Title: Gilded Cage, Part I

Author: jellybeanfactory

Characters/Pairings: Gwendal/Gunter, a bit of a few other chars

Genre: AU, Slash

Rating: G for this part

Spoilers: none that I can recall

Disclaimer: Kyou Kara Maou belongs to Tomo Takabayashi. I make no profit from this fanfic.

Summary: Gunter refuses to have his portrait painted and inconveniences a lot of important people.

Notes: This is sort of a pre-Yuuri AU--Gwendal and Gunter are closer in age, and Gunter hasn't had direct dealings with the Maou or her family before. Beta'd by the wonderful MD, who also helped with the title, all remaining mistakes are mine.

It was customary to have a family portrait commissioned soon after a new Maou's ascension. One would think this an enviable position for any artist in the realm, established or not. And it was, for the most part. Painters whose works were detailed in history books and adorned temple and castle walls wrote Cecile von Spitzburg to ask for this exact privilege. Quite a number even volunteered to waive their fees -- such was the fame of the beautiful Maou and her three sons. It took many months to select the right candidate, and it had been a unanimous vote of the family's -- one Master Hadrian Crom, two hundred and seventy years of age, well-versed in watercolors, acrylics, ink, silverpoint, charcoal, graphite, brass prints, marble sculptures, and, it was rumored, flower arrangement. But his preferred and most renowned medium was oils -- he'd been commissioned to do two previous Maou's portraits, and even little children of today still knew of his series of three-panel oil paintings depicting the Soushu-Shinou War. He was of an age and reputation that he only worked when it fancied him and if the subject matter tickled his interests. It took him two months to give Cecile an affirmative reply to her invitation.

Imagine Gwendal's surprise when, after donning his best formal robes lavished with the von Voltaire emblem and motif, he came down to the Grand Solar to find not a 270-year-old artist waiting for them, but a waifish, wet-behind-the-ears apprentice. Barely past his thirties and standing nervously at attention, with his bulky satchel overflowing with paints, brushes, and folded canvases.

"The Master sends his apologies," the nervous young man began, and then stopped, because Gwendal was glaring thinly at him. He shook and gripped his satchel tighter. "It--it wasn't my fault!"

"Where is Master Crom?" Gwendal asked, in what he vaguely hoped was a civil tone. He could hear his mother's light footsteps coming down the stairs behind him. "I'm assuming, for your sake, that you are some sort of placeholder for when he arrives later."

The young man looked like he very much wanted to protest and defend his professional integrity, but was too frightened to at the moment. "Master Crom is unfortunately preoccupied with a secondary commission. He sends his apologies, and bids you to kindly employ Apprentice Benedict's more than suitable skills. That's--that's me. Sir."

If the apprentice thought this explanation would assuage the young prince, he was sadly mistaken. "This is a royal family portrait, not some painting of whimsy--"

"Gwen." Cecile laid a placating hand on her eldest's arm. She smiled politely at the trembling artist. "We mean no insult to your talents, which I'm sure are considerable. But we specifically require Master Crom for this painting. We believe we've notified him in advance..."

"The Master is aware." Discomfort was plain on the young artist's face while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "He simply...has business he cannot abandon at the moment."

Gwendal made an impatient noise in his throat. "Then tell us," he said, "what's keeping him preoccupied that's so important he's seen fit to ignore a prior engagement with the Maou's family?"

The artist gave him an apologetic glance. "The Master is trying to convince the younger von Christ to let him paint his portrait."

"Younger von Christ...?" Gwendal asked, his brows furrowed. "Lady Emeline?"

"I believe he meant the young lordling, Gwen. Gunter. Although he's the rightful lord now," Cecile corrected. At Gwendal's blank look, she continued, "Oh, come. You must have noticed him several years ago, during that vineyard opening celebration at their castle?"

He hadn't. Gwendal had, however, distinctly noticed the wine, which he had preoccupied himself with very thoroughly out in the balcony. "I believe I did not."

