FIC - "The Summer King"

BKDKBK | faerie/fantasy AU

How a mortal boy saved a faerie king.

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THE SUMMER KING

The boy within the ice was unearthly, perfectly preserved in deathless sleep.

The cold leeched his skin of color but did little to distort his features—the wings of his brows, a sharp jaw, the divet of pale lips. His hair was a sunburst, woven through a crown of daisies and goldenrod, buttercups and daylilies. A red cloak billowed at his back.

Framed by thorny brambles, the boy was beautiful like a painting.

All around, frost feathered over wildflowers and brown grass, leaving untouched only a single spot of brilliant color. At the base of the boy’s prison grew a sun dahlia—vivid orange petals that faded to yellow, fanning around a tightly furled center so that it resembled an explosion of flame and sunlight.

Izuku’s eyes opened.

Rather than a boy bound in ice, the wooden beams of his bedroom greeted him. For long minutes, he replayed the dream, as he’d done hundreds of times before. By now, he could sketch the subject of said dreams by heart—every strand of flaxen hair, every petal of his crown, every dip and curve of muscle. He could hear that rough, low voice in his head. Always urgent. Always calling for him.

But tonight, there’d been a notable change—the sun dahlia, which had withstood the frost. He reached for the plain silver locket around his neck, fingers closing around it and the treasure he kept within.

The last time he’d seen a sun dahlia was the summer he turned fifteen. A whole bouquet’s worth of them, in full bloom, had wreathed Kacchan’s golden head.

A shout from outside pulled him from his thoughts. He kicked off his blanket, shivering at the unexpected chill. Peering through his window, he spotted his mother exclaiming over their garden. Izuku’s stomach sank.

Frost glazed every exposed surface. Inko was crouched between rows of squash, examining the damage. Washing up quickly, Izuku was out the door before he’d finished buttoning his vest.

“How bad?” he asked, stepping over cabbages to reach his mother.

She cast him a weary smile. “We’ll make do for now.” Her voice softened so that she seemed to speak only to herself. “But for how much longer… It gets worse every year.”

They discussed plans to protect the surviving crops against another freeze, and then Izuku headed for his workshop. The little hut sat at the edge of the woods. Bushels of foraged plants and roots awaited him there, ready to be dried or grinded or extracted of oil—medicines enough to last their village through the winter.

It wasn’t nearly the quantity he’d gathered in previous years.

The summer he turned fifteen, winter had come early. A biting wind brought an ice storm from the northern mountains that encased everything in its path within a shell of solid ice. Nearly everyone had lost their late summer crops and several livestock.

In the three years since, they’d seen scorching days that shriveled grass and sent a dozen villagers to Izuku’s workshop with heat sickness, as well as relentless rain that drowned their fields and flooded homes. Izuku didn’t know how much more they could endure.

He was grinding dried herbs into a fine powder when a knock sounded. A moment later, his door opened to reveal large brown eyes and rosy cheeks. 

“What a morning,” Ochako said in greeting. She sounded a little breathless, likely from rushing all the way here, and her usual cheer was subdued. “I wish I could stay to chat, but Tsuyu’s sister slept with her window open and woke with a chill. Could I get something for fever please?”

“Of course,” he said, concerned as he moved to the shelves where he stored his medicines. This would likely not be the only incident of fever today.

“I hope the frost passes quickly. The Winter Queen must be in a mood,” Ochako said.

Izuku frowned. He’d heard the stories, of course—tales of Summer fey held as thralls of Winter. Wisewomen told of how the Summer King had scorned the Winter Queen’s love and was imprisoned in retribution. Izuku didn’t put much stock in such tales, except…

They always brought to mind sun-bleached hair and eyes like rose petals. Kacchan had been a boy of light and heat who’d appeared one sweltering day beneath the shade of a towering oak. He was like a mirage made real, and Izuku had been instantly enthralled.

They spent that summer, and several more after, exploring the woods, learning the language of the wilderness to hunt game and identify every herb, weed, and flower. They fought and played and ate wild raspberries until their lips were stained the color of wine and bruises.

