A/N: y'all I don't own any of Rainbow Rowell's wonderful written universe, I own but an abundance of hot glue and mediocre plot ideas. Idek where this came from but I wanted to do I did it. Also! Ebb is powerful (as always) and marries them it's magically binding I ya like it :)

Loyal. Plenty of pluck. Either a complete idiot, or totally fearless. (Maybe both). No sense of patience. (Except for when leaning against a wall for hours on end, watching the prince). Rather thick. Good with a sword.

That's why he was chosen for Prince Tryannus' royal guard, at least, that's what the prince himself said (nobody actually calls Basilton "Tyrannus", Simon does it because nobody else calls him that).

The first time he tried to save his life, Tyrannus had been dutifully competing his studies and some thug tried to slip into his private chambers. Simon had no idea how he'd gotten past the other guards, who were brawny and stood stiff like trees on a windless day, but nonetheless, he drew from his scabbard a battered and gleaming sword, and knocked him over his meaty skull with it.

Basilton merely glanced over, and then resumed his papers about politicks (at least, that's what Simon assumed it was. It always seemed to be about politicks). He had a splotch of dripping ink on his forehead, the color of a crow's feather. It was a testament to his imperfection, and matched his hair. Simon thought he looked rather nice like that.

Of course, being the prick that he was, (which isn't treason, for Simon never voiced his opinion), Basil elegantly blotted away the splotch with a handkerchief that had the Pitch coat of arms embroidered on it.

The second time Simon tried to save the prince's life, it was a chilly autumnal day and howling winds echoed through the gloomy stone chambers of Watford Castle. (No, it wasn't a dark and stormy night, in case you're wondering. It was early morning, in fact.)

An assassination attempt, apparently, by one of the neighboring kingdoms. Their leader was always taken for a bit of a laugh, all bark and no bite.

He called himself the Great Mage. His followers called him a genius, revolutionary. Everyone else called him daft, or a madman.

The assassin was just threatening vengeance "on the whole lot of you!" when Simon had swiped his sword clean through the man's thigh and dumped him in the Wavering Wood just beyond the castle.

This time, Basilton appeared a bit shaken, wiping his arched widow's peak with the all-too-familiar handkerchief. He caught Simon gazing and nodded to him, clenching his jaw. His ruddy golden cheeks flushed and he turned away, resuming his lessons on astronomy. Simon resumed his stare towards the wall and ignored the slight palpitations of his heart, for men who loved other men were whispered about, cast out from society, sometimes even killed.

The third time it happened, Simon came trudging back into the castle after dumping the body in the Wood. It had been a sabotage within the court, and the offending nobleman had left what Simon assumed to be a threatening note. He had no idea of the contents, being mostly illiterate.

"M-might you read this, Your Highness?"

He and the prince didn't often speak, having no need, for theirs was a rather formal arrangement of business.

Basilton cautiously took the letter with slender, athletic fingers that were accustomed to holding quills and training weapons, reins of horses and crowns for the reigning heir.

The nimble fingers began a slight tremor as the prince scanned the contents of the note.

"Pray tell, Prince Tyrannus, are you quite alright?"

"I'm well, thank you," said the other, though his reach for the crested handkerchief to wipe his coal-dark brow said otherwise.

Upon seeing Simon's concern, Basilton offered a nugget of information that to the guard was more precious than a thousand nuggets of gold, for the prince's safety was his utmost priority.

"It merely reads that their 'Great Mage' has placed a curse on me. What utter pillock. I suppose you'll keep quiet about this, we shant have all of Watford Castle running about as though I'm dying."

A rich, throaty chuckle arose from the man to play it off as a joke, and the velvety tone of his voice allowed Simon's moles, previously scrunched in concern, to fall out of formation.

By a fortnight, the prince was easily winded and kept sending Simon indecipherable looks. The latter felt a heat coursing through his veins and decided not to interpret these looks.

After three, the prince had a slight tremor in his hands and Simon had begun returning the looks, as well as caring for the ailing man perhaps more than was advisable. After all, he consoled himself, it was his job to protect Basilton, and to ensure his safety.

He not only protected him, but told him stories daily upon his request, for the king did not wish to fall asleep one moment and cease to wake up the following morn. He didn't merely serve him, he cared for him as though Basil were a brother-in-arms, although he wished to care for him as a lover. He didn't merely wish for the king a long, healthy life out of patriotism, he wished and prayed him well because he knew that the world would be bleaker without Basilton in it.

Moons passed, and though Simon noticed the prince getting even weaker, he passed it off as age, or the stress of becoming king (his father had passed the previous winter due to a plague).

