Chapter Text
It really did feel as freeing as he’d imagined.
His greasy hair stuck to his scalp, matted from the many hours it had spent trapped inside his helmet, and his nose felt cold, finally exposed to the soft breeze after a whole day trapped in bronze.
He leaned over the edge, helmet in hand, looking down at the murk below, before taking a step back, and carefully placing it down on the stone.
His uniform was heavy, complex, made up of layers upon layers of clothing, weighing down on his body and soul. First his undergarments, then a gambeson, then some plates, then linen cloth; striped and loose, cumbersome to maneuver in and hot, followed by more steel plates, and then straps. Lots of leather straps, holding everything together in some sort of miraculous act. Then a coat of mail surrounding his waist, and then finally a belt, hanging off of which was a scabbard, holding the royal crest.
He unfastened all the straps, one by one, the golden metal of the buckles clinking against the steel of the plates as the pieces fell lifelessly around his frame. First his shoulders, then his arms, then his legs and then his neck. He carefully unplucked the buttons on his chemise, until he reached his chest in that weird habit he had, buttoning top to down and undoing down to top. He opened the eccentric striped overall that made up the central piece, letting it fall from his shoulders so he could undo the straps around his elbows as well, then off of his knees. He took his boots off along with the main gown, and stood in just the navy aketon that covered him head to toe.
He clenched and unclenched his hands. The plates on his fingers still weighed down on him despite most of his armor already being gone, sewn onto the cloth itself like blood sucking parasites, and the gambeson still wrapped around his head, making him feel overwhelmed, so he decided to take it off as well, being left in just his undergarments then.
He scratched his head. The sweat made his scalp feel itchy- or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t washed it in a week. But regardless, he ran his hands through his hair, letting his fingers comb it back, even his bangs, which he usually insisted on keeping on his face. The air ran through his scalp, making him feel light, and the pressure in his skull go down. He sighed, breathing out through his nose, letting his eyes flutter close to feel what little warmth was left from the setting sun.
His face went cold soon enough, the sun already mostly gone, and he took a deep breath, before turning back, kneeling before his discarded armor, and folding the cloth, carefully stacking all the pieces on top of each other, before standing up, and throwing it out over the edge.
The coveralls unfolded weightlessly in the air, while the plates fell down with a reverberating clang, hitting the stone floor below, barely as audible as he’d thought it would be. He then took his helmet, taking a moment to stare at it, turning it around in his hands, watching his reflection contort, before finally holding it out over the abyss, and throwing it as far as it’d go, making a distant sound as it hit a wall. He smiled.
It really did feel just as freeing as he’d imagined.
He glanced down at his sword, wondering what he should do with it, before deciding to throw it over the edge as well, kicking it away with his naked foot.
He stood silently on the wall, hair flowing out into the evening air, staring down at the precipice below, before looking up, just as the sun sank beyond the horizon of the walls.
He took a deep breath, and then he jumped.
☙〰❦〰❧
He walked along the wall, reached a corner and turned to the right, got to the end of the long hallway and turned left. Then right, right again, then left. He kept a brisk pace, near skipping along the old cobblestone of the maze.
It’d been years since he'd last walked these paths, yet he remembered them like the back of his hand. He'd spent his childhood exploring their twisted walls and dead ends, one of few ways he found to keep himself entertained. But at some point, hiding from responsibility inside make-believe-worlds wasn't cute anymore, it had all lost its charm along the way.
But a very interesting reason had brought him back.
He’d been getting ready to sleep when he looked out the window and saw him. A knight, standing at the very top of the tall, rocky walls of the maze, shedding off his armor and clothes until he stood in nothing but his undergarments before stepping off the edge and plummeting to the ground.
He watched for a while, half expecting the knight to soon walk out the entrance like nothing had happened. But minutes droned by with no sign of life, and he grew curious. No one else seemed to notice the knight’s disappearance. Perhaps he wasn't important enough to worry about.
He put his boots back on and grabbed a coat, cracked the door open and looked to both sides of the hallway, just to make sure there wasn't anyone around to snitch on him. Once he’d assured that the coast was clear, he’d slipped out of the room and made his way to the ground floor, where he sneaked out to the gardens through a door at the back of the palace, only ever used by servants.
And now, he looked down at a knight half dead on the ground of the large maze that surrounded father's palace.
The knight was scratched up and bruised on whatever exposed skin he could see. He appeared to have hit his head, too, blood staining the blond hair on the side of his head. Most notably, however, his right leg bent at a weird angle, the joints twisted in a way that seemed unnatural and painful.
