For a second, Osmond’s world tilts heavily. A fleeting, impossible thought of the prince really meaning those honeyed words—"a wild, beautiful thing”—crosses his mind for only a second before he remembers himself. The fey truly are cruel.

“Exaggeration is not a lie,” he recites from his lessons. “You pull the truth, twisting it to your needs,” He spits, nearly boiling with the rage of being made a fool of yet again by this fairy. Osmond knows how fairies work, and he knows how this trick works as well. The prince describes a flower that he likes, using the nickname to imply all the same things about Osmond. A petty trick.

He grabs ahold of the prince’s tacky yellow coat, bringing him even closer so he can better threaten the arrogant fey. “I might not be a real feyer, but I received all the same training. Do not take me for a fool.”

The Unseelie smiles, and it is more like the smile Osmond remembers, teeth a tad too sharp and filled with the unbridled mischievous nature of fey instead of smoothed by the false guise of human kindness. He leans in even closer, so they are breathing the same air. “Well, if we are exchanging names-,”

The nerve of this fairy to ever even suggest Osmond would give him his true name—

“Woah there, lovebirds!”

Osmond recoils from the prince, startled by the sudden yell. But he only gets half a foot away, his own hands anchoring him to the fairy, from where he’s fisted the tacky yellow jacket. He glances up at the flustered expression of a templar. “Don’t go giving us a show for free.”

‘A show?’ Osmond repeats in his head. Were the templars looking forward to them fighting? Were they like feyers and enjoyed sparing with each other any chance they got?

“I get you guys are happy and all,” another templar chuckles, “but you should probably keep your sweet nothings to yourselves.”

‘”Sweet nothings?!”’ Osmond thinks, and it’s an almost violent realization as the pieces slot into place. ‘They think we were fucking flirting?!’

Well, considering the templars believe the two of them to be a couple (thanks to the little game the fairy prince seemed so keen on playing), having the templars believe they were shamelessly flirting is better than them suspecting a fairy in their group.

“Save it for your bedroom boys!” another shouts.

“Unless you do want to give us a show?!” another suggests, and a round of laughter echoes around them.

Osmond shifts, not enjoying the sudden attention or way the templars are looking at them now.

One in particular, the older man riding beside the kid, sends them a leer as he yells, “Why don’t you prove you’re lovers! Give him a kiss, dearest!”

Osmond doesn’t stop the glare he sends the templar who just laughs and sends him a wink. ‘Fucking creep,’ Osmond thinks to himself with distaste.

He risks a glance behind him, trying to gauge how he should respond to the sudden taunts.

Osmond expects to see the fairy’s eyes alight with a mischievous glitter or to see him glaring at the templars for suggesting such a ridiculous thing so boldly, but instead, the prince looks painfully human, the magical transformation not looking out of place as the royal fey furrows his brow, clearly uncertain and confused by the teasing catcalls.

‘By Asgard!’ Osmond thinks with a mix of shock and dawning horror, ‘He doesn’t get what they are saying!’

It never even occurred to Osmond that the fey prince wouldn't understand the crude jeers. Seems there’s something even the great fey don’t know.

“Guys, just leave them alone. You’re freaking out the poor, sick kid--,” one templar tries to intervene before his fellow squad mates boo loudly.

“Oh, come on, Eric!” another templar shouts. “We were just getting to the good bit!”

“Yeah!” Captain Russell joins in, sending Osmond a smug glare, “Let the little lover birds prove it. Give us a kiss, show us how much you love each other!” and her gaze gets a fraction sharper, “Only humans and the gods can fall in love, after all, so prove your human!”

‘Oh no,’ Osmond thinks, glancing back up at the prince, but he continues to look just as confused as before, if not a bit offended. Osmond’s not sure why the templars believe only humans and the gods can feel love. It must be from some scripture or something, he guesses, but they do seem convinced that a kiss would prove they’re human.

Osmond could try to brush this all under the rug, but he can feel the commander’s eyes watching them. He’s not fully convinced something isn’t going on. ‘Do I really have to fucking do this?!’ Osmond thinks, only just minorly hysterical.

Once more, he ponders just leaving these assholes to their fate, but…

He glances over at the leering templar, eyes settling on the mop of red-orange hair and bright blue eyes. That boy doesn’t deserve to die today. And the templars were right to be wary—there’s a fucking Wild Hunt walking with them!

“Just one little kiss!” another templar encourages.

“Sir Dwent, I don’t think—” the kid tries to intervene, looking helplessly up at his mentor, who turns to scowl at the kid, effectively silencing him.

‘May the Valkyries and the great All-Father have mercy on my soul,’ Osmond thinks with a groan, glancing once more back at the fairy prince, who seems to be aware he doesn’t like whatever the templars are suggesting but doesn’t know exactly why. It's almost cute in a way, how utterly clueless the big, scary Unseelie prince looks now.

