The Fae King's Fated Mate: M/M Gay Paranormal Romance

by J B Black

  The Fae King’s Fated Mate

  Gay Mpreg Fantasy Romance

  J.B. Black

  The Fae King’s Fated Mate by JB Black

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  THE FAE KING’S FATED MATE

  Copyright © 2020 J.B. Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Chapter One

  Music filled the air. Sweet cakes and roasting meat perfumed the air, curling around Fannar’s nose as he explored the festival grounds. Other children rushed about playing games and running this way and that. All sorts of shifters and magic users celebrated the summer with lantern lights and bright colors, opening the doorway even for the fae to join. Lithe forms with stoic expressions and pointed ears. Each more beautiful than the last. A week long holiday! Fannar couldn’t believe his luck.

  As drunk as many of the adults were, they freely bargained knowledge for small trinkets. Spellbooks, amulets, potions, and more spread in pockets which would laughing turn them over to eager young hands. All he needed to do was present himself as the best, and nobody could argue. Even the oldest witches and warlocks praised Fannar, patting his black hair and exclaiming he was far too clever for his own good. While the rest of the warlocks his age were apprentices, he had graduated to journeyman over a year ago. His skill in arcane magic placed him above the rest. They were ants in comparison.

  And he hadn’t needed to summon a familiar. They could have their cats and birds. The rare dog and lizard might even help, but Fannar managed his excellence without anyone’s help. His master had barely lifted a finger in his aid. The drunk bastard only took him in to shut the rest of the elders up when they complained about how dangerous Fannar was. They didn’t know the half of it!

  Eyeing the stands, he picked out a group of older druids. They had plants laid out on the table before them. A line of dandelions danced upon the table as the four men drank, laughing at the bobbing yellow heads.

  “I could use a greener thumb,” Fanner murmured with a grin.

  However, as he marched toward the men, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. His magic flared, snaking out around him as danger shifted on the edge of his perception. Someone watched him. Someone powerful and important enough to influence his destiny. Whoever they were, he would be damned before he let them stop him. He had a goal - to become the most powerful magic user the world had ever seen. Even the fae would tremble before him: an all-mighty warlock, capable of bringing cities low. Finally, his reputation for being the ruination of kingdoms would be more than just mockery of the lowest point in his life.

  But destiny was fickle. When it set its mind on a path, like a river, it forged ahead, pushing low the ground regardless of how people attempted to dam the route, so when a pale man with hair like spun gold and pure blue eyes bumped into him, Fannar tensed, sending up a shield.

  “Excuse me,” Fannar gritted, recognizing the fae and knowing better than to be rude to one.

  Long fingers wrapped around his arm. “You are destined to be a grand and powerful warlock.”

  That caught Fannar’s attention. He had never met a natural psychic before. Despite having some training in divination, a seer’s perspective could prove priceless. Setting aside the druids, Fannar gave the man a practiced smile. The one which often put the adults around him at ease.

  “That’s an interesting talent! I’ve never meant someone who can see the future before,” Fannar said, studying the expensive robes and cloak which dressed the man. Though his hood was up, the young warlock caught a sparkle of gemstones in his golden hair. “Where did you train?”

  The fae smiled, leaning close as he whispered, “I was born with the gift.”

  “You didn’t hone it?” How disappointing. Still, Fannar held his opinion to himself. “That must be...wonderful.”

  With a shake of his head, the psychic frowned. “You will be a grand and powerful warlock…”

  “So you said.”

  “...until you meet your fated mate, who will steal you from this realm,” the fae warned. His brows rose like a peak in what seemed feigned distress, but Fannar had never been good at determining the sincerity of another’s expression.

  Tugging free of the other’s grip, he folded his arms over his chest. “A fae then? How original. Iron or silver should keep me from harm.”

  The fae psychic shook his head. “Your fated is powerful. He will one day be king and has the money - and magic, to force you to be his against your will.”

  “Unlikely. Perhaps you’re seeing someone else’s destiny,” Fannar retorted, stepping away from the man, but the psychic followed, staying close.

  “He will have you upon his throne. Claim you as his own, and from your body shall come powerful princes,” the fae predicted.

  Flinching at the very thought of having children, the young warlock scoffed, “I would never let that happen. I’m no man’s broodmare.”

  A spark glinted in the fae seer’s eyes. His grasping hands twitched. “But your fate is to spread your legs for him. He’ll make you wanton - lustful and needy to be filled by him until your body bears his seed. His magic shall make your own turn against you,” the psychic whispered, and though he kept his tone low, his voice seemed to carry, and the eyes of those passing appeared to look at Fannar with pity as if they too could see his fate - to spend his life upon his back with some king slobbering between his thighs.

  “That will not come to be,” Fannar announced. “I will become immortal and be the most powerful magic user in the realm. In all realms! No one can stop me.”

  With a nod, he turned, intending to leave the psychic for the druids, but the fae chased after him, calling to him, “You cannot outrun your fate. Young you are now, but you will grow, and your fate will come for you.”

  His bright eyes narrowed. Blue-gray shimmered like chips of ice as he glowered back at the fae. “Then I shall make sure fate never finds me.”