He grimaced as he finally dragged his gaze off the many wounds and injuries to stare at the knight's face, only to find two weary, half lidded, brown eyes looking back at him.
“Your Highness,” a voice like a low hum spoke, hoarse and feeble. It took him a second to realize it was coming from the injured man on the ground, “you shouldn't be here.”
He scoffed, amused by the knight's nerve to order him around even in his current disposition. “You are in no position to tell me what I should or shouldn't be doing,” he snapped back, glancing down at the knight's twisted leg. “In more than one way.”
Weirdly enough, this knight had it in him to chuckle. He grumbled and crouched down, wrapping his arms around the knight's chest from behind and hoisting him up into a half sitting position, which made the knight cry out and struggle. If he had been in better condition he could easily have gotten him off of him, but in his current state the knight gave up after a couple of seconds. He rolled his eyes and pulled the knight up a little higher, this time it only earned him a weak whimper. “C’mon, up with you.”
“I can't walk,” the knight protested. “Just leave me here, Your Highness. I’m no use for you anymore.” He sniffed.
He ignored the pitiful words and started walking (more like stumbling) along the path, dragging the knight along with him whether he wanted to or not.
“It's not your place to decide if you are of use or not, knight,” he grunted, already out of breath with the effort of carrying around an entire grown man. “Do you wish to get yourself killed? Do you?”
The words seemed to awaken the knight from his self imposed pity for a moment as he tried to twist his head around to look back at him with wide, panicked eyes. “What?”
“Allow me to correct myself: why did you jump off the edge?”
The knight stuttered out a couple of incoherent, half strung sentences before his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped against him, the full sudden weight making him almost lose his balance.
Had this knight actually died on him? He stopped in his tracks, his heart stuttering in disbelief, but then he felt the slow up and down of the knight’s chest under his fingers.
He scowled, annoyed by the revelation that the knight had just fainted in his arms.
☙〰❦〰❧
Newt woke up in a bed, if he could even call it that, a hard, unwelcoming mattress cradling his battered body as a harsh light invaded his eyes.
He squinted, pulling up his arm to cover his eyes with a groan.
“Good, you’re awake,” a gravely voice spoke behind him, forcing him to turn its way.
A woman stood on the opposite side of the room, carrying a tray.
“Where…am I?” he managed to get out, his throat feeling like it was caked in sand.
“An infirmary,” the woman said, leaving the tray at his bedside table. “A provisional one, at least. You’re my only patient as of now.” She must’ve noticed his puzzled expression, for she spoke before he could, “Prince Albert found you out in the maze, then brought you to me.”
Newt’s mind went blank. “Prince Albert?” he asked, the words barely managing to slide out of his cracked lips. His head felt like it was a beating drum.
“Ah, please do forgive my unruly manners, allow me to introduce myself,” the lady smiled, a cold shine in her wrinkled eyes. “I’m doctor Ava Paige.”
Newt squinted, his eyebrows furrowing into a yet more confused look. Maybe he should go back to sleep, make his headache go away. His eyeballs felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets.
He let his head fall back on the paper-thin pillow, bringing his hand to his nose, and pinching the bridge, tears welling up in his burning eyes.
Just how had he ended up like that?
“His Highness will surely be glad to know his little subject is awake.” The woman looked him up and down with a cynical expression. “Though I suspect he won’t be pleased with the extent of the damage it’s taken.”
His Highness…
“Why would he do that?” Newt mumbled, arm hung weakly over his eyes.
“God knows,” doctor Paige shrugged, turning her back to him to start tinkering around with vials and flasks on the tray. “He was really eager to talk to you last night, so I presume he will be open to share a bit of his mind with you today.”
A personal talk with the prince? He was definitely dead, or dreaming, or in Hell. Perhaps this was his divine punishment for trying to end himself.
No sooner had the doctor finished her words that the door to the infirmary room swung open.
There stood His Highness, Prince Albert E., wearing nothing but his sleeping gown, hair slightly mused, like he had just rolled out of bed. He glared at Newt like he wanted him to drop dead, but Newt was too distracted by seeing the prince in such a state to feel afraid.
His eyes made ways around the prince's general figure before finally setting at the foot of the bed, pointedly looking away. His cheeks tingled with embarrassment, the sight before him felt wrong, someone of his status shouldn't gaze upon the prince’s most unguarded appearance.
He heard Prince Albert speak in a stern voice, “Out. This is a private audience.”
