Friends are the siblings

God never gave us.

– Mencius

Prologue: The Whipping Boy, My Friend

They called him the whipping boy.

I remember the day we met very well, for snow marked the occasion – a rarity in father's kingdom. Unrelenting white piled high atop the town's thatched roofs and bare tree branches, blanketing the empty courtyards and frozen pools of Gandara, glistening against the windowpanes lining the great hall. To my five-year-old mind this miracle of nature was cause enough to celebrate, yet when I answered father's summons and took my place next to his throne, an entirely unexpected marvel awaited there.

"Son, we have guests."

My ears barely caught father's proclamation, so engrossed was I in the sight before me. A boy about my age knelt beside a burly man, the knee of his black breeches lost in the folds of the fern runner. Puffed white sleeves spewed from a violet waistcoat, tucked into the breeches and fastened at the wrist with silver buttons. Pale hose clung to his calves, bleeding seamlessly into equally close-fitting leather boots. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, yet I could see the feathers of his tricorn hat trembling where he held it aloft across bended knee.

"–of the finest stock." The man continued on, speaking solely to father. I noted the straining clasps of his fine jerkin briefly, wondering if they would hold should he decide to laugh. He appeared to be of noble rank, the bright pearls of his satin roundlet shimmering as he waved an enthusiastic hand. "Sire, he would be perfect for the young lord!"

Over time, I would learn the meaning behind those words:

Were he born to anyone else, he would have been a prince.

"Kurama." Father's smooth baritone drew my attention away from the kneeling figure. Tipping my head back, I took in the familiar sight of Gandara's gold encrusted throne bordered with countless jewels, gaze rising until I beheld father. Rich dark hair framed his angular face before spilling down his back, braided after the custom of our people. Gold adorned father's long pointed ears, danced across his neck and fingers in various styles of rings and necklaces, crowned his head in the glory of our kingdom. The royal robes encased his body in various shades of red and green – the colors of our house – shaped perfectly around his strong build; a mantle made of snow leopard fur hung about his shoulders. A single creamy hand peeked from beneath the gray and black garment, lowering until long, elegant fingers brushed my hair. "Would it please you if he stayed here?"

My eyes widened as I glanced back at the boy, who had yet to raise his head. Wild hair adorned that head much like the crown on father's, yet nothing in the boy's bearing insinuated nobility: tanned skin, scarred knuckles, a resolute submissiveness which did not fit with any royalty I'd ever seen. He was unique; an anomaly.

They called him the whipping boy but I did not know what that meant.

"Is he a slave?"

Father smiled at the innocent question, eyes forever closed by the scar spanning his temples – the wound of a battle before my time. "No; he hails from a house of the north."

My brows rose, breath catching in silent awe. For as long as I could remember, my nurse had entertained me with tales of the ice-capped north, a mystical place where snow fell every day and the people bent the elements to their will. I'd never met someone from beyond Tourrin's borders, our northernmost neighbor, and honestly, I was enchanted by the boy. "Can he be my friend?"

Father's brow furrowed, though his lips never faltered. Despite being in the constant company of my nurse and countless servants, I longed for a companion my own age. Mother died shortly after my birth – I'd come too soon, the doctor said – and father refused to marry after her passing; I had no brothers or sisters. "If you wish for him to be, then yes."

I bit my cheek to keep the rising excitement in check, donning as regal a mask as I could, given the circumstances. With a barely perceptible nod, I refocused on the boy at my feet, ignoring the plump man entirely. "What is your name?"

The man nudged him with a square-toed shoe and the boy started, white-knuckled grip on his hat tightening further as he bit his lip. "Whatever it pleases your majesty to call me."

My mask cracked enough to allow my lips to part in wonder. His tiny voice somehow managed to fill the mammoth hall, soft as downy feathers; my own treble felt reedy in comparison. "Do you not have a name?"

Mouth set in a grimace, he shook his head. "No, your majesty." The words bore carefully disguised shame, an emotion betrayed only by the sudden brilliant coloring of his ears. Though he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, I watched the change with heart-felt sympathy, noting how the white handkerchief wrapped around his forehead complimented his flushed face.

Even recognizing his embarrassment, a nameless boy was too much for my young mind to process. "But everyone has a name–"

"Why don't you give him a name, son?" Father suggested, lofty tone garnering my attention once more. "Surely you think of a name for your new friend?"

That term on father's lips blossomed in my chest and I nodded vigorously, bowing my head in thought. His name had to be perfect; as a child who'd never experienced friendship before, I determined this boy deserved the best name in all of Gandara.

Soon, I would learn the many names which clung to him like a second skin:

Whoreson.

The Ice Queen's bastard.

The forbidden child.

They called him the whipping boy –

I called him my friend.

After a moment's consideration, I lifted my chin, spouting the appropriate command with much more confidence than I felt. "Raise your head."

