Evil Does Not a Babysitter Make
AN: I was working on my Lambert x Stanton angst! (ooo, edgy) fic, when this popped into my head. Set during the 1200s, when Lambert first starts working for the Prince, Stanton's father.
Notes on names: Since I scoured the edges of the earth (I.e. that part in book eight), and could not find anything relating to the names of Stanton's father and brothers, I gave them some. All are taken from Arthurian legend.
Text is Lambert's handwriting in twelve point font.
Prince or Prince Segramore refers to Stanton's father
I'm done now.
OoO
Dearest Atrox,
I am writing you in regards to your request of 'inscribe a message as soon as you get there'. I do not know when this shall reach your ever apocalyptic and malevolent ears as the pony with which the messages were sent seemed to be quite the sickly quadruped. So far, your mission of infiltrating the castle and possibly kidnapping one of the spawn of Prince Segramore has been met with…interesting results. Shall I regale you of my woe-begotten tale? Yes, I believe I shall!
It was not easy to create and maintain a proper backstory with which to fool the dreaded Human Relations committee of the castle into getting a job, one with neither healthcare benefits NOR dental, I may add. But eventually, I was hired on as a guard for one of the Prince's three sons. The first day, I met with the Prince's eldest son and heir to the kingdom, Trysten…
"And this is where his young highness resides," Stated Mayhew, the servant who was giving the newest recruit a tour of the castle, "He is who you shall be protecting whilst he doth repose."
"'Kay," Lambert said, scratching the back of his neck as he peered around Mayhew's outstretched arm into the chambers of the eldest son. Chances are, this was the child to nab for the Atrox, for he was the heir to the great kingdom, as well as Prince Segramore's legacy. Talk about jackpots.
"Your young lordship?" Inquired Mayhew from outside of the door, knocking politely, "Your guard has arrived and inquires of your nature."
"Yeah, what he said," Echoed Lambert brilliantly.
"Uh…just a second," Came a hoarse reply from the other side, as well as some scuffling noises.
After a few moments had passed, Mayhew acquired a rather flustered look and rapped his knuckles on the door with much more gusto, "Your young lordship, I must insist that you allow us to-"
"One second! Geez!" Cried the voice of the boy, sounding more panicked.
Mayhew sent Lambert a look and turned back towards the entryway, "I am preparing an invasion of your privacy-" He declared, throwing the door open.
"No! Don't do that!" Came the desperate, too late protests.
As soon as Mayhew had toppled over the door in an excruciatingly polite manner, both he and Lambert stared inside with horror.
"It's not what it looks like!" Proclaimed Trysten, his lordly hands in the air as a sign of surrender.
Strewn across the room was a white, powdery substance, and some residue was under the heir of Segramore's nose.
Mayhew was simply aghast, "Is that…opium?! Trysten! And you the captain of your Jousting Squad!"
Sir Trysten, a tall and lanky boy of about 17 summers, with gorgeous dimples and lovely blonde hair, stood shaking in fear, "No! It's not, I swear, the crusade to China was to vanquish the Atrox-"
The manservant continued inspection of the room, as Lambert stood to the side, trying to process the psychotic atmosphere of the place he had stepped into. Mayhew paused, terrified, as he picked up a lofty tome on the teenager's nightstand, much to the horror of said teen. Mayhew rifled through it for a moment, before a hidden piece of parchment fell out of it gracefully. Mayhew quickly picked it up.
"And what is this? A Dirty Wench weekly? Complete with women baring their necks and shoulders! Repulsive!" Mayhew snapped the tome shut, and his eyes widened in shock when he read its title, "You hid it in your Bible? It took monks three hundred years to hand copy this for you and you hide impurities within it? Shame upon you, Sir Trysten!"
Humiliation caused the eldest son of Prince Segramore to grow red in the face, "I'm holding it for a friend!" He explained lamely.
Mayhew's eyes widened when he saw a pale piece of cloth hanging from the frame of Trysten's bed, "Are those nether-garments!?" He cried in anguish, holding up the billowy cotton petticoat that more than likely belonged to a dirty, dirty wench.
The seventeen year old gaped in horror, "No, that's my, um, sword buffer!"
Mayhew's face paled and Trysten realized just how wrong that sounded.
"No! Not that! It's meant to remove the-" He attempted to cover up.
But Mayhew was already on the prowl, as he lifted up a corner of Trysten's blanket and saw another scrap of parchment, the manservant appeared to stop breathing as soon as he read what was upon this one.
"Poor marks received in etiquette class? Oh, this is the most egregious of errors!" He shouted in disgust, stomping over and grabbing Trysten by the ear, "Your father will hear about this right now, for such behavior is unwarranted!"
"Ow, no, dad'll, hey! Ow!" Trysten whined as he was dragged out.
Lambert, blinking slowly, yelled after Mayhew, "What should I do now?"
Mayhew paused his rant to stare at the guard, having completely forgotten Lambert was there, "Oh, go guard Lamorak."
And thus, the eldest son of Segramore and a strangely reproachful manservant disappeared, leaving Lambert alone in the teenager's room.
Lambert slowly sat on the teen's bed, and sighed. So much wasted opium…
As you can assume, the need to sway Sir Trysten to the dark side was completely unnecessary, as the boy is already much corrupted by his need to 'experiment'. Deciding this, I thought it was obvious that it would benefit the Followers far more if I attempted to corrupt a different son than our original goal. Hence, that afternoon, I met with Prince Segramore's middle child, Lamorak…
When Lambert slowly entered the quarters of Prince Segramore's second son, it was safe to say that he felt incredibly scared. The cobblestone walls were painted black and seemed to have…blood stains upon them. There was no light whatsoever except for one, lone candle flickering at a writing desk, where Sir Lamorak sat.