Newt almost got up to leave himself, an apology already at the tip of his tongue, but doctor Paige had already turned away from her work and walked past Prince Albert. Newt followed her with his eyes until the door shut behind her and found himself suddenly locking eyes with the man in front of him.
He froze in place, throat suddenly dry. He tried to swallow but the loud sound it produced only ended up making him more embarrassed.
The prince was still glaring daggers at him, “I had to drag you all the way back here,” he stated, coming up to sit down by the measly mattress, “I hope you can explain yourself.”
Newt looked down at his lap, fiddling with his fingers, “You should've left me behind, Your Highness. I didn't mean to inconvenience you…”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” the prince scowled, “It isn’t your place to tell me what to do, Sir Isaac.”
Newt had never been more shaken to his core. The prince knew his name. Why did the prince know his name? It made his stomach churn, knowing there was no way prince Albert had heard positive things about him.
He spoke again at Newt’s silence, “Now, do not make me repeat myself. What exactly were you thinking when you jumped off that wall?”
Newt glanced at the prince for a second, then back down at his hands, “Isn't it obvious, Your Highness?”
“I would like to hear you say it.”
“I wanted to kill myself,” Newt confessed, blunt and annoyed at being interrogated after being rescued against his will, “And, forgive my audacity, but it is none of your business.”
The prince’s eyes darkened, his right hand shot out to grab Newt by the neck of his coverall, pulling him forward roughly and forcing him to look up at the prince. Newt startled, wide eyes setting on prince Albert's death stare, bracing himself on the bed with one hand, the other instinctively grabbing onto the prince's wrist.
“It would seem you have misunderstood. I am not asking out of curiosity, but to remind you…” he paused, pinning Newt in place with his eyes, “That your life is property of the crown. You do not get to decide to end your life preemptively,” he raised his chin, looking down on Newt even as they sat at eye level. He whispered in a low, almost intimate tone, “You belong to me.”
The prince let go of him, discarding him like a ragdoll. Newt fell back on the bed, slumping down with his eyes still wide, still looking at the prince's profile.
His breath came in short, adrenaline coursing through his veins, making him feel as if he was soaring, falling, like he had that previous night. His heart thumped like it was about to beat out of his chest, sending angry bursts of pressure through the arteries in his neck, and a cold sweat ran down the length of his nape, making him feel even more grimy than he already probably was.
The situation was absurd. There was a prince in front of him. A prince. Royalty. Half naked in his sleeping wear, white satin, far more luxurious than any item he could ever dream of getting his miserable little plebish hands on, covering his whole body like an oversized sheet, loose enough that his form remained hidden, but not so much that the mind couldn’t muse. The prince’s hands had been so warm on him, the black pits that were his eyes greedily taking his breath away, much like his autonomy. His life, he thought, back to the words the royal boy had just spoken.
You belong to me.
It couldn’t have possibly meant anything else. The prince himself had dragged him all the way back from the maze for something as simple as that. Ownership.
He was an object. A belonging. A toy the prince did not want to let go of in his childish paddy. Yet he had still saved him from certain death, had he not? Personally dragged him back to where he’d been hidden away, being taken care of, and made to feel better in spite of his broken leg.
He felt grateful, in a way, grim as it was, an odd warmth akin to childish excitement blooming in his gut.
Prince Albert E. had saved him. Him. Sir Newton Isaac, of the house of Somers. A commoner. The 20 year old son of Barnabas Smith, who had been too ashamed in his own progeny to marry him off. The son of a declining noble household, whose only hope for carrying on had been to sell him off to the crown. His body in exchange for gold.
That’s how much his life had meant to his father, a monthly salary, and a vow of life, and how much it meant to the King. Yet that was exactly what made him so, did it not?
Money. Gold.
For a king to allow for even a single penny of his to be stolen would mean his whole kingdom would come crumbling down, his authority cast into doubt, so in that way, something as seemingly worthless as a measly copper coin was worth as much as a crown itself.
That is how much he was worth to his prince.
Still sprawled where the prince had put him down, Newt muttered, “I’m sorry.” It was pathetic, a barely there sound, and he wasn't even sure if he had actually spoken out loud.
Prince Albert glanced at him and scoffed, “It appears you’re well behaved after all.”
He flushed red, eyes wandering back to the sheets covering his legs, “I did it because I… hate everything. And since I saw no purpose to my life, I figured I wouldn't be a significant loss.”
The prince raised an eyebrow at him, “That's a foolish assumption to make.”
Newt raised his head, looking forward with a blank stare, “Well, I do not know how to read. I am indeed a fool.”