Cecile's eldest was most often the target of her "I can't take you anywhere, can I?" look. Today was no exception. (For reference, Conrart was most often the target of her "sometimes I don't know what to do with you" expression, and Wolfram her "you really are so very cute, but if there was a river nearby, I'd throw you into it.") "Well, you'd remember him if you'd been paying attention. He's a shy boy, and has--" she paused briefly at the slip, "--had. Difficulties with his father, and was often kept sequestered at their castle. A stunning lad, but it has been quite a while. I wonder what he looks like now."

"Probably the same," Gwendal muttered, disinterested. "Either way," he said to the artist, who snapped to attention, "it must have been a handsome sum, for your master to have abandoned his duties like this."

The young man swallowed. "Not a penny, my lord."

"'Not a p--" Gwendal halted himself mid-growl ("Breathe, Gwen," Cecile said helpfully from his side). "Explain."

"The commission with the late lord -- it wasn't a commission from the von Christ's family. It was a commission from my master to be allowed to paint the lordling's portrait. After his father's death, Lord Gunter canceled all prior and future engagements with all the artists his father had previously arranged." The artist was starting to look peeved despite the fearful quality with which he was regarding Gwendal's sword. "I'm not making this up, you know."

Cecile interjected before Gwendal could comment. "Master Crom is as well-known for his oddities as he is for his skills. I suppose something like this should have come as no surprise." She walked over to an unoccupied window seat and gestured to an empty settee opposite to her before she sat down. "Come, this might not be so bad, since you come highly recommended. Tell us a little more about yourself."

The young man kept a constant three-feet distance between himself and Gwendal while he scooted across the room. He looked extremely uncomfortable with his back turned to the Maou's eldest son, but then, faced with his potential employer, he seemed to quickly gather himself as he sat up straight and began removing various pieces of wrinkled paper from his satchel. "I have twelve recommendations from officials and artists I've worked for before, and here's Master Crom's letter," he handed a folded piece of parchment to Cecile, who obligingly received it and began skimming through the contents, "I know this may sound like I'm fluffing my own cravat, so to speak, but I don't jest when I say I'm one of the very few artists today sought-after for, and well-versed in, my artistic style."

"Master Crom certainly had many good things to say about you." Cecile re-folded the letter and handed it back to the young artist. "And what style did you say you practiced?"

"Oh, I haven't. Mentioned it, I mean." The artist smiled proudly as he opened a large book comprised of bound canvases. "It's neo-classical cubism."

The very polite "Oh" that Cecile said after that was the only word uttered within the next two minutes.

Apart from the initial outrage, Gwendal had to admit it wasn't such a large matter upon reflection. They agreed to merely wait until Master Crom was done with whatever silly quest he'd taken upon himself and then have the portraits done after. But then days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and their letters of inquiry went without reply. Speculations of whether or not the Master was even still in good health were answered when their messenger returned to report that the Master was, indeed, still very much alive and well. This was, however, accompanied with, "Master Crom is aware of his pending duties to the Maou, and will fulfill it when his current engagements have been met. He sends his regards and asks for a bit more patience."

While Gwendal was of the opinion that they can do without this portrait issue for all that he cared, he knew it was important to his mother. And, most unfortunately, it was also very important to Wolfram. His youngest brother was very put out that his older siblings had their individual portraits made a year prior to his current age, and he had absolutely no qualms in letting Gwendal (whom he had ascribed blame onto for the whole portrait business) know exactly what he thought about it. "Good morning" became "I want my portrait!" and "Pass the salt, please," became "I want my portrait!" and on those times he'd catch Gwendal doing important paperwork, he would inquire very pointedly if he'd written another letter to that silly artist and was he on his way to the castle yet or what?

What little patience Gwendal still had dwindled with every shrill complaint from his youngest sibling (Conrart was also curious about the matter, but was thankfully of that age where his every waking moment was occupied with a certain young woman from the von Wincott's family). The fact that Cecile was refraining from reining in Wolfram's rudeness was a clear sign she shared his sentiments, and was merely letting her youngest do all the legwork with regard to whining. Not that she'd ever admit to it.