"Um, hi there," Lambert said, his hand tensing around the hilt of his sword uncomfortably.
"Leave me alone!" Pouted the fifteen year old, as he pressed his nose against a spare bit of parchment and scribbled fiercely with his quill, "Dear Life Journal, today I was made fun of by the popular kids in Harpsichord Camp, for they scornfully mocked my individuality. They just don't get it, they don't know the difficulties of the privileged lifestyle that a prince has!" The middle child lamented out loud.
Lambert stared at the boy in utmost confusion, "My name's Lambert, and I'll be guarding you from harm this evening-"
Lamorak swerved around on his bench, his fists raised to the sky as angstful tears flew down his face, "Guard me from myself! I'm on a path of self destruction!" He cried to the ceiling, "Nobody likes me! The new pony father bought me is the WRONG color! No one understands!"
Lambert's eyes widened and he took a few steps away from the melodramatic teenaged boy.
"This is my fourth volume of depressing poetry and reedited death notes-" Lamorak continued to rant.
This perked Lambert's interest, "Death notes? Can I see?"
Lamorak paused and nodded with enthusiasm, agonized enthusiasm, "Here, so you too may understand my toil!"
Slowly, the double agent grasped the incredibly thick tome, he then opened it and read the first page.
Life is an empty shell.
I have no friends.
There is an empty emptiness.
I am full of hate,
Like a hate filled thing.
Empty shells are life.
You suck.
Lambert blinked a few times, before awkwardly clearing his throat, "Well, this is um, yeah."
"I only wish to be left alone to wallow in my self despair," Lamorak whined, beginning to cry into his hands.
The not!Follower sighed and approached the younger boy, attempting a considerate pat on the shoulder, "Lamorak…what's…wrong?" He said slowly, afraid of incurring his youthful anguish.
"Today," Lamorak sniffled as more manly tears came, "The fair Elaine rejected my courtship…she was all that kept me living! For she would occasionally comment that my black leg stockings were 'neat'." He blew his nose on his journal entry, "Last I saw her she were journeying towards Trysten's quarters…"
Lambert coughed into his hand to cover the gasp as he thought of the opium room of nether-garments. "Well, Lamorak, there are many other wenches to be had…"
Lamorak flung the guard away, "Oh what do you know! You mangy cur of a man, you've never held a vague liking such as the vague liking I hold for Elaine!"
Lambert grit his teeth, he was most certainly NOT a mangy cur, "You be quiet!" He expertly countered.
"No, you be quiet!" Responded Lamorak, lightening fast, "My life is a never-ending pocket of despair and torment. The days grow darker as my soul bleeds out my hate filled existence. There is no peace, no calm, no love. My. LIFE. IS. HELL!" The boy poured out.
"You're the son of an incredibly wealthy Prince!" Lambert responded, "I mean, good tidings, boy, you have your own personal guard!" At this he flexed his biceps a bit, attempting to look rugged and imposing.
"YOU DON'T KNOW ME!" Screamed Lamorak, slamming his head into the desk and crying in pure adolescent sorrow.
Lambert just stood there, swaying a bit as he tried to think of something to say. Fortunately, there was a knock on the door as a matronly servant entered, a silver tray in her hands.
"Sir Lamorak," She said, her voice like a loving grandmother's, "I come with tea and crumpets!"
Lamorak's head snapped up faster than a dirty wench's petticoat, "Ooo, crumpets!" He chirped ecstatically, prancing over to the tray and grabbing a handful, munching joyfully.
Lambert shook his head, and took that as his cue to stealthily retreat from the deranged child's room.
Atrox, no evil-abiding Follower deserves that sort of punishment. It became apparent that both of Segramore's eldest sons were unsuitable for kidnapping and bringing to the dark side. It was beginning to look most hopeless, my terrifying overlord, as there was only one child of Segramore's left, the youngest, whose name was Stanton…
"And this little man is Stanton!" Proclaimed the boy's nanny, as she pinched the two year old blond's plump cheeks.
Lambert stared at the toddler in evaluation. He wasn't much to look at, most of his teeth were missing, and a huge snot bubble was accumulating in his left nostril. He stared at the nanny levelly, "Does he use opium?"
The nanny seemed rather taken aback by the question, "Um, well no-"
"Enjoy dirty wenches?"
"Heaven's no!"
"Write depressing poetry and over angst needlessly?"
"Good sir, with all respect, he's only two-"
Lambert nodded, gazing at the boy yet again contemplatively, "He'll do."
And that, my most feared tyrant, is how I decided- after careful deliberation, of course- that a little boy of almost two and a half was the absolutely perfect candidate for Hopeless Follower incarnate. He's got a wonderful evil streak about him, milord, for not only yesterday he dropped a bowl of porridge on my head and laughed most fiendishly. I shall pose as his guard, until you give me further orders Mighty Master.
Insincerely,
Lambert Malmaris.
OoO
Many, many years later. (Say, around the time a certain book 5 would have been published…)
"Stanton, the Atrox took you because you were young," Serena tried to soothe Stanton in the middle of his 'Daddy-will-never-love-me-because-he's-WAY-dead' rant.
Yes. Exactly.
Certainly not because his other brothers were irrevocably insane.
No, of course not.
The End
Stupid? Taking up precious seconds of your life that you will never get back? Distorting canon facts to the point of mere blasphemy ::Squints and reads Author Name:: Ah, of course. That explains it.
!nym!