The prince’s face fell, then his cheeks filled, eyebrows jutting up with a snort he attempted to stifle with his hand. He broke into laughter, loud and throaty, unheld cackles filling the air as he bent forward, holding his stomach and slapping the air.
“Enough! Enough! Are you attempting to take me to the underworld with you, knight?!” he giggled, voice high in delight, and Newt smiled, a little disconjointed smirk drawing itself on the corner of his lip.
He was definitely dead.
Perhaps this had all been a hallucination from the very start. An incomprehensible dream from the depths of oblivion meant to fool his fading mind.
“Perhaps I should’ve been a buffoon instead of a knight,” he added, watching intently as the prince rolled over in glee, laughter becoming even more hysterical at his joke.
Then the laughing stopped, and the royal straightened up, suddenly silent, making Newt’s smile fade from his face.
“I said enough.” The prince’s voice had gone so cold Newt felt the hair on the back of his nape stand up.
Were all royals strange like that?
The prince sighed, taking the neck of his gown and airing it out, his dark skin now glowing with the sheen of sweat.
“Christ, boy, you will be the death of me,” he huffed, looking out of breath. “Oh well.” He exhaled, before turning to him, “About your matter, be assured, it is not known,” he placed a hand on his hip, slanting it. “I personally made sure of it.”
“Oh.” Newt had admittedly not given it much thought, not having even expected to survive the attempt, but he was glad it was the case.
He wasn’t sure how he could face his comrades if the news were to spread out. Or his father, for that fact.
The prince took a step forward, “My generosity does come at a price, however,” he stated, confident in his stance, sitting on the bed, chin up and shoulders wide.
Newt recoiled, feeling a bit invaded by the act.
Was this ok? Should a royal sit on the same bed he was in?
A wrist was shoved in his face. A full, meaty forearm with no showing veins.
It was the wrist of a man who ate well, and lived a life of luxury, the tendons unpresent from the softness of his flesh, ungrazed by the struggle of work, so unblemished and pure it felt wrong to even gaze upon it, as if he were dirtying him with his bare eyes.
A wicked part of him wanted him to touch it, to ruin that pureness that had stolen his life.
He swallowed, feeling his fingers tingle.
“Yesterday night, while I was taking a stroll in the maze, I was attacked by a crook,” the prince said, an odd glint in his eye, “I was stabbed, and managed to block the weapon with my arm, before a knight came to save my life.” He recounted the fantastical story with a low tremor in his voice, pupils slightly wider than they had previously been, looking strangely excited by his lie, “The knight was severely hurt, but we both lived.”
Newt swallowed, fearing the worst.
“You are that knight, and my wrist is bare,” the prince finally took his arm away, sitting back, both hands on the bed. “I need some evidence for my claim. Are you following what I’m saying, knight?” he asked, cocking his head.
Newt shook his head, more out of denial than actual misunderstanding, making the prince roll his eyes.
He climbed onto the bed, crawling forward, “You are trained in weapon use, are you not?” he asked, shoulders up like a cat, making Newt scuttle back, his shoulder hitting the headboard of the bed. “Stab through my wrist, knight, make them believe my story. Prove your loyalty to me, and make sure I live, then, and only then, will you atone for your sin.”
“I cannot do that,” Newt weakly protested, even as he was already coming to terms with the fact that he would give in.
“You will. I am telling you to.” Prince Albert insisted, crawling closer.
Newt felt his face twist into a sour and unhappy face, “Can't you do it yourself, Your Highness?”
The prince let out an exasperated sigh through his nose, “Why must you question my every will, knight? I do not have to explain myself to you. You must simply do as I say.”
He knew there was no way to argue his way out of this, so he took a deep breath and said, “If I must…”
The prince seemed pleased about his reluctant compliance as he got off the bed and looked around the infirmary for something sharp enough. He settled for a pair of scissors, which he handed Newt before presenting his forearm once more, strangely eager at the prospect of being stabbed.
“Go on, now,” Prince Albert spoke with a petulant tone, completely unlike someone who was about to have a blade go through their arm.
Newt hesitated, muttering ‘pardon me’ before gingerly grabbing onto the prince's forearm with his free hand and squeezing hard. Prince Albert’s confidence seemed to waver for just a moment, so Newt lifted the scissors in his right hand and drove the point into the skin before the prince's moment of doubt could make him change his mind.
