the flowers was infinitely more inviting than the overwrought one in the court.
The servants had not been given enough time to prepare anything overly grand, and a large mattress fitted with cotton sheets was narrowly fit between clusters of white and yellow flowers with dark green leaves.
The air was filled with the calming buzz of bees and the chirps of birds, rather than the whispers of nobles and diplomats.
Attendance was thankfully sparse. The royal guards, the king’s advisers, Jain, and Leya were in attendance.
Leya murmured encouragement as she bustled about, drawing Ardor’s silky hair back from his shoulders.
The consort turned his back as Ardor slipped between the sheets and shrugged out of his silk robe.
Ardor studied his consort’s back as he disrobed.
His face was identical to the king’s, but his body was certainly more rugged than the form Ardor had briefly glimpsed in the dark.
Muscles flexed as the royal silk fell away.
He had a tight backside and powerful thighs, but his upper body was of average fitness.
Not a laborer, then. But he certainly got plenty of exercise.
When the consort approached the bed, he was already hard. He was of average size, but he was achingly aroused, his cock thick and eager. His erection bobbed as he climbed onto the bed, and the mattress sank down slightly with his weight.
For the second time, Ardor’s long dormant bloom stirred as his consort approached. He should have been relieved, pleased even, but it felt like a betrayal. After these long months, why did his cursed bloom choose now to awaken? Why now, for this impostor?
The consort remained at Ardor’s feet, his fingers tight in the soft sheets.
His breathing was slow and measured, his eyes averted.
He was a man on the edge of his control.
Over the past few months, Ardor had taken for granted that he could elicit such a reaction, but he was a Flower.
Most people found him desirable, even irresistible.
Xandar had been an unusual exception, not the rule.
“Your Majesty, is something wrong?” Ardor asked.
“May I approach?” his consort whispered, still clenching the sheets.
Again, Ardor’s bloom pulsed, a low simmer in his stomach. “Yes.”
His consort slowly crawled toward him, his head bowed so low his nose brushed Ardor’s leg through the sheets. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Ardor’s scent.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” his consort whispered, crawling over him. “I dream of you. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything.”
The simmering pulse in Ardor’s stomach grew hotter. “I only want one thing from you, and you know what it is,” Ardor whispered back. “Come in your hand.”
His consort fumbled for his cock, his breath hissing between his teeth as he took himself in hand. After three quick strokes his hips jerked and he came. A few drops of royal cum dotted the sheets, but he caught most of it in his palm as commanded.
“May I touch you?” his consort breathed. “May I help? Please...”
“No,” Ardor said evenly. “Hold out your hand.”
His consort shuddered, his cock twitching as more seed dribbled into his palm. When he mastered himself, he held out his cupped hand. Ardor dipped his fingers into the pearly white gathered there and slipped his hand beneath the sheet.
His consort made a helpless, horny noise that Ardor tried to ignore as he slipped two slick fingers into the narrow opening of his pulsing, eager flower. His flower was warmer and more welcoming than it had ever been; his fingers sank well and deep.
He was momentarily startled by the strange sensation of his own body gently pulsing against his fingers.
Even in its broken state, his flower sought to draw anything that penetrated it inward.
His body was alien to him in that moment.
His flower milked his fingers of its own accord, greedy for seed, and pleasure slithered up his spine.
He quickly withdrew his hand.
He repeated the process twice more, and each time his hand dipped below the sheet, his consort’s eyes remained there, as if he might somehow see that starved, greedy flower through the fabric. A flush spread quick and hot over Ardor’s body.
For a fleeting moment, he wanted to draw the sheets back and reward that heated gaze.
The urge quickly passed as reason took hold.
He was getting caught up in his consort’s besottment.
If this man saw his ruined bloom, his attraction would vanish, and breeding would become a grueling and humiliating chore once more.
Better to let him fantasize about whatever he thought lay beneath those sheets.
“Please,” his consort whispered. “I ache for you. Your beauty haunts me. I want to get to know you. Dine with me. I want to know everything you’ll tell me.”
