The Blue Prince

Gerulf slept fitfully, and awoke feeling wretched. He was a hopeless fool for what he’d said, thoughtlessly assaulting the Prince’s loneliness, when all along he should have realised it as a fragile and bitter weakness. He got out of bed and half-heartedly began his exercises, racking his brain for a suitable way in which he could offer his apologies without further inciting His Majesty’s short-fused ire.

Damn; would he even be allowed to speak with him? It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for the Prince to send Armas down to ensure he was seen out of the palace. Gerulf’s mind turned back to his first evening in the Prince’s House, when he’d been so sure that that very thing was about to happen. He abruptly rose from the floor where he’d been doing his sit-ups and grabbed his watch up from the desk. It was later than he usually arose, already almost nine. Surely if Armas was going to come and rain his disapproval upon him he would have done so already.

Gerulf was still standing there, pondering his watch, a few moments later when Zita knocked at the door to bring him his breakfast, forcing him to snatch up a sheet. She laughed, said something about it becoming a near familiar sight, and left his tray, holding onto a sharp peal of laughter until she was back out in the corridor. That penetrating sound would doubtlessly cause delight among the gossip mongers. He quickly ate his breakfast, washed and dressed and, after a moment of consideration, put on his coat and set his feet towards the door to the courtyard.

As he’d hoped, the snow now lay thick enough to crunch pleasantly under his feet as he walked, changing the character of the space around him entirely. Through the gap between the buildings he could see the slope that led to the gardens, the path along which he’d walked with Aldric the day before. Somebody had been out early to scrape the snow from the path itself, but the lawn was smoothly covered. The gloomy, cloud clogged sky promised a new fall before the day was out. It was just what he needed to clear his head, help him think straight.

Gerulf walked out towards the top of the path, feeling the chill begin to prickle at the scars but determinedly ignoring it; he was staying out here until he worked out what to do, one way or another. Looking across the vista of the groomed gardens and the attractively scattered trees beyond however, he found himself at a loss. Should he just go? It was perfectly clear to all concerned, except possibly the Prince, that he was ill suited for this position, even if the only really specific requirement of him was the size of his genitals. He was sure Armas would be glad to see him go, if only for as long as it took him to realise he’d be sent out to find the next candidate…

That thought stung. Gerulf grit his teeth against the idea that another would be taking his place. That perhaps the Prince would enjoy himself more with them for all he’d learned from Gerulf, all the new things he now knew to demand…

Maybe he’d stay.

Unless he was told to leave, of course.

A small sound quite a way behind him caught his ears, and he turned his head far enough to notice that the guard at the door to the Prince’s House, now quite small in the distance, had straightened his posture slightly, no doubt having heard somebody coming from inside. The door creaked open a little, falling almost closed again before Gerulf could see who was behind it. The soldier leaned in to listen to whatever the person inside was saying, then he glanced around, looking suspiciously at Gerulf for a moment before making a reply, his eyes darting worriedly between the gap in the door and Gerulf.

The guard didn’t sort out his posture for mere servants and Armas, having no compulsions about barging into Gerulf’s bedroom would have little hesitance at running into him while he stood outdoors, so…

Gerulf walked along the path a little way, as far as the hedge that hid the Prince’s House from the terrace behind one of the grander rooms of the Palace, letting the tall, leafy barrier conceal him from the area of the door. Sure enough, moments later footsteps came crunching down the path towards him, and Gerulf was able to neatly step out at his employer’s side and join him.

The quickly concealed expression of horrified surprise on the Prince’s face was almost worth more than the opportunity.

“My Lord, I apologise for disturbing your walk, but I wish to speak with you most urgently,” he said, cutting off anything the Prince may have said. His words came out with rather more desperation than he had intended, and they both found themselves drawing to a halt, Prince Mihai standing in the centre of the path and Gerulf at its edge with his heels on the snowy grass.

The Prince studied him with narrowed suspicious eyes for several tense seconds, then he shook his head and sighed.

“What is it Gerulf,” he said wearily, turning to continue moving along the path. Gerulf followed, slightly behind him.

“I…I spoke without thinking yesterday evening. I didn’t intend to offend you and I apologise.”

The Prince studied Gerulf’s face, expression blank, for several tense seconds, then turned back to the path and began to walk. As Gerulf took his first step to follow him, he saw the Prince nod his head slightly.

“Alright then Gerulf. We’ll call that incident over, shall we?”