Newt used as much force as necessary so that he wouldn't have to pierce him more than once, but the scissors still struggled to make way through the meat, more than he thought it would. He hadn't been a knight for long, so far never having found himself in a situation that would require him to draw his sword on anyone, let alone use it to make such a deep wound. It felt nothing like tearing into faux opponents made out of fabric and hay, not nearly as easy or neat. He'd expected it to be softer, like sinking into butter, but it was more solid than that, tougher, stranger, nauseating, like biting into steak and feeling something crunch under your molars. But perhaps it wasn't as hard as it felt, because soon enough the blades had pierced through the other side of the prince's arm entirely, the base of the scissors pressing between his skin and Newt's fingers. Once the wound was deep enough he pulled the scissors out, clumsily dropping them onto the white sheets.
Prince Albert didn't react as gracefully as he might have wanted. When the steel first tore through his forearm, he cursed loudly, grabbing onto Newt's arm with his free hand for dear life, doubling over in agony and pressing his forehead against Newt's shoulder.
As soon as Newt removed the blades, prince Albert gasped and called for doctor Paige. Newt gaped at him, mortified, and thought himself to have been betrayed by the prince. He was to be executed now for sure, he couldn't get away with harming the prince, and who would ever buy the story that he was ordered to?
However, as soon as doctor Paige rushed in, prince Albert said, “I require medical assistance, for I was stabbed last night by an intruder. Thank heavens above, this knight here came to my rescue.”
Newt's expression couldn't have been more incriminating, but he found himself speechless and appalled by the situation at hand. He couldn't see a world where the truth wasn't painfully obvious to anyone with working eyes.
Doctor Paige seemed to want to turn a blind eye. Her mouth twitched like she was about to smile before she managed to school her face into stone cold seriousness, “Is that right, Your Highness?” She asked, coming up to them and extending her hand, “Allow me to inspect the wound.”
The prince exposed the gash on his arm to her without putting up a fight.
Doctor Paige closely inspected the punctured flesh, holding it in place with one hand, and carefully exploring the wound with the other, opening and closing the skin with her fingers to assess the damage, and flipping it around a couple times, making the royal boy wince. She hummed before straightening up, moving to the back of the room and reaching for a wooden cabinet.
Newt hadn’t really understood what the doctor had meant when she had called the infirmary “provisional” earlier, but now he did.
This room, whatever it was, was not an infirmary at all. It looked more like a storage closet. Cold and undecorated. Full of dusty barrels and boxes that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades, and which smelled of must.
Looking at the little window at the top of the wall too, it looked like they were underground. Were these the ramparts? For what reason was he being hidden anyway? Surely, she could’ve taken care of him in the real infirmary.
Doctor Paige approached the side of the bed where the prince was sat, bringing a wooden stool with her so she could sit next to him, and leaving a little box of tools on the bed.
Prince Albert offered her his arm once more, silent, jaw clenched in what Newt could assume was pain, and winced when it was taken again.
The doctor began pressing gauzes to his flesh, first spraying them with a sharp smelling substance, then putting a hand over each side of the gaping wound as she did.
The white tissues were soon filled with red, although she kept them there, still pressing, collecting blood as the prince hissed. Newt admittedly found himself somewhat fascinated by the intervention, and leaned in a bit closer to get a better look.
Doctor Paige removed the gauzes, slowly lifting them and tilting her head.
“Just checking to see if the bleeding subceded, My Lord,” she said, apparently satisfied with how much red was still coming out of his wrist, “I couldn’t close such a heavily bleeding wound, as it would have hindered the procedure and furthered the risk of infection,” she glared at Newt when saying those words, making him recoil and look down to his lap in shame, feeling his cheeks warm up.
A few minutes passed of quiet shifting and grunting coming from the prince, when the doctor spoke again.
“The bleeding’s nearly stopped, My Lord, I can now sew the wound.”
“Then do it.” The prince hissed, impatient, clearly in pain.
Doctor Paige silently nodded, before leaning over, and reaching for the tin box. She took out a leather strap, and handed it to the prince, “If you please-”
Prince Albert swiftly took the belt from her hands, placing it in his mouth, and biting it, hard, if the way the muscles in his jaw clenched was anything to go by. The doctor reached into her apron’s pocket, and took out a rag, which she doused in something that Newt was pretty sure was alcohol from the smell, “Breathe this in, and make sure your breathing is deep, it will help numb the pain.”
It was then it dawned on Newt that he was about to witness an arm being sewn shut.
He tried to look anywhere but the scene happening right next to him, coming across the bloody scissors on the bed.
His blood went cold remembering what he’d just done.
He couldn’t think of anything he had ever hated as much. The way the meat had crunched and given way under the blade of the scissors, the way the prince’s face had gone pale, it had all been plainly disgusting. Gruesome and grotesque.