Then the summer Izuku turned fifteen, Kacchan disappeared and winter came early.

Despite the passage of time, the memories were never far from his thoughts even now. He measured the appropriate herbs into a small paper sachet, which he then secured with a short length of twine.

As he turned from his workbench, he found Ochako withdrawing something from her satchel. He startled, the bundle of herbs slipping from his fingers.

“Ah! Sorry!” He quickly bent to retrieve it, but his gaze remained on the sun dahlia cupped in Ochako’s palm. “W-where did you…?”

Her demeanor briefly brightened. “Isn’t it wonderful? I couldn’t believe it either. I mean to dry it and make a charm.”

Izuku stared at those familiar petals that, even wilted, were still vivid as flame. A rushing sound filled his ears. Part of him had always wondered if his dreams were more than just fantasies conjured by his broken heart—anything to explain Kacchan’s absence. To, however ineptly, ease the ache of rejection.

Sun dahlias were said to only bloom where the Summer King had shed blood, making them scarce and powerful talismans, if one believed in such things. Inko had taught him to believe in what he could accomplish with hard work and his own two hands, so the idea of charms and talismans had always seemed a bit silly… And yet.

Izuku had dreamed of a sun dahlia, and here it was, the first in three years.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe his heart had never stopped searching for red eyes and a sharp grin.

Or maybe the only explanation for the inexplicable was something just as unlikely.

By the time Izuku cleared his work bench that afternoon, he had decided.

+++

The huge oak was old enough that its gnarled branches dipped and sprawled and tunnelled into a veritable labyrinth. The frost had left no lingering damage, and the mossy bark was vibrant with dainty blue mushrooms.

Izuku settled at the base of the trunk, a familiar ache blooming beneath his ribs. He’d avoided this part of the woods for a long time… once he’d accepted that Kacchan wasn’t coming back.

Because this wasn’t simply where they first met—this was also where Kacchan had murmured a secret against his lips and slid an impossible ring of golden thread and woven petals onto his finger.

The hurt was a wound that never healed quite right, one that ached during long nights and kept him from his bed. Izuku tugged on the chain around his neck and opened the locket. A band of fiery orange petals long since dried dropped into his palm. For the first time in years, Izuku placed the ring on his finger.

Swallowing tightly, Izuku closed his hand into a fist and pressed it to his chest.

His eyes shut. “Okay, Kacchan,” he said, feeling ridiculous but only because of how hopeful he felt, even after all this time. “I’m listening. Please. Tell me how to find you.”

That night, as he slept within the cradle of the oak's ancient branches, he dreamed of ice and brambles.

‘Izuku…’ The disembodied voice flitted around him like a leaf snared in a breeze.

As always, the voice led him to a clearing. There, amidst the wildflowers, sat an ice tomb framed by thorny branches. Inside, the boy slept, his cloak a shock of red like blood against snow.

Izuku couldn’t always speak here, but he managed to utter a quiet, “Kacchan?”

This was not the boy Izuku had met in the woods those years ago. This boy was older. Even suspended in sleep, he was beholden to time. With his wild hair and golden crown, he was beautiful in a way that made Izuku ache with yearning.

That same voice resounded through his head, the echo of his name broken for the first time by another word: ‘North.’

So Izuku went north.

He packed what provisions he could, told his mother he needed to find some rare herbs, and promised to return as soon as he could. He didn't know what he was looking for exactly, but he could do little else but have faith that he would understand when he found it. No matter the outcome, if nothing else, Izuku owed himself the closure.

It wasn't until a week later when he dreamed again of the boy in the ice.

There were no whispered words this time, no secrets hidden between blades of yellowing grass. There was only Kacchan, still and cold, bathed in moonlight.

'Someday, I’ll take you,' Kacchan had said once, long ago, about where he disappeared to during the winters. 'You’d like it. You'll have to start a whole separate journal for all the new plants so that your nerd brain doesn't explode.'

'Tell me one thing about where you grew up,' Izuku had insisted. He wanted to know what sort of place had forged a boy like Kacchan. Fearless and honest, passionate and quick-tempered, devoted and steadfast.