"I don't know why you're so eager to sit for your portrait, Wolf," she told her youngest, while she primly cut through a thin slab of venison on her plate. "It's extremely dull, and the artists don't seem to like it when you try to talk to them."

Conrart, after swallowing a mouthful of bearbee honey juice, gave her a sideways glance. "You ask them uncomfortable questions," he playfully commented.

"Asking after someone's romantic interests is a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation."

"Not if you keep trying to foist your sons on them," he retorted (accompanied by Gwendal's soft, agreeing snort). "Or yourself, if they happen to be extremely attractive and of an age."

As was often the case, the topic of their mother's age segued inevitably into "Hush, dear, and eat your carrots."

Wolfram's annoyed voice was quick to steer the conversation back to its initial position. "Well I wouldn't know, because I've never had one!" He indignantly pointed at Conrart and said, "Even Weller has a portrait, and he managed to fit that into his 'lusting after Julia von Wincott' schedule!"

Conrart nearly choked on his juice. "I was not!" he replied, sounding far too guilty to everyone at the table.

Cecile smiled delightedly at her middle child. "Oh, Conrad!" she exclaimed, gleefully clapping her hands together -- a reaction that may seem strange to some mothers, but Cecile was very vocal about her discontent that her children never seemed to get involved in any romances whatsoever. Her fears weren't unfounded, Gwendal thought. He was firmly convinced that Conrart might be their mother's best chance of ever having grandchildren. Her smile became a bit of a worried frown, though, when she said, "You do know she's betrothed?"

"She is betrothed, Conrart," Gwendal chimed in, careful to keep his amused glance pointed at his own plate.

"I don't...'lust' after her! Don't use that word," Conrart insisted. Gwendal successfully stifled a snicker. "All right, I look. Sometimes. When she visits and she's in the garden. Is it a crime to look at someone these days?"

"Normally, no," Gwendal languidly answered, "but it does become disturbing if the other person has absolutely no ability to see you."

Wolfram thumped his fork on the table. "I want my portrait!"

Gwendal merely suffered Conrart's glare with a beatific smile of his own. But then Conrart smiled impishly and said, while looking straight at his older brother, "You really should demand to get your portrait done as soon as possible, Wolfram. Mark of good breeding and all that. Best experience in the world, sitting for it."

The answering jealous, self-entitled scream that elicited successfully wiped any trace of Gwendal's amusement. He gave Conrart a very annoyed and ill-meaning look as Wolfram started yelling for his portrait and emphatically hitting the table.

Conrart, smart lad, knew to pick his battles. He hurriedly shoveled the remaining two bites of his food down his mouth and muttered a quick, "Have to go, practice!" prior to running toward the interior of the castle.

Both mother and son looked mournfully at a tantrum-laden Wolfram in the ensuing vacancy of conversation. Wolfram thankfully kept the tantrum short, yelled something that sounded like "I'll go write that artist myself!" and stalked off to his rooms.

"Mother," Gwendal said at length, when his brother's banging footsteps had faded into the distance, "I think Conrart's approaching that age where he'd serve as a perfectly fine soldier for our army, don't you? Let's start a war and throw him in the infantry."

Cecile laughed. "Be kinder to your brothers," she admonished her eldest, "I'm just happy Conrad and Wolf have taken to speaking so freely with each other again."

"Of a sort," Gwendal muttered. If Wolfram's occasional colorful variations of "half-breed" and "mongrel" could be considered within a mile of polite conversation. "I liked it better when they were fighting. There was peace and quiet."

"It does seem very curious, however," Cecile remarked after a moment's silence, her gaze distant. "Unless Master Crom's creating a five-panel mural, he certainly shouldn't be taking this long."

