A/N: Kiddie Ben! Baby Rey! Killer nannies! One sided conversations! Ghost cribs! Woot!
( &. )
ໟ .~( PART I )~. ໟ
002. cracked bones and wicked souls
THE FIRST TIME it happens, he's merely a small child, clueless about his surroundings and with a bitterness brought upon by a warped upbringing stemming from loneliness and shut windows. On the nightbefore his tenth birthday, his governess, Guinevere Gidrog, enters his chambers. Yet, the title Warden seems more befitting for her than Governess; she wastes no time, "You don't have your mask on, prince." For your health and protection is always his governess' answer when Ben once inquired about his required attire. Ben can't help but nearly flinch at her callous and reprimanding tone. Rarely does she ever express such exasperation, and it befuddles Ben so much as it does make him feel guilty. "You're old enough that I needn't remind you to put it on daily. You aren't a small thing and you have all your limbs working and intact. You haven't even dressed yourself today. Have you done absolutely nothing?" He's always had a picky palate and his stomach upsets easily at most foods; he rashes easily at mostly any metal, and burns much too easily in harsh light. Having all this in mind, Gidrog becomes tremendously cross and worried that he will ruin his three week streak of being ill-free. When he doesn't respond, she shakes her head and throws an object beside him. She is one of the very few, if any, that is allowed to see him without his cloak and plague mask; she stares impassively at the scraggly boy in his bed until he speaks.
"…What is this?" Though his voice has the tone of a mouse, he asks this with a disdain fitting to someone twice his own age; of the very few times he chose to talk and be expressive, it's never like a normal child. Ben was not a child that progressed in his speech like a child should have had; he hadn't started making sounds or so much gurgle or coo, remaining quiet as a mouse until he was three years old. After which, he had spoken with difficulty, stuttering for nearly a year.
"It's a premature birthday gift, Young Prince; from His Sire."
Ben recalls maybe seeing someone who's supposed to be the man named Han Solo, His Royal Majesty, The King; but Ben had never saw too much beneath the plague mask he was to wear outside his bed chambers. He had only spoken to his father once; it had been a fierce and resounding "No!" when the King had attempted to touch him gently on the shoulder.
The King never tried to bear physical contact with his son since then.
When he asked as to why his father didn't visit him often, his governess gave him a very peculiar, pointed gaze, and said nothing. Those are one of the rarest times, of hardly any to begin with, where the boy feels truly unsettled around her.
From the bits of information he has heard from beneath the floorboards and through the kingdom's walls, Ben believes that he was never even supposed to be born. —an omen thanks to the atrocities our previous Fuhrer has done is what he is! Only when he begun hearing on how ugly he must be! because of his surely gangling limbs and lack of exposure to the direct sunlight did the boy also realize he doesn't know what he looks like himself beneath the mask and cloak. There are indeed mirrors and reflective surfaces, but there isn't a moment's time where he isn't wearing the mask; it's always on first thing in the morning and the last thing he took off when it was bed time. The boy has no concept of vanity, power or manners in the least; his vocabulary falls flat and his understanding is deprived thanks to the limited amount of social interaction. And so when when Ben asked her if it was true he was ugly, the governess had demanded to know where he learned that bloody talk from. When he revealed the ones responsible, of the decrepit talk, the morning after he never saw the same servants again
He says nothing, and his eyes give nothing; yet, where his lack of response and blank expressions put off nearly anyone else, Gidrog matched his social ineptitude with her own, never faltering from the boy's intense blank stares and silence.
Perhaps that's why Ben 'likes' her, in a sense.
The pinnacle of realization can be captured at the very next second; his thumb grazes the thread of the dice he holds with an aggression that seems more befitting like he's wanting to decapitate itrather than give it affection. "...he isn't coming..." he says in realization, voice hollow and absolutely tight.
