See end of chapter for notes.
The prince was admittedly attractive, Riff considered, studying the portrait more than the sleeping boy. With his self assurance and remarkable eyes, the portrait seemed more alive than the living body. Dead to the world, if nothing else. It was disconcerting, to see the portrait, a century old at least, and the living body of the prince, who had hardly changed since he'd sat for the painting. Disconcerting, particularly in the half light of early morning, well before dawn.
(Has he said anything? one maid had whispered to another.)
Riff pulled himself away from the bed and it's occupant, pacing fitfully, shoes making little noise upon the thick carpet of the bed chamber. He was beginning to regret sneaking in, but he needed answers. The prince-Cain-had caught the imagination of the entire court, and for many leagues beyond. It wasn't any wonder he, too, would be caught up in the romance of the story.
(Her friend had been derisive. Idiot, he's asleep!)
A story was all it ever had been.
(The maid was defensive. What, you've never heard someone sleep talk?)
A prince of the royal line had been cursed, had disappeared, had run away. He would sleep for a thousand years, or a hundred years, or ten years, unless his true love woke him with a kiss, a touch, a whispered word. His father had been distraught, or furious, had tried everything, or had allowed any girl to kiss him, or had permitted no one to see him.
(Yeah, but that's normal sleep, this one's cursed.)
The facts: there had been a prince named Cain Hargreaves, who had no records of later life or an early death, and no grave in the royal cemetery. And that was all Riff had believed. Until a sleeping boy had been found during renovations, curled peacefully in a room bricked over decades ago. And those facts had all changed.
(And then a third, in a hushed voice. No, she's right. I heard him say something, a name.)
Riff stopped pacing and stood before the bed again, studying the sleeping prince's expression. He couldn't place it, the faint curve of his lips, couldn't decide if it was sad or relieved or satisfied. He wouldn't say smug. Smug was a tad uncharitable to be said aloud.
(The first had been elated. A name! Oh, how romantic! Whose, whose?)
Cain had captured everyone's imagination, including Riff's, but he was certain the unsettling grasp the sleeping boy had upon his thoughts was abnormal. So many had tried to wake him with a kiss, as the sorcerer who had confirmed the curse's existence said must happen, and all had failed. He had silently watched the disappointed women leave and felt an anger which scared him. Cain sighed and shifted again, a hand cradling his face as he turned over to face Riff. The blond footman backed away, tempted to flee.
(Riffael. That's what it was. Riffael.)
Instead, the dregs of his resolve crumbled entirely, and he crept closer to kneel beside the bed. Carefully, Riff reached out and stroked soft, dark hair away from the pale forehead. If he hesitated any longer, he'd talk himself out of it. Riff leaned forward, and pressed a gentle kiss to the prince's cheek, then another one, shyer, to his lips.
One of them gasped.
Riff started to pull away instinctively, but a hand reached for his shoulder, another tangled itself in his hair, and he couldn't move. In the end, the prince pulled away first with a sleepy and extremely smug smile, propping himself up on his elbows to study Riff. "G'morning, Riffael," he said softly, voice higher than he had expected, but very rough. He stretched, back and shoulders popping, and then rubbed at the back of his neck with a pout. "Ow."
Belatedly, Riff closed his mouth.
The prince smiled again as he looked at him, before his eyes darkened faintly and it slipped with nerves. "Riffael, what is it?" he asked, eyes tracing his face. "You stare so, it makes me afraid something has happened…"
There was no answer for such a question, none which Riff could see. Besides which, words were a tad beyond him. He managed a humiliatingly strangled sound, swallowed, and tried again. "I- M-milord," he said instead, certain that wasn't what the proper address for a prince would be, but hoped it was acceptably neutral.
The prince's hesitation instantly turned to a frown, so he must have guessed wrong. "Riffael, I've asked you not to call me that!"
"B-but… sir…" Riff stammered out again. "I don't- I don't think-"
"Riffael…" he whispered, sitting up fully to study him in his turn. "Riffael, something's-something's gone wrong." He reached for the blond, cradling his face in both hands. Before, the prince's fingers had been so cold, but they were now warm. Riff's breath hitched. "Tell me," he pleaded, and then again in a more desperate demand, "Tell me!"
"How do you know my name?" Riff whispered. "My full name. I never use it, just Riff, because… I don't-Milord, what do you want of me?" He trembled.
The hands disappeared instantly, as did the warmth in his eyes. "You are not Riffael." He was so devastatingly cold.
"I-that is my name."
"But you do not know me."
"No."
"Then why-" but the question cut off abruptly, and the prince looked away. "Tell me what has happened since I slept," he ordered. Riff answered before he realized he did, the commanding and distant tone far more familiar and comfortable than the closeness, the affection.
"Excavations, in preparation of renovating the older sections of the palace, discovered the bricked up bedchamber where you lay. Your story slipped into legend, milord, so I am afraid I don't properly know."
"Legend?" the prince demanded immediately, pale skin going, if possible, paler. "What do you mean? How long has it been?"
"King Alexis passed nearly a hundred years ago," Riff said softly. "That… that was your father, correct? You are… ah, beg pardon, but you are Cain Hargreaves…?"
"Yes," the young man said softly. "…Yes. I am Cain Hargreaves." His shoulders had bowed with the weight of so many years, and Riff wondered what could be done in comfort. What might be acceptable.
"Milord-" he started, and trailed off uncertainly.
"It's nothing," he snapped, and stood, and swayed. Riff shot to his feet and steadied him, guiding him back to the bed.
"Sir, are you-"
"Go away," the prince ordered, burying his face in his hands. "I can't look at you, not when you are so much- go away! Leave me in peace."
"Sir, perhaps you should-" Riff wanted to reach for him again, to touch his shoulder and offer support, but swallowed back the words, feeling lost.
(And I'm not sure about romantic, she had added. I thought it was sad. Anyone he knew must be dead by now, so whoever Riffael is… They'll never see each other again.)
The prince glared at him, eyes reddened with suppressed tears. "I said go!" He seized upon the nearby pillow and flung it towards him with another shout.
(The romance is in the tragedy! the first one had declared, bossily.)
Riff didn't protest any further, and fled. Glancing back to see the prince burying his face in the pillow, he nearly returned. Instead, he continued, sympathy, pity, and worry for Cain warring within him.
(Still, I wonder what the prince dreams.)
A/N: It has been too long since I have written a multi-chapter fic for this fandom. I know I promised a sequel to Quite Contrary, but I've been obsessing over fairy tales far too much lately. Besides, this shouldn't be particularly long. It's not completed, but I do have a decent idea of where it will go, and I expect it to take... perhaps 5-7 chapters. Since it is incomplete, expect updates to be rather slow and sporadic.
Thank you for taking the time to read! Any and all reviews are welcome-advice or complaints or suggestions or comments... I read and reply to them all.