"Perhaps the lordling finds perfection fashionable. It's not unusual for pampered nobles to keep artists hostage until they've produced a painting flattering enough to their liking."

"Perhaps." Cecile traced the rim of her wineglass with a painted fingernail. "A personal visit might sway either lordling or artist in our favor though, don't you think?"

Gwendal sighed. He knew a nudge from his mother when he heard one. "At the very least," he acquiesced, "it will spare me a few weeks of Wolfram's nagging."

Neither mother nor son was sure whether or not to send word ahead to the von Christs warning of Gwendal's arrival -- in the end, he decided against it. Since he wasn't sure of the cause that may have been keeping the artist away from Blood Pledge Castle, he was worried that being notified of his impending presence might make the artist flee.

It was a few weeks' ride by horse due to keeping strictly to the main roads, though Gwendal wasn't about to complain, for it was also a few weeks' worth of blessed silence. He rarely had opportunity to travel of late, and he hadn't realized how sorely he'd missed riding Cedany, his coal-black mare. The climate turned somewhat chilly as he traveled through steeper curves in the terrain, though not invasively so. It was pleasant to a man like him, as it was the height of summer in the von Voltaire lands and he was used to hotter weather at this time of year. The von Christs' domain was well-known for its harsh winters.

He traversed through the town with no incidents. The early hour had a few bakers and coach drivers rousing from their houses and sluggishly preparing for the day. None of them gave him a second glance. He coaxed Cedany to a faster gallop toward the castle gatehouse, which was barely visible in the distance.

Gwendal was just mulling whether or not to use a postern gate to avoid all the pomp and circumstance that usually accompanied announcing himself at the portcullis, but a sorry-looking figure slumped at the roadside several feet away from the main gates caught his attention. He reared his horse toward him while calling loudly for the stranger's awareness.

"Who're you?" was the annoyed greeting Gwendal received from the old man. A makeshift tent was haphazardly built by the roadside and the scent of fried meat and eggs still lingered from the doused fire. Though the place looked built in a rush, it also looked well-lived in. Hunting gear and personal effects were visible from the widely thrown flap of the sad domicile.

Gwendal dismounted. He was careful to keep Cedany's reins wrapped tightly about his right hand. "I'm an emissary from Blood Pledge Castle. Do you require aid?"

His introduction had an immediate effect on the old man. He fixed Gwendal with a deep frown and said, "Oh lord. Another one. Look, I'm not budging here 'til that unreasonable boy lets me back in, so you can just go back to your big castle and tell the Maou that. Hurry on now, he wakes up around this time and it won't do for him to see you with me. He'll think we're conspiring or something."

Realization slowly crept into Gwendal during the old man's tirade. He glanced back at the open tent flaps and saw, just peeking from beneath piles of pans and clothes, bits of paper, brushes, and tiny bottles of many-colored paints. "You're Master Hadrian Crom?"

"Disappointed you, have I?" Hadrian gleefully snickered. "That's what old age does, young man, so get used to it. Now, off with you. And next time someone from there thinks to nag me again, make sure he brings some wine and vinegar. I'm almost out."

His mother had always been of the opinion that ill thoughts of other people should never be released in public, and Gwendal did just that. Ignoring the many other things he wanted to say as reply to the impertinent tone, he simply answered with, "I'm Gwendal von Voltaire. I believe you accepted a commission from my mother, and I'm here to personally make sure you deliver."

The old man stopped and took a good, long look at Gwendal. It was an incredibly uncomfortable twenty seconds. "Oh. Huh." He scratched his chin and moved his gaze from head to foot, and back to head again. "Not what I expected. None of Cecile's curves in you, but a bucket of your father's face. Though maybe if you smile..." He shook his head, as if to dispel the image. "Well. This changes nothing, you realize."

"Tell me, then, what is the problem? It's been several weeks, surely an artist of your skill would have been finished with a simple portrait by now." Gwendal asked, and made a point of looking over the disheveled living conditions. "And why in Shinou's name are you living like a vagrant by the road? There's a perfectly acceptable inn just a few miles south."