He wondered how it could be that a human being could kill another man, if that’s what putting a blade through living flesh entailed, and added that to the list of things that he absolutely despised about his job.
The prince’s blood had been particularly disenchanting as well- not that he needed much convincing. Perhaps because of him being an illiterate fool, he had expected it to be blue, like in the sayings. But it hadn’t been. Not even close.
It had been disappointingly, yet expectedly, red. Like his. Or anyone else’s for that matter. Red and bright and smelling like rot, tainting the steel of the blade like any one other’s would.
The blood that ran through the prince’s veins was just the same as that of any human, shining brightly against his dark skin, the brown background heightening the very evident crimson hue. Red. Red and normal. Like anyone else 's.
A pained groan brought him back down to earth.
Prince Albert bore his teeth, looking down with a scowl at the cotton being dragged across his arm. The rag and belt had been discarded on the bed, and he held onto the top of his forearm with his other hand.
“Apologies, Your Highness, but it is best to clean the wound to avoid infections. Please restrain any movement of your hand, and hold on to what I gave you,” Doctor Paige spoke in a cold and clinical tone.
The prince grunted in return, unclenching his fist. Something about her hurrying up.
She finally quit brushing the wound, turning around to reach into the metal box, and took out a curved needle and some string.
Newt was back to staring at her work.
She brought the corners of the prince’s flesh together in a way that was mesmerising. She dug into the wound, reaching deep into the flesh, stabbing it, and passing the string through the meat in a pattern. First the muscle, then the fat, then finally the skin, or what was underneath, at least, closing the wound without any visible string.
Newt’s jaw was hung loose. How could that be? He remembered seeing other knights with suture marks, they were far from invisible or pretty like this one.
Doctor Paige repeated the same procedure on the opposite side, ventral to the one she’d just closed, reaching deep, then less deep, then finally under the skin again.
“I will not fully close this wound as I want to allow it to drain onto the bandage, My Lord,” she said, putting the string away, “I wanted to leave it on this side as I believe it to be more discrete. I will try my best so that it is not the case, but know that both sides will scar nonetheless,” she looked up at the prince, searching for any sort of go-ahead in his face.
“Sure.” He simply replied, voice dry and weak. He looked a lot more tired than when the procedure had originally started.
Doctor Paige nodded, before giving Newt another look. He found himself suddenly really interested in the cobweb on the corner of the room.
The doctor spoke some more, something about a prognosis and scarring and other medical jargon that Newt didn’t really understand or care for as she bandaged the prince’s arm, ending their impromptu appointment by telling him to go visit her every so often to get the wound cleaned and the like.
Doctor Paige began tidying up, and the prince got up, gently rubbing his wrist with a scowl. He began slowly walking towards the door, eyes still glued to the bandage, and Newt felt himself sadden. It’s not that he was expecting the prince to turn around and say something to him, but he was also mildly disappointed that that seemed to not be the case.
He pouted, eyebrows creasing over his forehead, when the prince turned around, making him sit up straighter, spine stiffening the second he saw him swirl. He almost opened his mouth to talk, but no words came from the royal’s mouth, so he stayed shut, watching his black eyes glisten with an odd light, before he finally left, disappearing out the door without a further word.
☙〰❦〰❧
Alby made his way back to his quarters, quiet hurried steps so that no one would pester him about what he had been doing out at such a time, dressed in nothing but his nightgown… In his defense, there was no need to keep up appearances with someone of much lower status, such as an unnoteworthy knight.
He arrived back at his chambers a few minutes after sunrise, just before maids and butlers began bustling about the palace. He would’ve liked to get back into his bed, especially now that the early morning sunlight coming through the window had warmed up the sheets, but father would scorn him if he dared to spend any time slacking off.
And so, he peeled off his gown and put on his regular undergarments, pulled his light, cream colored blouse over his head, secured the collar around his neck and stepped into his wide legged pants, clasped on a pair of boots, buttoned up his waistcoat, embroidered with delicate green designs of primrose, draped the cloak over his shoulders and adjusted his hat before heading for the dining room.
Father was already seated at the head of the table, mother sitting to his left side as they both sipped on chocolate and indulged in the various pastries that had been displayed before them. He sat to father’s right and was promptly served a cup of the hot beverage. He took a sip and burned his tongue, tried his best to hold back a reaction.
Father said, “it’s been reported that one of our knights did not show up to make his rounds this morning.” Though he didn’t look at Alby, he was most certainly talking to him. “What would you know? It’s Smith’s son. That boy is just as useless as his father.”
