Chapter Text
When Castiel comes of age, he does so as an alpha and, therefore, is immediately taken on as a squire to his third-cousin Prince Michael. It is a great honor, and one only afforded to him by his other cousins presenting as betas. He maintains weapons, honing both the blades and his skills with them. He rides hard and long, his days stretching even beyond those of Prince Michael; after all, someone must cook breakfast before sunrise and clean dinner’s dishes after dusk.
Come the civil war, Castiel enters knighthood early and superbly. He becomes a captain. A commander. Had the war raged long enough, none doubt his eventual rise to general. Instead, with an uneasy stalemate between Lucifer and King Michael, Raphael’s meddling to the east, and Prince Gabriel’s abrupt abdication, Castiel finds himself thrust into yet another role: that of a fledgling diplomat.
This is a problem.
“Castiel, we are in need of alliances,” King Michael reminds him. “You will join the scenting tour.”
Back bowed, head lowered, Castiel trains his eyes on the base of King Michael’s throne. “My king, you know that this, I cannot do.”
“I know this, you must do,” King Michael replies. “For what reason would you disobey me?”
Castiel valiantly struggles to think of a convincing one.
I have no wish to mate.
I have no wish to mate for you.
This one choice is mine.
Aloud, he says none of this. Instead, he commits treason, and lies to to his king:
“My heart is already claimed,” Castiel declares. “I could scent all the world and remain unswayed.”
King Michael rises from his throne. “Walk with me,” he decrees, and Castiel follows him away from the hushed whispers of the throne room, a thousand rumors birthed with his one utterance. They enter the private hall behind the throne.
“Tell me the name of this omega,” King Michael commands.
Absolutely no one comes to mind.
“Surely,” Castiel begins, and swallows. “Surely you recall… before the war… when we traveled abroad.”
Arms folded, wrists glinting with as much gold as his furrowed brow, Michael waits.
“The omega was young, with parents yet to allow courtship or claiming,” Castiel continues. “Regardless, I have never seen nor smelled another to sway me away. I swore to wait. I am still waiting.”
“It has been a decade since we traveled,” King Michael says.
“The memory remains.”
“The omega was so striking, so young?”
“I was young as well,” Castiel reminds him.
“If you are still waiting, the omega is unmated.”
To disagree would be dangerous at this point. “Yes.”
“You are… twenty-nine.”
“...Yes.”
“And you claim this omega—already manifested as an omega ten years ago or more—is yet unmated.”
Belatedly, it occurs to Castiel that this was a very bad lie.
“Yes,” he says anyway.
King Michael studies Castiel’s face long and hard. Then, with a nod, he snaps his fingers, pointing to Castiel. “The Winchester omega.”
“Yes,” Castiel says with no real recollection of who that is.
“His father refuses to have the omega mate until his younger alpha heir is mated,” King Michael says, nodding to himself.
“Such is often the way,” Castiel agrees.
“This is the one you would have?”
Castiel nods.
King Michael gazes into the middle distance, consulting himself. At last, he nods. “There would indeed be no use in sending you upon the scenting tour.”
“I thank you, my king.”
A heavy hand grips Castiel by the shoulder, a hand still rough from sword and lance despite the pen-soft demands of ruling. “I will look into the matter. We will put you forward for when the time comes.”
In the long blankness of Castiel’s mind, there are no words to be found.
King Michael nods at him. “Study their traditions. The territory may be small, but it is not unknown for the caliber of its warriors.”
“Yes, my king,” Castiel’s mouth says for him.
From that day on, Castiel withstands the gifts of textbooks and travel logs. He navigates an extremely confusing period of determining whether it is Samuel or Dean Winchester who he is meant to be pledged to. He endures the relayed snatches of poetry written about his alleged love but does, at least, learn that the omega is Dean.
He learns many things, in fact. That the territory is one of contradictions, of fierce independence and fiercer loyalty. That the Winchester brothers were both raised in the expectation of presenting as alpha. That the omega refused to abandon his martial training after presenting.
This last finally jogs Castiel’s memory: he had been surprised by the omega on the training grounds during their visit. He had only seen the boy from a distance, but the deference of those around him had proclaimed the omega for what he was.
The boy’s form had been good despite the youth of his face. Barely presented at thirteen, but very steady for his age, training with older squires, young alphas of sixteen or more.
Had he been beautiful? No, of course not. No one is beautiful at thirteen, at such a shifting, twisting year of mismatched parts. But despite his changing body and wandering center of gravity, the omega had certainly proven his place on the field. Castiel had seen him only once after this: at the far side of the high table, opposite from where Castiel waited upon King Michael.
The boy would be grown now, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four. The alpha brother may yet be twenty, and some alphas remain unmated for a very long time, political pressure or not. Should the brother be picky enough, Castiel might remain unconcerned by this matter for a decade, long enough for much to change. It’s a thin hope, but still a hope.
Only two years later, Samuel Winchester takes a mate. King Michael hands Castiel the proclamation himself, a courtesy letter inviting members of their court to attend their neighbor’s festivities.