"I'm making a point! That capricious boy thinks he can just lock me out after a three-year contract with his father just because the miserable old coot had the temerity to die on me! Bloody bastard." He directed his glare at the still thoroughly closed iron portcullis and, to Gwendal's alarm, began to yell at it, "You hear that? Oh, I know you're awake! Your father was a conniver and a terrible poker player, but he kept his promises!"

"Can he actually hear you from here?" Gwendal curiously asked. Hadrian's indignation didn't seem to move either the portcullis or any resident of the castle.

"Oh, he hears me. Or sees me, at any rate. Has his mother's gift of scrying. Used to go riding when he thought I was asleep." He made a tired shake of his head and sat on the ground. "I was lined up next," he said very mournfully. "You know who got to paint him last? Lefrick! That slimy old hack who couldn't paint asymmetrically if his life depended on it! Eyes on his paintings go like this," he used his fingers to indicate opposite directions. "He'll be boasting all about it in the next National Artists' Banquet, you mark my words."

Gwendal laid a calming hand on Cedany's flank. She never did like staying still for very long. "Have you two had prior disagreements? What reason does he have for not letting you in and simply sitting for a painting?"

Hadrian snorted. "We talked a few times while his father was alive, but never much beyond that. Gave him his first easel when he was twelve. Who knows what his reasons are? He won't tell me. Just up and tore up the contract and wrote me a letter apologizing for the inconvenience et cetera et cetera, saying at the end that I'm never to paint him. Ever."

"Odd behavior," Gwendal helpfully commented. And highly inconvenient, he thought to himself. He wished to be done with his purpose there and it seemed he'd be stalled for who knew how long still. "Perhaps a nudge from a member of the royal family will set him straight." Gwendal was beginning to form a negative opinion of artists, but he couldn't help feeling the slightest bit sorry for the old man. "Gather your things, we're heading inside."

Hadrian threw him an incredulous look, even as he began to stand up on creaking joints and push some of his things into a large saddlebag. "He won't open the gates for me, you know."

"No, but it's unlawful to keep me out and waiting without a good enough reason, often along the lines of plague or civil war. And neither seems to be afflicting the von Christs at the moment."

The artist finished shoving his things into the large bag, which he strapped around his shoulder. "Perks of the job, I see." He sighed and looked up at the forbidding wall of steel and iron in front of them. "I've never been treated this rudely for over a hundred years! Doesn't he know I'm a national treasure?!"

"The title has less merit if you use it on yourself like that," Gwendal muttered. He pulled Cedany's reins and led the way to the base of the portcullis. It took ten seconds for a window on the gatehouse to open and inquire after their identities and purpose. Gwendal duly introduced himself and showed his signet. "I and my companion seek audience with Lord Gunter von Christ."

The window closed again, and a tense half minute followed, with rather worrying sounds of disagreement drifting from the guard's station. Eventually, the screech and groan of the portcullis being lifted drowned them out. Gwendal and Hadrian waited until they were fully raised before proceeding on foot.

They were barely five meters in when Hadrian gave an agitated groan. "Oh here we go," he whispered under his breath, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. Gwendal followed his line of sight.

In the distance, Gwendal could make out a long-haired young man--perhaps about his age or older--walking with some urgency in their direction. The closer he came, the more Gwendal forgot to breathe -- he looked quite the vision with his silver hair flying and snapping behind him and his flashing eyes alight with a fierce, determined expression.

Gwendal was used to being surrounded by beauty -- he came from good stock, after all, and was always surrounded by both von Voltaire and von Bielfeld retinues, most of which were comprised of hand-picked and able attractive young men. But he'd simply never seen anyone even remotely similar to the youth approaching them at that moment. His companion's hands twitched toward his saddlebag--it looked like an aborted attempt to withdraw his sketch book.