Her words are callous, but are no less than the reality. "Your Majesty is off attending his duties, my Prince. He has no time for extracurricular activities." Gidrog is not an ideally painted caregiver; the maids of the very household ran away in sheer panic at the sight of her. Hardly a woman, a beast more like it!— they would say. Her short blonde tresses are a pseudo-halo clearly used to disguise her appeal to Woden, and her fierce blue eyes have the intensity of Hel. The woman came from a grueling home that spared no weakness; His Royal Majesty entrusted this woman with not only Ben's life, but also on providing him with 'indolent instructions on propriety and education', so he had phrased it.
She cares not for the delicate sentimentality that children posses, and perhaps His Majesty knew this, because she is one of the very few persons that Ben would actually speak to and actively respond to without flying into a fine passion or scrunch his sickly face into an ugly frown to literally everything she'd say. Where she is cold and lacks the traditional characteristics a normal nanny should posses, like sympathy or a maternal instinct to kiss his scraped elbows, she instead fulfills in conversing with the young boy like an older cousin would for more than just a minute or two, which cannot be said about His Sire. That, and along with the occasional bloody story or five that Ben always likes to hear, which is a deal that benefits them both.
He says nothing, eyes lost on the pair of golden dice in his hands.
"It's only the truth, my prince; you're turning ten soon, in less than a few hours, even, and you're much too grown to be pining for His Majesty."
Social detachment and mannerisms that befit an old surly man Ben may have; but he's still very much a child, and like any child, he quickly changes the subject when he knows he isn't getting his way. "… toys are useless," he mumbles; his eyes flicker to hers for a second, a sign that he is agitated. Even a 'this is for girls' or a 'I want a sword instead' is more befitting to a young man; he holds all his toys like foreign artifacts, never staring at them too long before his brown eyes lose interest and then turn glossy with sheer disinterest.
"His Majesty would know your opinions if only you wrote to him, my prince. You know he doesn't spend too much time within the castle walls." she says, undeterred by his mannerisms. "He assumes you must be bored in here with nothing to do since, based on thereports I have recorded to him, you never want to attend your tutoring sessions like you should be doing; like you could have done today had you not been waiting for your governess." The bit of sarcasm is not lost on the boy, but he doesn't quite understand the notion and —Ah, there goes the ends of his mouth tugging into a deep scornful expression that does nothing for his already unappealing, sour face. Ben wants to know why Gidrog has told the king this. "Do you suppose your father to be a mind reader?"
That one does it. His little face, if it's even possible, twists even more surly; his inflated lips thin and his beady eyes squint as if he's smelled something atrocious. It's an expression that somehow pronounces his ears which are already too big, and it ages him to a seventy year old dwarf. With all his might, which isn't considerably plentiful in the least, he hurls the golden dice like it's wretched. It only goes so far, barely reaching the end of his feet on the bed. His words are already lodged in the back of his throat, and they evaporate at the rise of his tantrum. He is done speaking for tonight.
"Quite. If nothing else, young prince. I bid you goodnight. Do remember to put your mask and cloak from now on, by yourself if you please. We don't want you becoming ill… again." With no other words or commands given to her by the young boy, Gidrog promptly leaves his bedroom quarters.
Receiving news that his already-mostly-absent father is not coming to at least visit him for his birthday, and instead had left him only with a pair of golden, worn out diceis offensive to him. His stomach knots and twists with something akin to apprehension, even if he doesn't realize it. In a constant state of unleashing his pent up emotions takes a physical toll on him, even at a young age; one second he wants to fly into a passion, yet he has discovered from experience that his aftercare following the act is absolute misery. His pale chest heaves from beneath his thin cotton sleepwear and for a split second, he feels a scream wanting to erupt from his throat. He doesn't want to exist. A child sheltered as he is doesn't know the weight of suicide or wanting to die, but he does know that right now, he just doesn't want to be.
In the midst of his own mix of a panic attack and tantrum, he manages to fall asleep. Only a few hours later, however, sparks of sunlightexplode and dance behind the sight of his closed eyelids. Endless yellow and red stars scatter like fireflies, and somewhere in the deep corridors of his mind, he hears something, and it jolts him awake. Thunder. Tendrils of black curls stick to his face, and the cloth of his shirt cling to his damp back; it takes him a second to realize that the only unruly guttural sound is from his own throat. In the darkness, his head swerves around, beady eyes trying to makeshift the dark shadows and figures around him into a cohesive scenery.