Was he embarrassed? “Yes my Lord. Thank you.”
Why was he embarrassed? The Prince kept walking and Gerulf strolled along at his shoulder, mildly frustrated at being unable to see his face. Was it…could it have been the outburst? It wasn’t unusual for the Prince to be angry, but rare for him to simply send Gerulf away rather than have him remain to be shouted at.

The Prince paused on the path a few yards away from the fountain, standing with his hands behind his back, staring meditatively at the trees in the distance. Watching him, Gerulf thought that the pose was for effect for some moments, until the Prince turned his head enough for him to see his face.

His expression was a curious mixture of worry and relief, though what the source of these was, Gerulf couldn’t say.

“You know,” he said, so softly that Gerulf couldn’t be sure if he was even expected to hear it, “I do rather think it’s quite…pleasant out here.”

“Yes my Lord,” Gerulf replied weakly.

“This village of yours…did you say there was mining there?”

“Yes my Lord. Tin mining in fact.”

The Prince raised his eyebrows in surprise, and tore his gaze from the landscape in order to fix it on Gerulf. “Tin is dug out of the ground?”

“Yes my Lord. It’s dug out of veins and smelted to make it pure. The hills up in North Well are quite rich in tin.”

“North Well,” the Prince murmured meditatively, his eyes once more roaming the tree line. “I’ve never been there.” He began once again to walk.

“I, uh…I can’t say I’d recommend it my Lord.”

“No, of course. You said it was an ugly place.”

“Yes my Lord.”

“So why did you live there?”
How to explain this to a man who’d never wanted for a material thing in his life?

“Well my Lord, my family had kept a business in the village for three generations, and while it was prosperous enough to keep them, it was never enough so that they could raise the money to leave the place.”

“I see. So your family were miners then.”

“No my Lord, my family kept the local tavern.”

“Ah.” It was obvious from that one syllable that Prince Mihai had never been to a tavern. For an instant Gerulf found himself wondering what it would be like to sneak him away and take him to one of the ale houses in Vetre Square, or to a place on Veisgarten Street, or even to Friedhold’s …no that would just be mean.

“So your mother and father ran a tavern. I see,” the Prince mused, trying to get his head around the facts of the matter.

“Ah, my mother and my grandfather my Lord.”

“Oh?”

“Yes my Lord.”

Would he work it out? Would he understand what Gerulf was saying?

They paused having come to a fork in the footpath, the cleared gravel paths stretching to either side of them, the snow scattered artificial woods in front. Once again, Gerulf could see somebody ambling through the trees some distance away, surprisingly quiet despite the combined obstacles of snow and low branches.

“My Lord, I…”

The Prince turned to him, his face carefully passive. Gerulf ploughed on, determined to get this out.

“You and I my Lord, we…” We have this in common. “Well, we…” Where were his words?

Prince Mihai tilted his head on one side and gave Gerulf a narrow look. One the verge of clumsily blurting out everything he knew, Gerulf’s train of thought was crudely interrupted by a chillingly familiar sound out between the trees.

A metallic click, sharp in the cold air, and he was stepping off the path and into the snow, putting himself between the Prince and the tree line, his mind recalling the precise source of the sound a bare instant before he saw the figure amongst the trees.

A musket.

“My lord, run for cover,” he blurted, seconds before the crack rang out, the ball kicking up a flurry of snow just a foot to the Prince’s side. Gerulf reached out to push the young man away, in the same motion that hurtled him away from the path and into the woods, placing himself between the Prince and the gunner, who was now clumsily struggling to reload.

Only in the woods was Gerulf’s size an advantage to running, the branches and frost crisped undergrowth snapping against his chest and yielding beneath his feet as he furiously charged the gunner, his teeth clenched hard together. Just close enough to see the bastard’s face when he realised Gerulf was closing in on him and abandoned reloading the musket to turn and run.

The gunner, whoever he was, was tall and skinny and quick with it, but the weight of the musket in his hands and the slippery mass of snow drenched grass and undergrowth beneath his feet was slowing him down. Not far away, though, was an area of open space that bordered a carriage road leading across the grounds. Picking his moment, Gerulf forced out a burst of speed and flung himself at the gunner, lunging through the air to crash down on top of him and slam him to the ground, yards away from the edge of the trees.