Ardor’s face burned hotter still. “No,” he said, taking a final swipe at the royal cum offered in his consort’s trembling cupped hand. “I have what I need. You may leave.”
“Please,” his consort breathed, and Ardor realized his mistake. The impostor craved orders. Ardor hadn’t given a direct command.
“Beg all you want, it won’t change anything. You said you’d do anything? Prove it. Leave.”
His consort unlatched his hand from the sheets and backed off the bed, his face low. He kept his distance this time, and did not caress Ardor through the sheets. When he rose, an attendant quickly wiped his hand clean while another draped his robe around his shoulders.
“Eminence,” his consort said, bowing. “Send word if I may ever be of service.” And with that, he left.
Ardor slipped his fingers into his flower a final time, now accustomed to the gentle pulse of the bloom’s contractions.
It was a weak echo of the contractions of a proper flower, no doubt.
He kept the sheet over his lap as he waited for the petals to withdraw.
When they had, he ran a finger along the crooked, pursed seam to confirm his bloom was closed before he gathered his robe around himself and rose.
“Your Eminence,” Leya said, her eyes bright as she hurried to his side.
“The king seems so very taken with you!” After several months of observation, he was certain Leya was not a spy.
The steadfast little acolyte spoke openly of her childhood in Amar.
The Lady of the Hallowed Halls was deeply devoted to Ruth and her children, and Leya exemplified her teachings.
She prayed to Ruth five times a day, and washed her scarred left eye with the same fragrant waters used to anoint Ardor’s body every morning and evening.
She was a true believer, and living proof of the power of religious propaganda.
The religion that secured and protected Flowers had determined every aspect of her life.
It was impossible not to like her. Flowers were only allowed to make friends with other Flowers, but the little acolyte veered dangerously close to “friend” in his internal categorization.
She didn’t know about the switch. Of that he was certain. The impostor easily fooled those who were not intimate with Xandar, and the king had few intimates. Ardor might very well be the only person who could tell the difference.
“Your Eminence,” Jain said, bowing. “Well done.”
As the three of them walked to the clinic, Leya chirped excitedly beside him, overcome by these fresh developments.
“I knew it was only a matter of time, Your Eminence. The king simply had to open his eyes and see you properly, and so he has! Surely this makes things easier, doesn’t it?” Her single brown eye was hopeful.
Ardor smiled, quick to reassure. He did not like to see her worry, and this past month particularly, she had worried a lot. “Yes. It does.”
* * *
ARDOR SAT ON the examination table as he always did, but this time he studied his champion as she peered into the microscope. She nodded, pleased. “It’s only a matter of time now, Eminence.”
“Something has changed.” He observed her expression as she checked another slide. “I know it sounds incredible, but that man isn’t the king.”
Jain looked up. “What are you talking about?”
“He looks like the king. Uncannily so. But he doesn’t act like Xandar. There’s a softness to him. An eagerness, a willingness to yield. And the change in motility... it coincides with when he began acting differently.”
Jain wet her lip. It was an old mannerism. She was uneasy. “But—why would they replace him?”
“At first I thought it might be a trap, and they meant to get me pregnant by an outsider so they could claim breach of contract. But... no. They’re too desperate for heirs. They’ve replaced the king with someone who can impregnate me. They intend to pass the child off as Xandar’s.”
“Eminence, are you seriously suggesting the king was replaced by a doppelg?nger?” Jain asked, a little desperately.
“Humor me,” he murmured, undeterred by how crazy it all sounded. “Kysanian surgical technology isn’t advanced enough to accomplish this. The resemblance must be familial. Perhaps a sibling or a cousin?”
Jain turned away, clearing away the slides.
“The simplest explanation is often the best. The king had a long-overdue change of heart. His advisers finally talked some sense into him, and he’s taking their good advice.
Just yesterday, Lord Patel asked after you.
He was even more keenly interested in your health and disposition than usual.
I think he is excited about the positive direction. We all are.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Ardor said, watching as the tension in his champion’s back and shoulders slowly relaxed. “I suppose I’m so accustomed to being unwanted, when someone shows interest, I’m naturally suspicious.”