In his blind panic, Ben has thrown his covers off and stands haggardly in the middle of his chamber, low and crouched; disoriented with fight or flight instincts, he heaves himself against the wall beside his door. His heart rate doesn't go down in the slightest, and he stands still. Sweat trickles down the bridge of his nose and temples, lips quivering and teeth chattering.
There is no sound. Even with the curtains pulled, there's light granted from the full moon; it unnerves him. The unfamiliar panic slowly dissipates until he lets out more shallow breaths than truly necessary, and with more effort than a child should give, he clutches the elaborate door knob to prevent himself from slumping down all the way. His gaze focuses on the bright light that lays beyond his curtains. He realizes it's midnight. He has just turned ten years old. The thought resonates with him until all he can hear is Gidrog's words echoing in the interior of his mind; you're much too grown to be pining for His Majesty. Much too old for The King to take note of his presence. He still hasn't even officially met his own father. He has been alone for ten years now. But then, a thought possesses him, distracting him from his self destructive thoughts;
how… how is that he's heard thunder… yet, it isn't even raining…?
—!— A shriek pierces through his ears, so loud and perforating that he hauls his head back from the shock and manages to slam it against the crack of the door. It doesn't stop; it's a horrible sound, something he's never heard of before, and Ben's heart roars to life once more. It's getting louder; a horrible wail. His shaking doesn't stop, but in his reawakened panic, he grabs the door knob and hurls the heavy door open, displaying a strength he hadn't realized he had.
And he runs.
Never having been exposed to the corridors of his own castle without his cloak and mask, he becomes lost quickly; but the consequences are of little importance to him. He continues running blindly in the dark, and his breath shallows more and more. But the wailing sound and thunder booming only gets louder, closer as if it's following him. He trips on his own foot, and his little body is catapulted easily through the air like the very same dice he threw on his bed.
"G-Guin—nngh!" —pant— "h—helpppp—" —wheeze— "anyONE!"
His pathetic, low volumed cries for help remain unheard, but Ben drags his own weight with his elbows, scurrying and raking his body against the carpeted floors, having no strength to stand on his own two legs. "Make it STOP!" His forearms land on his ears as he attempts to block the horrible shriek. "I said STOP IT! STOP!" His unused voice is strained and already, his throat feels swollen from the sheer effort alone. Then something in the air shifts. It's a low hum ringing in his ears, until the tone lowers, until it seems he's deaf, followed by a whispering pop. Everything goes silent, still, until he can only hear his own breaths.
"Oh by God… Mother… Mother Superior! Look! —Look! A child!"
Ben pauses, eyes widen; for that voice is not his own. He looks up.
Yet, there is no one.
The crying stops.
pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. Rain.
Running footsteps.
'...b-b..but how?' His eyes flash wildly around him in the dark; he's indoors, everything is dry and black; he can only faintly make out the outlines of the hallway and doors. Yet… yet how can he… hear rain?! Like it's surroundinghim, as if he's in the middle of it.
"Get her out of the rain Agnes! Quickly now, quickly!"
"This should be a crime; leaving a newborn out in the rain at the foot of God's doors. Our shoulders cannot be burdened—"
"Enough Agnes! I will not have such blasphemy being spoken in the presence of our Lord. Get the poor thing a bottle!"
The voices are echoing too much, distant and not all there; Ben sees nothing, but he hears it all the same, and he stares blankly ahead, trying to find the source.
"Dry her now; poor thing. She doesn't look a minute old —she was just born. She isn't even cleaned properly."
More voices, but Ben can't make out the rest of the conversation. He squints again, even in the darkness… and a shadowed bunch lies ahead. It wasn't there before, and he lays perfectly still, tilting his head. It moves, and against his own fear, his own judgement, the boy is curious, and he shakily hoists himself up and makes his way toward it, until he's beside the form, revealed to be a basket. There's a bundle inside; a small face wrapped in dirty, bloody pink cloth.