The gunner wheezed as Gerulf’s weight forced the air from his lungs, struggling helplessly under his weight. Gerulf took stock to make sure he wasn’t hurt and, satisfied that the only person damaged in the collision had been the other fellow, propped himself up. Knelt on the back of the fellow’s thighs to rise a little, then moved one knee into the middle of his back to keep him down. Standard practice.

The gunner was still struggling, but once a solid punch on the wrist cracked a bone and forced him to let go of the musket, and a bat to the back of the head smacked his face into the snow and bloodied his nose, he’d lost a little of his fight.
That was when Gerulf became aware of his audience.

“My lord, when I said to run for cover, I didn’t mean the woods from which you were being shot at.”

“Th-there’s only one,” the Prince returned faintly. “I…he has a musket…”

Gerulf looked up at him. “I know, my Lord,” he said soothingly. Poor lad was petrified, his face corpse pale and his shoulders trembling. He grabbed up the gunner’s wrists, holding them behind his back, and hauled the lanky man to his feet as he rose.

“Do you know this man my Lord?” he asked, grabbing the gunner’s hair to force him to turn his face towards Prince Mihai.

The Prince peered at him worriedly, then shook his head. “I…no, no I don’t.”

“It’s alright, my Lord,” Gerulf told him. The gunner let out a bark of laughter at that, and before he’d even thought about it, Gerulf’s palm was stinging from the slap. The gunner spat blood into the snow, and Prince Mihai flinched away violently, breathing fast.

The gunner worked his jaw and spat again, grinning nastily at the Prince. “I’m not surprised you’re not wanted, blue man,” he ground out. “pathetic little-”

That was just about enough, and Gerulf let go of his hands and flung him onto the ground, rapidly bending over him to plunge his fist as hard as he could into the bastard’s stomach, his skin hot with anger. The gunner choked and rolled onto his side, coughing out vomit as he curled himself around his injured gut.

Prince Mihai whimpered again, the sound drawing Gerulf’s attention back to their surroundings. Between the trees, some two hundred yards away, he saw a flash of grey and blue and, having realised their presence, became rapidly aware of the approach of a small group of men.

Half a dozen of them, all Palace guard…no, no they weren’t. Thanks to Birger’s timely lesson the other evening, he could tell that they were mostly Queen’s Guard. Five of them were, in fact. The last man in the group was one of the Elites.

Prince Mihai followed Gerulf’s gaze and spotted them, and abruptly collected himself, straightening his clothes and gulping down deep breaths. The gunner wasn’t making much effort to escape, but just to be sure, Gerulf put his foot down on him.

The group of guards drew near quickly once they’d seen them, the Elite man in his gleamingly white sash clearly in charge.

“Your Majesty,” the Elite man called out as he approached, trying to sound out of breath despite his unhurried pace. “Are you quite alright?

“Yes…yes, I am. Fortunately Mr Gerulf was at hand,” the Prince replied, his voice still rather faint.

The Elite guardsman, a burly creature with a wind-roughened face, strode past him and over to Gerulf, the gaggle of uncertain looking Queens Guard following after him, leaning to look around him at the man on the ground. He bent to peer at the gunner’s face for a moment, then lifted his head to give Gerulf a conspiratorial look.

“Just as I thought,” he muttered. With one hand he waved Gerulf away, and with the other he reached down to haul the criminal to his feet.

“You three!” he yelled at the group of Queen’s guard, and they jumped apart, the three he seemed to have indicated standing at nervous attention. All five were quite young, obviously not cut out for the jobs they’d been landed with. “You three, escort His Majesty Prince Mihai and his attendant back to the Prince’s House. You other two, you come with me. We’ll get this piece of work back and see how he got in.”

With that, the Elite man bowed neatly to the Prince, followed in kind rather worriedly by the two who were going with him, and the three of them headed off, leading their prisoner. Prince Mihai was still shaking, his face slightly reddened now, no doubt from the cold, Gerulf thought. He reached out and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder, surprised when he moved to press up against Gerulf’s palm.

Gerulf stepped up next to him, keeping his hand in place, and looked over at the trio of Queen’s guards they’d been left with. Just as Birger had said; all shiny uniform, no bloody sense. “Well lads,” he said, trying to keep his voice amiable, “Let’s get His Majesty safely back to his home, yes?”

Thankfully, they needed no further prompting, and fell into place around them, one in front and two behind, slightly to either side. Setting a slow, cautious pace back up the sloping path towards the Palace buildings, craning their necks to survey their surroundings, the group of guardsmen saw them safely to the main door of the Prince’s House, where the man on duty gave them such a look of astonishment Gerulf thought he may have hurt his jaw.