  When the psychic reached for him again, Fannar teleported away. Deep in an enchanted forest, he had spent his first months as a journeyman building a cabin which could not be found unless he told someone where it was. Even if Fannar led a person back to the place, unless he spoke the specifics of its location in the way he had melded into its warding, no one could return to it once he sent them away, and if anyone sought him, he appeared to have ceased to exist while he secluded himself there.

  Fate could search for him, but not a soul could find him in his cabin, and he refused to be some broodmare for anyone. His body would never grow gravid. No one would chain him to them by fate or by child or by such fallacies as love.

  “If I won’t share my accomplishments with a familiar, what in nine realms would make you think I’d share my fate with some useless king?” Fannar grumbled as he pushed up his sleeves and got to work.

  He had goals. Goals and plans which he had worked hard toward from the day he had left his father’s home in ruins at six years old until that drunk bastard announced him a journeyman and set him free from the chains of apprenticeship. Now newly in his teenage years, Fannar would claw the very tapestry of destiny to scattered threads before he allowed himself to be forced to serve the needs of anyone else before his own. He w
as no man’s. No fae’s either.

  Tirelessly, the younger warlock worked. If there was a way to outrun fate, he would find it. Pouring over tomes, Fannar contained himself to his cabin until the last day of the week-long festivities.

  Black runes marked his body beneath his shirt and trousers. They cut him from the cloth of destiny, hiding him from the strings which bound others together. He had woven spell over spell over spell, and as he strode into the town hosting the festival, Fannar was confident that even if the psychic saw him again, the fae would be unable to connect the young teen he had seen the day before with him now.

  Witches and warlocks gathered in their main tent. The elders seemed exhausted. Dark circles cradled their eyes, and they whispered amongst each other until Ronan - the only other magic user of his age who Fannar thought worth his time - called out, “Fannar! There you are!”

  “Ronan,” Fannar returned in greeting when the brown-haired warlock ran up to him with a bright smile. Curled around his neck, the black cat which was Ronan’s familiar grumbled beneath its breath. “I see you brought Ciar.”

  “Of course! Ciar’s never been, so I thought…” he trailed off, glancing nervously at the older witches and warlocks who drew closer.

  Morgana - the most powerful and head of the witches - stepped forward with a sickly smile upon her long lips. She reminded Fannar of a toad, and as much as the warlock wouldn’t have minded saying so to her face, there was still an off chance she had some powerful amulet or enchanted sword hidden away in her cottage which he might want, so he smiled at her kindly instead.

  “Fannar, we were looking for you,” Morgana croaked.

  Drunken Bogumir stumbled forward, and while his nose remained the familiar bright red, there was a sharp clarity to his eyes which Fannar rarely saw. “What does it matter, Morganna? The boy is here now. Let’s be done with this.”

  “Be done with what?” Fannar asked.

  Tiv chortled. His shaven head glistened like polished stone as he hobbled over with his walking stick. “We hear you have a very handsome destiny, Fannar!”

  “Oh...that’s unfortunate. I had hoped to be the one to tell you,” Fannar drawled, brushing off his hands on his pants before studying his nails with a hum. “I’ve already taken care of it.”

  “Take care of it? What do ya mean? That damn fae prince was out here demanding to know your name. We only realized who he meant when you were the only one we couldn’t find,” Bogumir explained, reaching out to lay his hand on Fannar’s shoulder. “I convinced the lot not ta give them your name. It’s better for everyone if you do your own introductions. Names are powerful for the fae, after all.”

  “Yes - yes, names are important, but we will have the entire court of…” Morgana trailed off. Her eyes fogged as she swayed.

  Unperturbed, Bogumir pushed on. “It won’t be so bad, being the fated for a fae prince. You’ll have...you’ll…” His hand fell from Fannar’s shoulder. “Gods, my head hurts. Why am I sober?”

  With a shrug, Fannar tilted his head. “No idea. Maybe you should go visit the ale vendors.”

  “Yeah...yeah…” Bogumir stumbled off, and Ronan’s brows rose as the other witches and warlocks fought against the magic which slowly ate away at their minds.

  Wrapping his fingers around his wards, Tiv murmured defensive magic, but his own magic turned against him. “Boy! What have you done?”

  “I have no fated mate anymore. Anyone who would give me up to some perverted destiny will forget. Their minds will grow more and more addled with each attempt to submit me to that disgusting fate,” Fannar explained. He laid a hand upon Ronan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. If you don’t intend to betray me, you won’t be affected.”

  “I-I wouldn’t make you meet him or tell him if that isn’t what you want, but...but you really don’t want to meet the person who is your fate?” Ronan asked as the elders struggled.

  “Why would I? I don’t need anyone. I’m complete on my own,” Fannar bragged, and if the dumb cat wanted to roll his stupid green eyes, that was his choice. Not everyone was as desperate for love as Ronan.

  “Fix this!” Morgana yelled, grabbing her wiry gray hairs in her long fingers. “I can feel my mind going!”

  Magic swelled. Ronan cowered, holding his familiar to his chest as he turned protectively, but he shouldn’t have bothered. The magic rebounded, attacking those involved, and wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders, Fannar led Ronan away.