It's…. it's a baby.
He's never seen a baby before. His breath hitches, and he jerks instinctively when the thing opens her eyes; fierce and so alive, staring at him boldly. Ben doesn't comprehend, doesn't know what all this means; but he is the first thing that this child has seen. Like literally anyone else he has ever encountered, he fully expects cowardice; anything but it staring back at him. He becomes fully aware and suddenly self-conscious at the fact that he has nothing covering his face. Adrenaline is still pumping through his veins, but he still manages to tilt his head, unsure.
She has hazel eyes; the corners of her lips lift, and she breathes a little sigh.
"This was attached to the basket, Mother Superior."
He jerks back, having been too hypnotized by the infant; but again, there is no body attached to those voices.
"Rey. It simply says Rey."
Rey, he thinks; Rey. Is that its'…. her name? What does that—
The sound of paper crumpling next to his ear makes him flinch.
"By God's will; when will this madness end? Abandoning their own defenceless newborns; all alone… helpless."
—Alone.
Ben gulps and he lifts a trembling hand to wipe his salivation from his chin, remnants of his incoherent screaming. Yet, his hand is already wet with cold raindrops. A breeze passes through his neck and when he looks to where the basket is… to where Rey is...
—she's gone.
"Young Prince!" Ben jumps at the abrupt voice, only for his heart to practically stop at the sight of Gidrog, hands clenched at her sides. She looks like she's about to behead him with simply the ice in her eyes that penetrates his mental defences. "What madness is this?! Why are you out of your room? What is going on?!"
"I—I…. t-there was a-a..."
The governess looks at him like he's sprouted a second head, for not once since the boy was five, has Gidrog seen Ben stutter, or have such a panicked look to his eyes. She raises a brow, for once, completely and utterly out of anything cohesive to say for a couple of moments. "Here now; stand up straight, child, calm thyself." Ben does so, shakily and pathetically; a miserable sight to her vision as he sniffles and trembles. It has her shaken; for what has happened to the boy that has him in the Devil's grip? Stuttering again? "Cease the sniffling; it isbeneath you, do you understand me?" She lets out a disgruntled exhale, not at all pleased with having to settle onto one knee to face him; it's the most motherly gesture she's come close to ever doing, more so out of sheer desperation to calm the boy and find the root of this problem. He's sickly enough as it is; if he were to go mad, it wouldn't bode good news for His Sire. "Young Prince, look at me —Ben, look at me." She says, this time forcefully searching his eyes and drawing them to her own. "Speak up child; you have heaving lungs, use them. Breathe and push your shoulders back, chin up and head focused. What ails you?"
The mention of his name snaps him to attention, and the boy's lip trembles as his haggard whisper tumbles over. "There was… I had to run beca-because something was c-chasing me!"
Nothing of what he's saying makes sense, and Gidrog has no idea what wretched spell has him acting in such a way.
His governess's blank expression is not lost on the boy, and so he feels even more desperate, even more misunderstood and absolutely helpless. His chest heaves in panic, his throat constricting further in of itself as he practically foams at the mouth from his clumsy tongue's inability to form words. His bony and small finger points to the spot beside their forms, as if he could will the small bundle from that alone. "...r-right there! Right there!" he wails, wanting to tear his hair out.
She grunts, hauling herself back up, shoulders squared and hands tied to her hips behind her. Panic seizes him at the sight, because he's being overlooked and ignored and she's not listening— Until she turns behind her to look at him; "Come along; I'll escort you back to your quarters. I give you my solemn oath that if we hear anything out of the ordinary, I will smite them and gift you the severed head as a birthday present."
By the time she has delivered such a curt response, Ben sees that she's already several strides ahead; she doesn't offer Ben a hand or a smile, but relief passes over him at Gidrog's reassurance. He trots behind the tall, scary woman like a gangly duckling. He looks behind him, and finds that he has no desire to mention the pink bundle; he doesn't like the thought of her pointing a sword at the thing.… at Rey. But the boy trusts her otherwise, and so he is more then reassured at her protection after such an incident, preferring not to question the bizarre incident that just took place. He vaguely wonders if she will tell his father, but young Ben finds that he doesn't want his father to know. For a boy that has been secluded his whole life, coddled with materialistic needs and bare friendly contact, the prospect of such a concept fills him with excitement. This is his secret, a thing to call his own; and so, in almost an instantaneous moment, his trepidation turns into a childish anticipation.
