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Silver tinsel hangs in draping curves from the vaulted ceilings of the ballroom. Blue, white and silver ornaments hang from crystal strings, reflecting the light flickering from the candles held high in the chandeliers above.
The room itself - as large as it is - is packed full of lords and ladies dressed in their holiday best.
People are laughing, sipping wine and ale along the edges of the room, sampling local delicacies from sprawling mahogany tables covered by elegant white clothes staffed by young lads and lasses dressed high above their station just to be able to remain in the room - deemed suitable for polite company.
There are people gathered in the vast center of the room as well, couples taken to dancing and speaking quietly enough to not be heard over the music. The room is beautiful, a large tree at the center of it all strung up with tinsel and ornaments glittering silver and blue - only the most expensive looking adornments for the wealthy and the powerful.
It’s unbearably boring, in the opinion of one Vesemir Morhen, the son of the Duke who is hosting this party.
Having only just turned twenty, Vesemir longs for excitement. He wants to run through open fields, climb a mountain - he doesn’t know what people do to have fun. He’s a Duke’s son, confined to the castle and the politics and the horrible fate that has been laid before him. He hates all of it, so the moment his father has his back turned he slips away, pushing past a glittering silver tapestry depicting a vast mountain range, and stuffs himself into the alcove beyond.
It’s hardly large enough for four people to stand in close proximity, but it doesn’t matter because he’s the only one that knows it’s here -
The fabric shuffles immediately behind him and he curses the universe, hopes to any god listening that his father did not see him sneak away.
“Oh good,” a voice behind him breathes, “It is a hidey-hole. Sorry to intrude, but I saw you slip away and - well, to be frank this party is insufferable.”
Vesemir snorts a little laugh and turns to see whoever has decided to follow him in here.
He almost trips over his response when he sees the man, tall and broad - though only slightly moreso than himself - skin a deep bronze and eyes molten chocolate - and gorgeous. With his raven hair all neatly braided back and decorated with silver beads and overcoat a stunningly dark maroon - Vesemir’s mouth kind of goes dry, but he manages to force words out.
“Why attend if you find the event so insufferable?”
The man chuckles, a low, rich sound that gives Vesemir goosebumps - oh, he is so fucked. It’s bad enough that he’s not married yet, but getting all flustered over some random stranger? And a man, at that? His father would be livid.
“I get a feeling that I had as much a say in my attendance as you did.”
Vesemir huffs a little laugh at that, “I suppose that’s a fair point. So you dislike events like these or just this one in particular?”
“Oh, all of them,” gorgeous mystery man sighs, leaning up against the wall next to him, “Stuffy and boring. I’d much rather drink wine and read, or go for a ride.”
“I might advise that riding while drinking wine is not very wise.”
The man offers Vesemir a smile, “No, I agree. Much more fun, though.”
“I would not know,” Vesemir counters, “But reading, I could certainly attest to. Have you any preferences for novels?”
“Poetry,” the man corrects, “I’ve been reading, quite recently, some work by Premethine Shakeslock. Have you read his work?”
“Ah yes, the Oxenfurt Professor. Tragic, his death. His poetry was rather captivating.”
“I’ve always found it interesting that he writes as if he were casting some kind of spell, or performing a ritual.”
“I agree, though I sometimes imagine he writes from the perspective of someone possessed by a spirit or devil, especially in his more violent writings.”
“What an interesting perspective,” the man pauses, “Ah, I do believe I neglected to ask for your name. My apologies.”
Vesemir waves him off, “It’s rather alright. It’s been nice not having to think about etiquette or titles for a moment.”
“I absolutely agree,” the man smiles warmly, “I’ve never understood titles. All aristocracy does is prey on those they deem beneath them.”
“An interesting perspective for someone dressed so finely to have,” Vesemir muses, a hint of teasing in his voice, “Vesemir Morhen,” he bows.
“Ah, the Marquess. A pleasure to meet you,” the man bows back, “Guxart De Stygga.”
Vesemir flushes pink, stammering out, “Oh God, the crown prince of Nazair?”
“The very same,” the man - prince - agrees, smile ever-present.
“I am so sorry, your highness, I didn’t realize - “
Guxart waves him off, “No need for apologies.”
“I’ve been horribly inappropriate! Oh, my father is going to kill me,” Vesemir hangs his head, “I am sorry.”
“Vesemir,” the prince says softly, “Do not apologize. I’ve enjoyed speaking freely. As you said, it is nice to forget about status and titles for a while.”
“I- yes, sir, of course, but - if someone were to spot us -”
“Shall we return and share a dance instead, then? Surely your father wouldn’t object to that?”
Vesemir blinks, “We- we’re both men.”
Guxart’s head tilts, “And yet you flushed so prettily when you saw me.” He takes a step closer, Vesemir’s cheeks darken again, “Unless I misunderstood.”
Vesemir licks his lips, “No, you didn't - but…”
“Your father wouldn’t approve?”
“You’re a prince, he wouldn’t dare say no.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“He would not approve,” Vesemir agrees.
“Good thing, then, that I am a prince, and get to decide who I whisk away,” he offers out a hand, “Provided, that is, that they would like to be whisked.”
Vesemir can’t help but smile as he places his hand in the prince’s. “Whisk away,” he consents, only to be pulled out of the alcove and onto the dance floor.
Perhaps the ball, and future balls if he is very, very luck, won’t be so boring after all.