Fortunately, Lucifer strikes at their borders before the traveling party can depart, and Castiel is far too busy joining the skirmish to visit his long awaited love. Castiel proves instrumental in rescuing the targets of Lucifer’s ire: a fleeing omega and her child of eight, Lucifer’s own heir.
Both Kelly and Jack take to Castiel immediately, a reaction that may have something to do with a number of dead bounty hunters and a solemn promise that neither omega nor boy would be bargained back to Lucifer. Castiel sends both to the capital with a message to Michael that to flaunt the safety of the pair would do much to infuriate their enemy. Soon, another messenger returns, granting the child to Castiel as his page, if only within the capital.
Six months of furtive attacks and double-crossing spies follow, capped by eight months of wariness on two borders. Castiel’s main contact crosses too far, and he learns only a month after the fact that Crowley has been slain.
To make matters worse, Samuel Winchester has a child. An heir apparent.
Castiel learns of this in his post in a border town. The letter comes from King Michael himself, and commands Castiel to prepare to return to the capital within the month. With the war at a standstill, Castiel must train for the inevitable tournament to win his omega. Such is the Winchester way.
As commanded, Castiel returns to the capital and trains, much to Jack’s delight and his own private fury. Jousting has never been his strong suit. Spears may fit well the hands of their king, but Castiel is a master of sword and buckler. Without the weight of experience to bolster his prowess, he merely has the weight of years, thirty-three of them now. Thus, Castiel prepares, and he prepares to lose. How best should he wear his grief? With resignation? With anger? Which response will convince King Michael to accept Castiel swearing off courtship in all its forms?
Then comes the formal announcement.
Rather than the traditional joust, Dean Winchester has selected instead a melee. The omega, famed for his emerald eyes and cupid’s bow lips, has such a surfeit of suitors that the only efficient means of deciding among them is battle.
Castiel’s training intensifies, and it is at last suitable for the rocky terrain of their northern border to Lucifer’s territory, and even some of Raphael’s. He fights on foot, armed as best suits him, armored as best fits him, and he trains with a minimum of two partners. These, he plays off each other: one foe permanently kept in the middle, the nearest attacker serving as a shield.
Three is far harder, and four is overwhelming without dirty tactics or feigned retreat. With enough space to run, Castiel can draw them into a line, but soon his training partners learn. They line up the other way, approaching not as a spear to be knocked aside but as a wall to be smashed against.
Castiel trains all the same. Harder. Fiercer. Each day that passes with young Jack tending to his armor is another day Castiel learns yet more atrocities the boy has witnessed from his father. When Castiel is sent back once more upon the field, he will justify his current absence a hundredfold.
To make matters worse, word reaches their ears via spies and common rumors alike, that a number of Lucifer’s noble alphas are to enter the melee as well. The jab at Castiel is obvious and poorly aimed, but the attack on public morale is clear. Castiel cannot allow himself to fall to Lucifer’s alphas upon any field, and King Michael agrees: Castiel is assigned both Hannah and Balthazar to aid him in the melee. Each technically fight for themselves, as per the engagement’s rules, but they will be far from the first to prepare an alliance well in advance.
Hannah takes her appointment seriously, Balthazar with immense rolling of the eyes where King Michael cannot see, and Castiel’s training sessions evolve accordingly. Hannah and Balthazar swap roles, each attacking and defending Castiel, each forever thwarted by the other.
As the melee approaches, so too does Castiel’s thirty-fourth birthday. It comes and goes upon the training ground, the culmination of another year spent in sweat and the rejoicing scream of his muscles transcending his body.
He is given scant time to rest from the two months of training, and then he is sent out to Winchester. By Michael’s command, Castiel is accompanied by a far larger, showier escort than is truly necessary, but he cannot bring himself to object: much of the guard is to protect Jack. Eager to travel to a new land, Jack wholeheartedly embraces his role of squire despite it being awarded four years early. He is a child of ten, unpresented and small, but he knows his duties well. Still, he is young enough to fall into his role too easily, quick to show to the world his adoration of the alpha who saved him from his father, and heedless of how this might bind him to King Michael.
Castiel attempts to caution the boy, but all his too-young squire wishes to speak about is the anticipation of seeing Castiel’s love in person. Jack has even spent his own coin to purchase what should have been a thoughtful gift, a small printed portrait of Prince Dean. It’s a mass-produced trinket, a portrait of omega beauty and therefore Winchester pride, but the quality is nearly as fine as the one sent with the announcement of the melee. This one is smaller, and set into a leather case for travel.
Castiel keeps the portrait book close, prizing it for the absolute pride on Jack’s face each time his squire sees it. For though Castiel trusts Jack as much as anyone might responsibly trust a child, he cannot correct the boy. He hasn’t even corrected Hannah, and his one attempt to inform Balthazar had only given rise to more teasing, that of Castiel being in stammering denial. And thus, his secret is entirely his own, unfit to be believed by anyone.
After all, with nearly five years of his facade, this lie of love is public knowledge. As his party departs, there are songs and cheering, all centered upon one refrain:
Their alphas fight to no avail,
Our champion shall soon prevail
Sir Castiel will claim his prize,
Omega of fair emerald eyes!
It’s completely mortifying.
Jack hums the tune their entire journey, and, naturally, Balthazar even sings along.