However, once Tyrannus could no longer stand to get out of his chambers and perform his duties as king, Simon's concern rose. After he forfeited his courtship with Princess Wellbelove under the reason that he mayn't live long enough to provide an heir, he was rightly afraid for his king.

"Sire," he began one morning, watching Basilton struggle to put on his robes with a look of worry and what was most definitely not attraction, "perhaps you might take leave, and Queen Natasha shall reign for the temporary. If I may speak freely, Your Highness, being your personal guard, my brow is furrowed and my heart despairing for your illness."

"Dear guard," the king returned, his emotions warring plainly across his face, for the curse had left him so weak he could not conceal them, "I...I concur that perhaps you are right. Queen Natasha is clever and witty, with a fine mind for politicks. I've no doubt she will lead the kingdom well 'till I return to the throne."

He seemed defeated, and once again wiped his brow with the silky crimson handkerchief, which Simon was beginning to recognize as a tell of nerves.

"Sire..?"

"Yes?"

"If I might, I may know a remedy for this curse that hath befallen you. My dearest mother Ebeneza, who took me under her wing when I was but a youth, is a castle servant and is knowledgeable in the realm of lore and magic."

He shifted in his steel-toed boots, awaiting a response from the authoritative king still struggling to put on his robes.

"Then you shall accompany me to her residence to find a cure for this pestilence at once."

And so they went, the guard guiding his king through the drab servant's passageways so unlike his own royal quarters. Simon led the way, unaccustomed to walking in front without Basilton's smooth gait to watch, stately robes billowing around him.

A once-tanned hand grasped his shoulder armour in hopes of support, familiar to Simon only in sight. He blushed as he wound his arm around the king's torso, his calloused fingers brushing taut skin where his robes rode up, for even in his weakened state, the king was still quite a sight to behold.

Basilton's breath hitched and the guard glanced at him in concern, slightly mesmerized by pooling grey eyes that were far closer to his own than was befitting for their stature.

"Are you well, sire? Have your lungs betrayed your form?" His voice dipped far lower than he'd wished, and he cursed himself for viewing this quest as anything but an attempt to revive the king's ailing health.

"Splendidly well!" His superior gasped, evidently clutching to his remaining dignity like a bard might cling to their parchment when writing in a frenzy.

In return, Simon continued clutching Basil's side to support him in their peculiar conjoined stroll, embarrassed to find he had been aimlessly caressing his back, perhaps in an attempt to soothe the royal.

After what seemed both tedious hours and a blissful minute, akin to the mysterious way time passes in faerie-land, they reached Ebeneza's quarters.

Knocking upon the splintered wooden door, they found nobody hence, and entered, Simon propping the door open with his broadsword so he could half-carry Basilton in.

Staggering, they lurched over to Ebeneza's straw pallet and collapsed onto it.

"Dear guard, might I call you by your Christian name?"

Simon swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing showily.

"You may."

"Then you shall call me by mine."

"Your High-Basil, what are you doing?"

"Might you allow me to love you, though I should not?"

"If you should return my affections", he added, misreading the shock slapped onto the guard's face.

"You may, for I care for you far more than is befitting to our roles, and have watched countless women bestow their affections upon you, only to wish I was in their place and they the ones in my armour, though I have always wished to keep you safe."

Raw joy filtered across the king's face as Simon watched, and his eyes suddenly seemed rejuvenated and full of life once more.

"I thought I mustn't die without doing this at least once, if I may, that is-may I kiss you?"

"You may", said the other, leaning in, his own cornflower eyes searching the pooling Gray of Basil's, and flickering to chapped, curvy lips.

Quickly, their lips met and tawny curls leaned against shining black tresses, breaths mingling. It was a bittersweet kiss, filled to the brim with heated yearning and comfort, though it was potent with the regret of lost time they could've spent loving one another.

And that was precisely when Ebeneza walked in, startling both men, who sprang apart as though there was a poisonous viper between them.

" I'd always known you two would be drawn to each other, ever since you were wee lads."

She chuckled and let go of the bucket and broom she'd been holding, which harmoniously thumped to the floor.

"You just had that look about you, I could see the fate-strings tying you together."

Her thick brogue, so familiar to Simon, slowed the erratic pulse of his heart, and Basil, taking his cues from the other, relaxed his tensing shoulders, melting under his thick, velvety cape.

"I only wish we had been brought together sooner," murmured Simon, reaching to intertwine the king's cold fingers with his (the chill was a recent development). Basil gratefully grasped them, and Ebb watched the gesture with a knowing smile of her crooked teeth.