  “So...I haven’t gotten to try anything. Where is the best food? And are there still druids about?”

  Shaking his head, Ronan rolled his eyes. “You’re going to get in trouble when they recover.”

  “They won’t recover.” Fannar pulled down his collar, revealing his tattoos. “The more they try to betray me, the more of their minds they lose, and in trade, I get their magic. These lines turn from black to white, and I can pour the power into whatever I want.”

  “A demonic deal?”

  Laughing, Fannar smirked. “Deals require both parties to be in agreement. It’s like fae and names. Names have power. I just made mine a conditional curse.”

  “You are brilliant, Fannar, but absolutely crazy,” Ronan said, and his familiar nodded in agreement. That was fine. They could think him insane. He had freed himself from destiny, so their opinions didn’t matter. “Are...are you happy?”

  “Of course. I’m free.”

  Ronan nodded. “Okay. Bit sad not to share your life with somebody you love, but if that makes you happy…”

  “Powerful people don’t love. They take, and they take, and whoever loves them be damned. Fated or not, they get to suffer the consequences,” the black-haired warlock mumbled as they approached a stand selling fried dough.

  “Your mate might not be like your father’s,” Ronan suggested.

  Fannar rolled his eyes. “My mother was an incredible sorceress. Her only mistake was giving birth to me.”

  Grabbing his arm, Ronan gasped, “Don’t say that!”

  “Why? It’s true. My father had half a dozen wives. An entire harem and more children than any king needed. He knew he had a fated mate, but he didn’t give a damn, and when they found each other, he tried to get her to be part of his harem.” Fannar shook his head in disgust. He loathed everything to do with his father. “Who asks their fated mate to be one of a harem? Dismissing them into a crowd of your former wives to be the lowest and expecting - what? How could he expect her to give up her power for seventh place?”

  Ronan ducked his head. “Sorry, Fannar. I-I always forget that about your father.”

  “Because his death sounds romantic. His fated mate died thousands of miles away, and he immediately knew and went insane - only pausing for a brief moment at the sight of their six-year-old son. It sounds like someone who loved her, but he didn’t. He loved himself.” Fingers curling into fists, Fannar pushed his magic down, reaching out to watch the elders spiral further and further along the path to self-destruction.

  Ronan bought them both fried dough covered in sugar and even fresh strawberries as if the food would ease the pain Fannar felt whenever he thought of the disaster of his lineage. Though Ronan would never force anyone to confront a fate they did not desire, the brown-haired warlock constantly expected Fannar to put to words the emotions which he fought so hard to suppress below the surface. People exhausted him. Manipulating them helped, yet Ronan wanted to pick apart his choices.

  Still - his willingness to remain silent, and his being unaffected by Fannar’s spellwork as proof, showed he was a worthy friend. If he needed to be indulged, the black-haired warlock would do so - for now.

  “Do you ever regret it?” Ronan asked.

  Fannar tore a piece of fried dough, squeezing it between his fingers as he sighed. “I don’t regret killing them all. The harem, my half-siblings...my father. My half-siblings and their mothers often said I was a curse. If my mother intended me to be one, I don’t mind. They all deserved to die. Proclaiming the value
of fated mates while spitting on the result of them and expecting a fated mate to share their destined one. Selfish. Selfish and cruel and I only wish my mother had been alive to see how powerful I was. Six years old and I was the ruination of my father’s kingdom.”

  Patting Fannar on that back as if the black-haired warlock’s past deserved some show of camaraderie, Ronan popped a strawberry into his mouth. “You missed the druids. They only stayed the first three nights, but then Agatha tried to cast a love charm on one of them, and they left.”

  “Guess I’ll have to find another way to study them,” Fannar lamented.

  Smiling brightly, Ronan leaned in close to Fannar. “They’ll celebrate Samhain in Aberdeen.” He really was the only person worth keeping around.

  Chapter Two

  The older Fannar became, the less sociable he found himself to be. Fearsome and powerful opened far more doors than feigned smiles and niceties, which suited the warlock fine. Decades spent amassing magical knowledge proved well worth it, and more kingdoms fell by his hand than any other magic user. Kings and lords called upon him like they might deal with the Devil, and for high fees, he would solve their problems, leaving them with the nightmare their desires provided.

  The cabin in the enchanted forest remained his base of operations. Often, Fannar hid away to study arcane magic, determined to outpace any theoretical fated mate who might try to come for him.They could fight their way through all of destiny to find him, but whatever that fae king thought he might find, he wouldn’t find Fannar.

  Eventually, the memory of that theoretical fae - that fated king - faded from Fannar’s memory. His magic protected him. No task proved too great. Again and again, he dominated his peers. Left them in the dust. Only Ronan remained close, but the brown-haired warlock’s desperate search for true love separated them.

  Collecting his supplies, Fannar wrapped his black cloak around him before he teleported to the palace of King Robert. When he appeared, all twelve kings jumped, but King Robert’s spymaster remained calm. His dark eyes met Fannar’s bright ones, and bowing his head in respect, he silently greeted him.