‘Let's just think of it as payback for the “darling” bit,’ Osmond thinks to himself, trying to focus on his still-burning rage for the Unseelie who tried to destroy his home and kill his little sister. It only helps a little to squish the weird guilt starting to bloom in Osmond’s chest. ‘It’s just petty revenge. No one's lives are hanging in the balance of how good of an actor I can be.’

Shockingly, that little pep talk doesn’t really help. But, Osmond is out of options here, and the templars are starting to give them odd looks, clearly able to catch on the prince’s confusion and Osmond's clear distaste of the idea. He needs to act fast.

“Templars,” the Commander chides, “please stop teasing our guests.” Osmond can hear the “but” coming as the older templar turns, eyes sharp in the firelight, “And guests, I hope you can understand their caution, meeting two such… eccentric guests has us a bit wary.”

“If you wouldn’t mind…” and the templar commander turns to give them his full attention, “some more proof would settle our thoughts.”

Which was polite speech for: “If you don’t fucking prove you’re human right now, we’ll kill you.”

Osmond smiles widely, shamelessly reaching up and looping his arms around the fairy’s shoulders. He ignores the sudden spike in cold as the fairy fumbles, letting go of the reigns to place his own hands on Osmond’s elbows. Touch light as a feather, the prince clearly unsure of what he’s supposed to do.

‘All bark and no bite,’ Osmond snickers in his own thoughts, focusing all his attention on the fairy and not the consequences of this little stunt should he fail, ‘Don’t talk the talk of lovers if you don’t have real-world experience, fairy prince.’ Osmond doesn’t have much experience of his own, but he snuck off with enough of the servants and read enough of the interestingly titled romance books Molle would smuggle him to know the basics.

His grin is so big his cheeks hurt. It’s far easier to drown in the thoughts of petty revenge than to really think about what he’s actually doing. Letting himself relish in his one tiny victory, enjoying the bewildered expression gracing the prince’s face as for once the fey royal is knocked off his high horse.

“Sorry about the distraction, sir,” Osmond laughs, putting on a clearly fake act of being chastised, making a show of taking his hands off the fairy’s shoulders. The prince lets Osmond back up, still trying to puzzle what he’s up to, before Osmond moves back in, looping an arm around the fairy’s waist and leaning in close enough they share the same air.

“You know how it is,” Osmond continues, glancing over at the wide-blown eyes of the prince, enjoying the feeling of finally being the one in control of their weird song and dance. He leans in for the final blow, placing a quick kiss to the fairy’s cheek. “It’s so hard to resist your sweetheart’s temptations sometimes.”

The templars burst into laughter all around them. And a few loud whistles of surprise and approval echo into the night. Clearly, their audience enjoyed the show.

‘It worked! They believed it!’ Osmond thinks to himself, ‘Seems those trashy novels were good for something after all.’

Osmond gets to enjoy the giddy rush of one-upping the prince in this stupid game of lovers for all about of two seconds before he feels the sharp buzz of fey magic burn into his skin. He recoils back from the royal with a hiss, the iron in his blood suddenly flaring with heat.

“What the Hel?” Osmond asks in a rushed whisper, forcing himself closer to the burning buzz of fey magic pouring out of the prince.

He grabs a fistful of the tacky yellow jacket and pulls the fairy down so they are mostly level, using the still echoing laughter of the templars to hide his whispered snarl, “You were the one who started this game!” He reminds, glaring up at eyes that are noticeably more gold than before, “Don’t play lovers if you plan to freak out at me playing along.”

The prince’s confusion has been replaced with a clear distaste, “Do not presume you can touch me as you please,” he says, reaching up and pulling Osmond’s hands from his jacket, his touch ice cold. “And, I might not know what you were implying, but I do not enjoy being a joke false Iron-Blood.”

‘No mocking “Dandelion” this time? Seems the prince really is more than just annoyed.’

Osmond pulls back slowly, sizing up the royal fey. His frown is tight, eyes more golden than they should be, a lingering sharp temperature drop that has Osmond shivering, and the still hovering itch of fairy magic dusting over them—a warning. If Osmond pushes any more, the fairy will act. At the back of Osmond’s mind, he’s aware of dozens of eyes, more than just the templars escorting them. There is not just one fey here, and it’s not just Osmond’s own life being wagered in the prince’s twisted game.

“Won’t happen again, your highness,” he appeases, even as he spits the words and turns away from his saddle partner.

‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ He questions himself, glaring down at the bones littering the ground of the Plague Fields. ‘I should have just let the Wild Hunt kill the stupid templars.’