He obeyed immediately yet refused to meet my gaze – a reflection of good breeding. A handful of paper-thin scars lined his chin and what I could see of his throat above the stiff collar, though the rest of his face remained unmarred. Sun-kissed cheeks round with youth, high cheekbones and a fine nose, thin lips which even now fought not to tremble. What stood out most prominently, however, were his eyes: liquid fire rested within those wide sockets, daunting rubies burning with an intensity his posture did not possess. Nameless emotions danced in their depths; so many, in fact, it was impossible to tell what he was eyes appeared ready to fly from his face – they had a life all their own.

Only after seeing his eyes did a name come to me. "Hiei."

The man at his side coughed, and though I could not see his face, I could tell from father's tone that his brow had risen. "Interesting choice. Are you sure, son?"

Shock briefly parted the boy's lips before hiding within his eyes, tucked amongst swirling crimson. His dark hair, the way he knelt before us without an air of expectancy, and his wild, wild eyes–

I set my lips in a firm line, gaze never leaving his."Yes."

A soft hum from father's throat, the phantom rustling of his hair through the mantle's fur, and I knew it was done. "Hiei it is, then."

I refused to look away from him as a page not much older than myself trotted to the burly man, placing a bag heavy with gold in his hand. He grinned openly before regaining control of himself, bowing profusely to father and sputtering his thanks to both of us, though I ignored his praises. The boy – no, Hiei – continued to stare somewhere in the vicinity of my cheekbones as his keeper and father exchanged pleasantries, yet even as I saw his nose wrinkle in discomfort, I could not bring myself to allow him to lower his head. Never before had I been given a friend all my own, a boy with whom I could share anything and everything with, so I focused on committing this moment to memory, engraining his face in my mind's eye.

Only after the man left and father rose did I tear my eyes from Hiei, concentrating on not tripping over my own robes as I hurried out of the cushioned seat. Hiei stood at father's command, smoothing a single wrinkle from his breeches before returning his gaze resolutely to the plush runner. Less than two feet seperated us now and as I observed him, I noted with secret glee that he was shorter than I. "Father?" I asked as we turned towards the doors leading to our private chambers, both of us fully expecting Hiei to follow.

"Yes?"

A thick creaking as two servants opened the wooden doors; I'm embarrassed to say it took a few moments for my inexperienced mind to find the necessary vocabulary for my question. "You gave that man money for Hiei."

"Yes." Father's broad back stretched endlessly above my head, shoulders perfectly straight as we traversed down the warm stone halls. Unlike our sure steps, Hiei's feet made no sound and I glanced back more than once to ensure he truly was following us. Each time, his eyes remained fixed on my slippered soles; he never once met my gaze.

A perturbed frown marred my mouth. "But he isn't a slave?"

"No, son. Hiei hails from a royal house, just as you do."

The contradiction was too much. "Then what is his station? Why is he here?" Though I knew the question to be inappropriate, my curiousity refused to rest without knowing. Hiei's clothing befitted the rank of a noble, yet if that were true, why did he not abide in his own house? Why did father pay money to the noble as if he were a slaver rather than Hiei's escort?

Father slowed his pace to allow me by his side, bowing his head so I could see his face clearly. "He is your whipping boy, Kurama." He replied, as if it were the most obvious position in the world.

Whipping boy? The words felt foreign on my tongue as I repeated them, yet I did not dare question him again. Soon it would be time for my daily riding lesson – already two of father's most trusted manservants waited in front of my door to help me change.

Whipping boy – I resolved to know the secret behind those words.

Long before I was ready, I would discover the cold truth for myself.

A/N: Hello all, roseeyes here with another story! I rarely work on two fics at one time but for those also reading Black Angel, rest assured, I am not putting it on hold – this story just demanded to be told.

First off, The Whipping Boy is an AU, set during the latter Middle Ages; while the world portrayed in this story is modeled after medieval Britain, it is Yu Yu Hakusho all the way. Imagine England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales replaced by Gandara, Tourin, Alaric, and the Spirit World, respectfully, and you have this AU in a nutshell. Though some liberties will be taken because it's YYH and a fanfiction, I will do my best to remain true to the above-mentioned time period.

For those unfamiliar with the concept of a whipping boy, the role is an early-modern convention in which a boy of nobility was raised alongside a prince: the two received the same education and were generally always together throughout their boyhood years. However, the whipping boy received any and all punishment intended for the prince because only the King could punish his son (note: reference the Divine Rights of Kings), and what could be done if the King was too busy ruling the land to properly discipline the future leader of his country? Que the whipping boy.

This fic will NOT contain a HieixKurama pairing! Many familiar characters will appear here but overall, this is a story of friendship developing through diversity, not one focusing on romantic relationships. However, expect romantic relationships to develop between certain characters later on.

Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review with any questions/comments or send me a PM. Until next time!