“Alright gentlemen,” he said softly, “I’ll see his Majesty back to his suite now, if that’s right by you.”

Looking relieved, the three stood guard until Prince Mihai had hurried indoors and up the stairs, then gratefully fled back to the safety of the main Palace. Useless milksops.

Gerulf exchanged a glance with the fellow on the door who, despite looking rather worried, let him enter without an argument. He went up the stairs to the decorous landing, then pushed open the door into the Prince’s suite. Listened.

“Armas? Armas?…oh heavens…”

He closed the door deliberately loudly and walked down the corridor, following the sound of his employer’s quavering voice, walking past the Prince’s blue coat which had been left crumpled on the carpet. The door of the sitting room that his interview had been carried out in stood ajar, and Gerulf pushed it open. Prince Mihai stood with his back to the door, leaning heavily on his hands which rested on the back of one of the armchairs. A freshly laid fire warmed the room, but the young man was shivering.

“Armas, where on Earth have you been? I need…oh.”

The Prince had turned his head just in time to realise that it was Gerulf behind him.

“Are you hurt at all my Lord?”

“No…no, I just need…” he stared hazily at Gerulf for some moments, before flinching slightly and swiftly turning to place himself in the seat. “I just need a stiff drink, I think.”

“Well, I’m no trained attendant my lord, but I believe I can manage that,” Gerulf replied with an air of cheer. Little reaction from that. He walked over to the cabinet upon which sat a modest selection of decanters. The ornate tags read port, whiskey and –aha!- brandy. Just the thing. He lifted the crystal decanter, sending a questioning glance in his employer’s direction then, upon receiving a semi-attentive nod, poured out a generous measure and carried it over to place the glass in the Prince’s hands.

Prince Mihai nodded distractedly and took a healthy gulp of the liquid. Grimaced, and had a more measured sip. Sensible. Gerulf weighed up the risk of taking liberties, then lowered himself into the other armchair.

“Any better my Lord?”

“…mph.”

Something was wrong. The Prince sat with his body drawn up strangely in the chair, every muscle tense. Not the demeanor of a man relieved after a nasty shock, more that of a man expecting to be suddenly faced with worse.

He was still shivering.

Gerulf knew the problems a man faced when his life was threatened. The fear, the frustrating helplessness, the desire to visit harm on one’s attackers…and there were sometimes other problems besides. He hauled himself out of the seat, his movement making the Prince flinch. Slowly, Gerulf crouched down in front of the Prince’s chair, seeing a look of wretched misery form on the younger man’s lovely face.

“My Lord, any man would be scared. Having some bastard fire on you-”

“I-it’s alright Gerulf…I-I…”

A spasm of energy suddenly shook the Prince’s body, making him slosh drops of brandy out of the glass. Gerulf instinctively reached out to grab his waist, steady him, but feeling the pressure of his hands Prince Mihai gasped and squirmed desperately, panicking.

Thumping forward onto his knees, Gerulf reflexively pulled the slight body towards him and ended up with the trembling Prince sprawled over his thighs, still holding him by the hips. Prince Mihai was breathing heavily, deep, juddering heaves of air, as he attempted to curl himself up. As slowly and gently as he could, Gerulf slipped one arm around the young man’s back and slid his other hand up his legs and over his hip and…

Yes, that was why he was so upset. Every now and then, a fellow got heated up because of danger.

Prince Mihai was cringing desperately away from Gerulf’s touch. “It’s okay my Lord,” Gerulf said soothingly. “I’ve known a number of fellows in the army who would find themselves like this after a fight.”

“It’s n-not-” the Prince bit out, but it seemed he could summon no more words, or at least would not let them pass his lips.

Undeterred, Gerulf dextrously began to unfasten the complex fly of those old-fashioned suit trousers. That done, and without the least sign of resistance from Prince Mihai, he slid his hand gently around the Prince’s smooth, moist-skinned member and squeezed.

A shiver that passed into his own body through his arms, and he began to stroke properly, his palm sliding sleekly against the skin.

A soft keening noise, and the Prince’s face was screwed up in tension, his pale pink lips tight in a moue of overbearing pleasure.