"Be off with you!" the furious young man yelled, gesturing impatiently with his hands as if he were shooing stray sheep. "I've warned you, Hadrian! I don't care who your friend is, one foot closer, and I'll set my guards on you!"

It was a shame, Gwendal thought, that although his initial impression of Gunter was nothing short of divine beauty, he could not help but think he was not being very beautiful right now by being so disagreeable. He was about to introduce himself again, when a very harried-looking guard slid down (or crashed down -- there was a lot of clanging noises involved) from the gatehouse and ran toward his lord. When he reached the incensed young noble, he whispered urgently in his ear.

Some of the color drained from Gunter's face. He dismissed the guard with a brief nod and thanks. To Gwendal, he said, with a bit more restraint, "My apologies for the display, Your Royal Highness. You are, of course, always welcome in my lands and will be admitted shortly into the castle." Then he directed his vicious glare back to the hopeful artist standing beside the prince. "The artist, however, is not. I believe I've made that perfectly clear, Hadrian."

Hadrian's quick protest of "But I'm with him!" collided rather neatly with Gwendal's "He's with me."

Gunter's frown deepened. "That is unfortunate, because only His Highness is allowed proceed."

"I require his presence for the matters I need to discuss with you." Gwendal gave a brief, dramatic pause. "This stubborn refusal to let an aging man seek refuge in your castle speaks very ill of you, Lord von Christ."

Gunter's eyes narrowed a fraction. "With all due respect, Prince von Voltaire, this is still my castle and you cannot strong arm me into changing my mind."

Gwendal grit his teeth. "I'm attempting nothing of the sort. But surely just an hour's conversation within--"

"No," Gunter firmly interrupted. "This is not negotiable."

They glared at each other.

Hadrian spent a moment just looking curiously from one to the other. "He has a point," he said eventually while indicating Gwendal with a tilt of his head. Just as Gunter opened his mouth to utter an incensed reply, he quickly said with a frustrated tone, "Gunter, what's the harm, this portrait was agreed upon for years, I just wish to--"

When Gunter interrupted this time, he sounded a bit more tired than angry. "Hadrian, old friend, you must learn to accept a simple no at some point in your life. I am sorry it is a lesson you must swallow during the twilight of your years, but obviously, it cannot be helped." While Hadrian choked and sputtered on his reply (and even Gwendal had to internally wince at how harshly Gunter admonished the old man), Gunter said solely to the prince, "My guards will be instructed to allow only His Highness to enter. I will await within if you still wish to speak. A good morrow to you gentlemen."

Gunter turned on his heel and strode back through the front doors of his castle.

"It was a good try, lad," Hadrian sighed after having composed himself. "You go right in. I'll just head back down to my tent -- I think I'm wearing him down a bit."

A migraine was threatening to settle behind Gwendal's temples. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This wasn't supposed to be this difficult. It's just a bloody painting." He raised his head and looked squarely at Hadrian. "Just come back to Blood Pledge Castle with me. You can always return here when you're at least done with Wolfram's portrait."

The old artist snorted. "Oh, sure! That's what they said about Lord Montfort, and look what happened to him. Dead, at a hundred and five! I never know when you nobles are going to just topple over--"

"I hardly think Lord Gunter and his unmarked lily-white skin will be involved in any skirmishes within the year. Or in his lifetime."

"No! He could be pale because he's sickly! I'm not taking any chances!"

"Well," Gwendal said. He had tried his best. "Suit yourself."

He watched with some sense of foreboding as the old man began walking back to the portcullis. Though slightly vexing, he felt a little more grounded with Hadrian's presence nearby than without it in the confines of that cold, unfamiliar castle.

His thoughts turned back to the disagreeable young lord waiting within. High-strung nerves were telling him flat-out to turn around, mount Cedany, and head back to Blood Pledge Castle to search for a different artist. But Gwendal had a duty, and he was determined not to go home without results.

Besides, knowing his family, if he went home now he'd just get sent back out again armed with new instructions on how he should have handled the situation.

- Part II to follow