Father loathed Isaac. Loathed his house even more, and it hadn’t been a day since the knighting ceremony that father hadn’t let his grievances about it be known whenever the opportunity came up, which was often, because Isaac wasn’t the best knight by far.
Alby took another sip of his drink, the dark brown liquid finally cool enough that it didn’t scorch his tongue. It went down his throat, warming up his insides, not with sugary induced happiness, but with bitterness instead, warm, and volatile as anger was.
His father did hate Isaac.
So much so that it was often their only topic of discussion at the dinner table: his failures, his father’s, his wrongs, and his debts. Father hated that boy so much that he was sure that he had heard Isaac’s name hissed out in anger more times in half a year than he had his own name come from his father’s mouth throughout all his life.
His eyebrow twitched, and then his wrist complained, sending a sharp burst of pain up his arm. Alby recoiled, dropping the mug on the table, and went to hold his wrist, grunting in pain.
Mother yelped, and father didn’t even bother taking his eyes off of his plate. “Looks like my own son isn’t much better off either," he scoffed, bringing a cinnamon bun to his mouth.
Alby’s nostrils flared as he looked up at father. Obviously he’d only noticed the broken mug. Looking at his own son was too much of a bother anyway. Not like his bandaged forearm was alarming.
Not like he would care at all.
Mother and father carried on with their breakfast as a couple butlers ushered in to clean up the mess, and he stood up to leave. On second thought, he could probably do with a nap.
His bedsheets were really calling to him, and so he wasted no time angrily stomping back to his room, huffing his way up the staircase, and not even thanking the knights at the doors as he walked past them into the room. He barked at them to slam them shut, which they obviously didn’t do, delicately closing them so they wouldn’t make any sound. His face went warm, and he banged at the doors for them to open them again, slamming them himself.
Much better.
He took a deep breath through his nose, far more satisfied than he previously was, and crawled into bed as he was, letting the softness of the many pillows and bedsheets on his bed envelop him, his cape snaking behind him and sliding through the cozy halls as he settled into place. He snuggled into the pillow under his cheek, taking in the smell, and felt immediately relaxed. Nothing like oneself’s company to make one feel better.
Alby closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun coming in through the glass, and soon fell asleep, his mind taken to a much better land, where he could roam free and do as he pleased.
The prince awoke to a beautiful field, in which the grass was green and the expanse was vast, going on for miles and miles at a time, no walls to restrict him, or houses or trees to break the ground. The small hills were covered in grass, nothing but the occasional flower rocking in the wind, and he wore strange clothes, made up of even stranger materials, which were dark, and much more simple than his usual ones, but which felt light, letting the breeze envelop and cool his warm body. The clouds raced to reach the bright sun up ahead, carried by the currents in the sky, and he followed them to the horizon, landing on the grassy ground again, green going on for all eternity, soft under his hands, fingers sinking into the fertile ground, humid, and nice-smelling, like that of summer coming around, and then he heard his name being called. Distant, at first, and then closer, carried by the wind, soft, and welcoming, calling out behind him. He turned around, curious to find the source, and his eyes fell upon a figure, standing over him, blocking out the sun, bright and bothersome behind its bored face. He brought an arm up to block it out, and the figure spoke, “Your Highness, it is time for lunch.”
“Whuh?” Alby squinted, confused.
“It is 1pm, Your Highness.” Oh. This was real life.
Alby grumbled out in annoyance, and turned around, face planting into the bed, before actually getting up, his body begging him to stay.
The butler stepped to the side to let him pass, and he only took the time to lightly fix his crooked hat in front of the mirror before going down to the dining hall.
The image of the man was still burnt into his mind. Not of the one that awoke him, but of the one he’d managed to glance at beforehand, right before the old man had invaded his sight. The figure was odd, and tall, the first thing he saw from his kneeling position its hand, stretched out to him, inviting him to take it, and stand up, but that was about as far as he could recall, its face obscured by the hazy darkness of the dream. Its features were hidden, invisible behind the hand, so clear in his mind it had almost felt real. Its fingers were long, the pads rough and worked, and tendons jutted out, intermingling with blue veins over its wrists, snaking up to its toned forearm, the image frustratingly only getting blurrier as more time passed since his dream. Alby strained his mind, feeling an odd sense of urgency fill his heart. He wanted to know who he was, the person who had dared invade his sleeping mind.
He recalled looking up, he was on his knees after all, although he had a feeling it would’ve still not been enough had he been standing up, as the figure was tall, and lean, long, like its arms, and the hair on its head. Huh. Come to think of it…
“Albert.” His realization was interrupted by father’s booming voice.