No time at all, or at least that was what Gerulf felt, what with time flying and all, and Prince Mihai’s soft sounds became a sharp cry as he came. Gerulf kept hold of him until he was well on his way to being completely soft, then moved his semen-spattered hand up to the young man’s flat tummy and rubbed gentle circles there. With a deep sigh, the Prince suddenly relaxed, slumping back against Gerulf’s arm.

“Better my Lord?” Gerulf asked, unable to keep a smile from his face.

“Mmm…” was his only reply. He worked his arms under the Prince’s body and set him carefully on the carpet, leaning him back against the chair he’d been sitting in, then rose to his feet and began stretching the aches out of his poor cramped legs.

Prince Mihai watched him half-interestedly, eyes sleepy. So damn pretty.

Gerulf crouched again and lifted the young man into his arms, hearing the customary grunt of protest but recognising that there was no heat behind it. He had to open the bedroom door with his foot, which felt a little tricky for a moment, and then it was done and he was setting Prince Mihai down on his bed.

“You want your bath my Lord?”

“Mm…in a while. I’ll have Armas do it when he comes back from…” An eloquent gesture of one hand indicated ‘wherever’.

“Shall I help you undress?”

A nod, and Gerulf reached out as the Prince sat up and peeled him out of his jacket. He had no idea if it would need laundering or not so, for the time being, he draped the garment over the wing chair, the very same one his own clothes had seen so much of. Turning back to the bed, he froze; Prince Mihai sat neatly in the centre of the bed, one leg tucked under him, the other bent up with his hands cupped around the knee. His face was turned to the window, where his gaze rested somewhere in the distance.

Gerulf’s hands twitched with a sudden desire to find out where they’d thrown that bastard gunner and bloody him up a little more.

“Are you certain that you’re unhurt my Lord?”

The Prince nodded, and as Gerulf got closer to him, he realised that the pale forehead was creased with thin lines of worry.

“My Lord…was that the first time that a person had tried to…to harm you?” His mouth could not quite form the word ‘kill’.

Prince Mihai looked down at his hands where they were clasped around his knee, staring intently at his thumbs. Gerulf reflexively glanced at his own hands; the knuckles on his right were red, from where he’d thrown the punch.

The stubborn silence spoke volumes and, just like the previous day when he’d been talking to Miss Tynne, several scraps of knowledge came together in Gerulf’s mind to form the answer to an as-yet unspoken question.

“Your older brothers my Lord? Was it-”

“Yes…” the Prince turned sharply to look at Gerulf. “How did you know?”

“I’m simply observant my Lord. I met one of your brothers several days ago. He strikes me as the type to be …unpleasant.”

Prince Mihai looked surprised, but he didn’t speak.

“Yes,” he replied, quietly. “Well Gerulf, I think that I shall bathe and that you shall go home.”

“Very well my Lord. I…am sure that you’ll call upon me, should you need me.”

A curt nod, and the young man’s eyes were once more far away. Gerulf left the room, only in the cooler air of the corridor realising that he was still aroused, and still fully dressed to boot. Out of the apartments and down the stairs to the door, a nod to the guardsman as he passed by. Out in the chill of the yard, he raised his eyes to realise that night had fallen. The breeze had cleared a patch in the clouds, seemingly directly above the rooftops of the palace. Squinting his eyes, Gerulf could make out stars…constellations in fact. The hunting dog there, which he seemed to recall having seen the first night he’d arrived here. Something to be sought, still to be sought. And near to the dog, as ever, shone the canted scales, telling him of an injustice.

His thoughts strayed to the cruel words of the gunner in the woods, the horrific fear in the young Prince’s eyes, the brisk self assurance of the Elite man. Something troubled his racing mind, but nothing clear surfaced.

An injustice though? It felt like the stars were telling tonight.



NOTES : Good news! I'm now on Live Journal! I'm under the same name, DancingGrimm, and I will be posting my existing stories and ongoing ones too. This will let me use tags to make things easy to find, post more extensive author notes, and most importantly, communicate a bit more with all of you. Please be patient as I add existing stories and chapters to the LJ, as I'm very pedantic, so it takes a while.

I hope that you're enjoying The Blue Prince, what with this rather unexpected (I hope) plot twist.

If you want to know when I put new stories and chapters on this site, the fabulous Paradox13 (who is also kind enough to beta read for me) has set up an email notifier for my stories. If you want to be included, send an email requesting inclusion in the mailing list to DancingGrimmUpdates@gmail.com, from the email address that you want to recieve the notification to, and she will send out an email every time I add something to the site.

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DG