Kacchan had rolled his eyes but given in easily enough. 'It’s usually too crowded and loud. But it’s not all bad. There's a stream where the water tastes like nectar but only after a star has fallen, and the forest paths never lead to the same place twice. There, now I've told you three things instead.'

'But then how do you find your way home?' Izuku had asked, insatiable for more.

Something mischievous had gleamed in his red eyes as he said, 'You take the moonlight road. You have to find it first, and it doesn’t always lead where you want, but it’ll get you where you need to be.'

When Izuku woke, it was still dark, the memory of their conversation fresh in his mind. Past his rumpled bedroll, a path paved in silver led through the trees.

That had not been there when he fell asleep.

Wary, Izuku gathered up his things, ensured his bow was properly strung, and then cautiously stepped onto the moonlight road. Almost at once, silence fell, and the trees grew denser, larger, more wizened. The temperature seemed to plummet, and overhead, the stars were arranged in unfamiliar constellations.

Despite his apprehension, Izuku pushed on, holding the image of Kacchan in his mind’s eye like a lantern lighting his path.

When the air grew so cold that his lungs burned and his breaths became plumes of condensation, the road at last faded beneath him. His boots sank into powdery snow.

Fat snowflakes fell from an iron gray sky. He stood in a winter garden, lush with red dogwood, witch hazel, and snowdrops. Bushes stark with winter berries bracketed a trail of midnight crocus leading to a weathered bird fountain that spilled black-petaled hellebore.

In the shadows beyond the garden, between the papery bark and lidless eyes of white aspens, creatures hissed at his trespass. Winter fey with inky stares and pine-needle teeth, blood-soaked caps and wings like branches dripping icicles. Izuku tightened his cloak against the chill.

A high, lilting voice pierced the night. “Has the Summer Court brought me another hero for my garden?”

In a blink, Izuku had an arrow notched and aimed. Past the bird fountain, atop a stone dais, stood a short fey with hair like starlight and a crown of spider lilies—the Winter Queen.

A grin stretched her mouth, sharp canines bared. Her eyes, though, were flat and pale as the surface of a frozen lake. She regarded him, unthreatened by his weapon.

“Oh?” She tilted her head. “But you’re not a child of the forest, are you?” The gossamer that draped her shoulders like whorls of frost seemed to shiver, unleashing a freezing breath that howled through the garden.

Phantom fingers wrenched at his cloak, clawing for exposed skin. Lowering his bow, Izuku planted his feet in the snow and shielded his face against the assault. The ring around his finger glinted gold.

The fey queen gasped, and everything within her garden fell still. Snow flurries froze in midair, ice crystals suspended in feathery curls.

“You carry the Summer King’s favor," she hissed, her eyes darkening and her features twisting until any human likeness had transformed into feral outrage.

Puzzled, Izuku looked down at the ring. Kacchan’s favor?

Even as rationale said it was impossible, Izuku’s heart knew at once that it could only be true. What other reason could explain how a mortal boy had come to stand within the Winter Queen’s garden?

But if Kacchan really was the Summer King, then why would he have given such a keepsake to Izuku? The Winter Queen had implied that others had come before him… What did that mean?

Izuku didn’t understand. If the ring somehow offered protection, then wouldn’t the Summer Court have warriors far more suitable than him?

Whatever the reason, he couldn't worry about that now. Kacchan had entrusted this to him.

Squaring his shoulders, Izuku returned the arrow to his quiver. With as much confidence as he could muster, he said, “Please take me to the Summer King.”

The Winter Queen glared a moment longer. Then, all at once, her anger faded and the harsh angles of her face softened into a more subtle malice. The fae were said to be mercurial creatures, evidenced by the way she now grinned in delight.

“Very well, little fool. His favor affords you an audience but once.” With a gust of biting wind, she turned away.

Izuku hurried after, careful not to slip nor to lose sight of her as she led him through the garden.

“Pretty mortal,” she said in that airy, singsong voice, “with summer eyes and skin of dappled sunlight.”

He resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose, where freckles scattered from cheekbone to cheekbone. Kacchan had said much the same about them once, long ago.

The Winter Queen stepped gracefully through the snow, her bare toes leaving icy prints. “What an enigma you are. What could the Summer King possibly expect from a mortal where even his most fearsome fey warriors have failed? I wonder… would you risk so much if you knew his true nature? Fickle, cruel, temper quick as a wildfire. I could have banked his flames, bridled his rage. He would have been well suited to the Winter Court.”

It was true that the Kacchan of his memories had been brazen and foul-mouthed. But he’d also been earnest. Rude in words, but patient and clever in actions. Gentle but firm as he guided Izuku in how to hold a bow or track a deer.

Izuku didn't know the Summer King. But he knew Kacchan.

Keeping his silence, he followed the Winter Queen until they reached a gate of silver bark. With a light-footed pirouette, she gestured with a flourish for Izuku to enter.

“Although in the end, he became mine all the same,” she said with a vicious, sharp-toothed grin.

Frowning, Izuku passed through the gate. An eerily familiar scene greeted him—a tomb of ice framed by thorny brambles amidst a field of withered wildflowers. And there, at its center, was Kacchan, his boy of summer, bound by ice and enchantment.

Izuku could almost convince himself that he was dreaming again, that Kacchan was a figment of his yearning, because the alternative—the truth—was that while Izuku had thought himself abandoned, Kacchan had been waiting all that time for Izuku to rescue him.

Tears welled, catching on his lashes before spilling cold down his cheeks. He approached the ice, gaze ravenous as he devoured the sight of him, the boy he’d promised himself to once they were of age. The boy who’d broken his heart.

Who had entrusted Izuku with freeing him from a vengeful queen.

The question, again, was why? Why Izuku?

The tales he’d foolishly scoffed at told of how no fey monarch could spill the blood of another without risking war between their Courts, and that a faerie’s true name was a secret capable of commanding even fey kings.

The Winter Queen had trapped him without a drop of blood spilled. But unbeknownst to her or to Izuku, Kacchan had provided him with the means to save him when he’d placed his ring on Izuku’s finger and whispered his secret over their joined hands.

Because… although he’d never spoken the words, Izuku had known in his heart that Kacchan loved him. He wouldn’t have promised himself to a mortal boy otherwise.

Could it be that easy?

But then, what about any of this had been easy? Kacchan spent three years trapped in deathless sleep, and Izuku had worn the fragments of his heart in a locket around his neck. They had, both of them, been frozen.

The difference was that Izuku had a choice, and he would always, always choose Kacchan.

He pressed his palm to the ice, skin meeting a cold that burned. The shock startled a gasp from him, but he didn't back away. Veins of frost spread up his fingers, his knuckles, fissures blistering skin and gouging bone.

His arm shook. A scream rose in his throat, restrained only by the cage of his clenched teeth and his determination. Come back to me, Kacchan. I love you. I love you. I love you.

The prison began to fracture. Behind him, the Winter Queen hissed, but Izuku paid her no mind. Ice split with a crack like thunder, and Izuku darted forward to catch Kacchan’s falling body.

He was heavy, his skin cold. Izuku lowered him to the ground and ran his broken hands frantically over Kacchan’s arms to work some heat into them, but Kacchan’s eyes remained closed, his pale lashes still.

"Kacchan," he murmured, voice thick and ragged. "Kacchan, wake up."

The glint of his ring caught his eye. Heart pounding, Izuku removed the ring from his finger and placed it on Kacchan’s. By some rule or quirk of faerie magic, the ring fit perfectly.

Resting his forehead to Kacchan's, Izuku repeated the words they’d exchanged that long ago summer. “By blood, by soil, by breath, I commit all that I am to your keeping. I am yours so long as you will have me.” 

Then, against cool but pliable lips, he whispered the secret that he hadn’t understood at the time to mean far more than a promise: “Katsuki…”

When he drew back, red eyes greeted him, and a smile that filled him with the light and heat of all their summers to come.

~fin

A/N: This was written for the BKDKBK No Me Without You Zine ✨