Alby had been staring at his plate, idly picking at his food. He found himself momentarily surprised that it was not the roasted pheasant meat, boiled vegetables and wine he’d had for lunch, but instead a bowl of soup and mutton. He had ruminated on that dream for just a moment, but now when he looked out the window the sun was gone, blue skies replaced by deep dark and blinking stars.
Father cleared his throat. When Alby locked eyes with him, his brow was down turned and his lips pressed into a tight line, the face he made when he was particularly displeased with something, which let him know that his mind had been wandering for far longer than he initially believed.
“What?” He asked, maybe snappier than what was warranted.
Father exhaled through his nose and put his cutlery down, “Is that the way to address your father? I expected better of you, Albert.” He shook his head. “Son, it is time for you to stop making a jest out of our name.”
“What are you talking about?” Alby grunted, stabbing at his food now, only to give himself something to do besides staring at father’s sour face.
“Your performance in your lessons has been subpar, to say the least, and you ought to be ashamed of your lack of involvement concerning the future of our kingdom. You wander this palace as a phantom, preoccupied by nothing but your own desires. When will you stop acting like a boy and assume your destiny as heir to this kingdom?”
Alby’s face heated up with anger and shame. Being lectured by father was humiliating, it made him feel like a child, ignorant, dim-witted and meant to lose every argument. It wasn’t his fault that everything his tutors talked about was uninteresting and old fashioned, and why would he care about this kingdom when his time to inherit the throne was still decades away? It was all so far away, there was no point in worrying about it today when he could wait until tomorrow. Surrounded by tedious dullness, he’d had to find ways to entertain himself, and it just so happened that the world within his mind was much more enticing than that of reality.
“Do you have nothing to say? No explanations?” Father scoffed, and the words snapped Alby out of his brief moment of restraint.
“Forgive me for being inattentive today, father,” He started, though he didn’t mean a word of it, “but I fear it cannot be helped, for last night I was attacked while out in the maze and the events have profoundly shaken me.”
“You were attacked?” He heard mother speak for the first time that day, her eyebrows curling up with concern.
“Indeed I was.” He pulled off the glove on his right hand and hastily rolled up his sleeve, exposing his bandaged forearm to both his parents, along with the prying eyes of the few servants standing around the room.
Father stood up, his usually contained facial gestures now crumpled into a sneer, “You fool. You ought to have been able to defend yourself, it is a disgrace that you allowed yourself to be harmed. Beyond that, a wrongdoer invaded the palace and you failed to report it until now? You let him go free? Shame on you, for you have endangered every person in this palace.”
Alby stood up too, his chair screeched as it dragged over the floor. “I did not! He did not walk away, a knight came to my rescue and got rid of the crook.” He crossed his arms, every second that passed made him more confident in the story, the pieces falling into place. “You need not worry about it any longer.”
For once, father was speechless. He was quick to gain his composure again, straightened his back and glared down at Alby. He made it clear with just his eyes that he didn’t believe it. “Who might this valiant knight be, then?”
He exhaled sharply. “Isaac.”
Mother’s mouth fell open as her eyes widened and he heard the servants start whispering amongst themselves. Father’s coolheaded disposition cracked a final time, a single word managing to enrage him beyond reason. “Do not lie to me, boy.”
“I am not,” He said proudly, heart racing like a horse inside his chest. “He defended me quite efficiently, I owe him my life.” As if, he thought, if anything, that cowardly knight owes me his life. “In fact, he was badly injured in the altercation. Thankfully we managed to get to a safe place and he has been resting there for today. That is why he was absent from his duties this morning.”
“If what you are claiming is the truth, why did you not report it?” Father questioned, his voice low and accusatory. He could not bear the idea of Isaac being any kind of hero.
Alby bit the inside of his mouth. He hadn’t initially planned to have father find out about the whole ordeal, he had wanted to keep it on the down low, uninterested in the mess of it. But now, seeing how intense father’s reaction to the reveal had been, he revelled in it, making him lose his cool about something other than his failures, having this much control over the narrative. He wanted it to keep going, wanted to come out of an argument victorious for once.
The thought invaded his mind all at once, the perfect answer to father’s question, something that was sure to keep him fuming for days to come.
“As I said, Isaac got injured last night. I wanted to wait until he recovered to report it, for I have a request to make. But I suppose it can’t be helped now.” He sighed.
“Out with it,” Father barked, “what is it that you want?”
“I’d like Isaac to be my personal guard from now on.”