The gentle smile turned to open-mouthed astonishment as Basil's hand began to glow, a faint pulsing light coursing through his veins, making him appear some sort of faerie or angel.

"Either the curse is breaking or I'm some sort of otherworldly being and never knew it," said the king, and he threw back his head and laughed as color began to seep into his skin.

It was a beautiful noise, if still a bit hoarse, and Simon thought he'd die content if he could hear it again.

Within minutes, the ink-haired man appeared to be returned to full health, and the only reminder that the illness ever occurred was that he was still clutching Simon's hand, fingers laced loosely with an ease that suggested this would be a familiar pattern in years to come.

Ebb's mind appeared to be racing fast as a spooked horse, and when she had reached the destination of her thoughts, she spoke slowly.

"I..I think...the Mage knew you would marry for politicks, never for love. 'E knew that you would treat your wife well, but... that you'd not love 'er, that you'd never do something as simple as holding 'er hand unless you had to. Maybe you'd kiss 'er, but that don't mean much, do it? An' even if you did, she ain't your true love, so it don't matter. He thought you'd die loveless, but he thought wrong, didn't 'e?"

She grinned once more, pleased with this conclusion.

"So...holding the hand of my true love is what saved me? It was that simple?" Basil laughed giddily, and Simon joined in, for all was well with him now that the king, his love, was well.

Until it wasn't.

They sped through the hallways, tandem footsteps echoing against the castle walls.

She was already at the door when they arrived.

"Giving you trouble, ain't they?"

She muttered, clearly half asleep. It was, after all, very early in the morning when a stereotypical mob with pitchforks and torches that illuminated their very angry, very dirty faces had showed up at the castle's drawbridge.

"Is there anything you can do?"

She shook her mussed curls sadly.

"Anything," the king pressed, "anything at all to make them believe that my husband isn't the devil incarnate, or at the least, possessed?"

Said husband flushed an angry fuchsia and rolled his eyes, clearly as tired and sickened by the drama as Basil was.

"I'm sorry, my darling boys," she lilted, for they were both "her boys" now.

"I'm just not that powerful, I can't change the minds of an entire kingdom."

She laughed without mirth, and it was a sound Simon thought he could go without hearing ever again, for it meant he would lose.

"I just don't understand-I mean of course there will be those who'll protest, there always have been, but we've done nothing but good for the kingdom. The children love Simon, especially. They like him-us, not just because we have the power to help them, but because we're kind to them."

"It's probably the Pope again," said Ebb with a hapless shrug, for it usually was the Pope who incited these riots, deciding to ignore the fact that the primary point of his own religion was to love.

"Ebb-Mum," -his voice cracked when he said this- "are you sure there's nothing that can be done?"

Silent tears dripped down his cheeks like a river running low as he clasped Basil's hand for what just might be the last time, and his husband's despairing face was a mirror to his own.

His mum's eyes glistened with tears unshed and she set her jaw determinedly, letting out a hapless sigh.

"I can't save yeh now, but I can give ye two another chance."

"What do you mean by that?" Said Simon, visibly confused, though his eyes held the sparkle of hope that is common in those who have all but lost and just learnt they might have a chance.

"The spell will vanish you and most of your memory now, but it'll bring your souls back when it's meant to be and you'll get another chance at 'happy ever after'. Pretty, innit?"

"I'll...I'll still be me, won't I?" Basil wondered, glancing between Ebb and his husband, wonder scattered amidst the pain surrounding him.

"Of a sort, you won't be in the same circumstances, but what makes 'you' you'll still be there. And so will he, I've seen this spell bring people back with mine own eyes."

"I'm willing if you are", said the guard to his beloved.

"I'd rather spend another lifetime with you in bliss and lose our lives now then spend the next few years in torture, but I'd be happy as long as you were by my side", replied the king.

"Either way, I wouldn't want to spend a moment without you", Simon murmured, and pulled Basil to him as Ebb sang the incantation, sharing a final kiss before they disintegrated in a flash of light.

Hundreds of years later, the story begins anew-the spell lifting with a final tug of fate's threads, their souls cast into another womb.

They meet at eleven, stumbling towards each other across a sunny September field, tugged together by a force stronger than the Crucible which cast it, for they've always been pulled to each other, and will choose their love time and time over.

The emaciated boy with caramel coils eagerly holds out a freckled hand, and the posh one takes it, only to reject it a moment later.

Something about him feels familiar, but Basil reckons it's probably just that he's meeting Simon Snow. Chosen One. The Mage's Heir.

There's something about a guard and a prince, veiled affectionate glances, mobs and pretty blue eyes, but it's hazy and fades the moment he blinks.

Ebb watches them from the hilltop and smiles.