When they enter his room, Gidrog doesn't lift a finger to tuck him in bed or pat his head; she waits patiently for him to settle in himself, more relief than tension in the air that struck moments ago, and because of that, neither of them are hesitant in their movements, however slight. "Guinevere..." Ben mousy voice is so easy to miss, and she almost does; there is a wash of calm over the boy's face now; almost as if he's…. happy…. No, content more than anything, and she wonders if indeed the boy is mad. Insane even. Like Lord Vader was rumored to have been during his dark reign. A shadows passes over her features at such a thought. "I was wondering..."
Gidrog nods her head, precise and poised; just like the rest of her. "Your Highness shouldn't worry about apparitions or monsters in the closet; I'm never too far for to be fetched, should there be a repeat of tonight."
"It's… it's not that..."
She blinks in confusion, peering down at him through narrowed eyes. He looks least of all concerned of… whatever transpired before she arrived; the whites of his knuckles are prominent, clutching the sheets cocooning his form with a vice grip that makes her wonder just how much more the royal doctor has gotten wrong about this boy— "… Yes? Speak up, Young Prince. Do not mumble." He inhales sharply, calling in all his miserable, bird-like strength to practically hurl the question; but not because he's embarrassed or ashamed, it's because he can't contain his excitement, she realizes with befuddled realization. His brown eyes are wide and by the lord, he truly is a child. She nearly takes a step back from the onslaught of his child-like wonder.
"Where do babies come from?"
( &. )
Rey appears to him again a few weeks later.
Ben almost screams out in terror; he almost cries out for Gidrog; he almost runs away again. Almost almost almost— that is until he realizes it's the very same bundle that appeared to him before, and from that point, he only remains frozen to his spot on the bed. Ben still doesn't know much about babies, or, at all, really; but, looking closer now, forcing himself to stand, albeit shakily, and wander over to the ghost crib that has manifested out of nowhere, even he realizes that they are helpless, soft-looking, little things. His mind wanders to the very same words that Gidrog chastised him with; is this what she meant when she said he wasn't helpless? His footsteps are light, non-existent and could rival something less than a mouse's; his head turns to either side of him, as if he's being watched and as if he isn't in the solidarity of his own chambers, and continues on his mission to peer over the wooden crib. His innocent mind is much too wrapped in naive stardust and wonder to really question the discrepancies that have taken place in front of him in these two instances. Too full of hope, too full of something beyond him, and it makes him feel important somehow.
He has to stand on his toes to get a better look at her; he has to squint just a bit more than last time, not at all hindered by the fear or the panic that ran its' course through his weak veins as he ran through the halls. This time, feeling more emboldened and more confident in his discoveries, in his own secrets, Ben is able to appreciate the view on the small, fleshy thing. She doesn't smell unpleasant, but it's a scent he is unfamiliar with nonetheless; tentatively, almost shyly, he peers closer, trying to take in all of Rey's features; she's tiny, with soft, wrinkly skin and delicate lids and mouth; there is a flush of red on her cheeks and her nose. Her hair is smooth and new and chestnut brown. He wrinkles his nose, furrowing his brow into a bemused frown at her soft breathing, finding himself wanting to see the color her eyes again. He wrings his gloved hands, itching all too suddenly; slowly, he brings a finger beside her cheek, stopping just an inch or so in sheer anticipation, in near fright when she hitches a breath mid-snore.
Ben pokes her cheek; once. Twice. Softly and barely there, a feather's touch. He nearly wrenches his arm when she stirs, and his heartbeat speeds up once more, nearly choking on his own spit. Her small arms rove from under the blanket, as if trying to break free; she lets out a gurgle, and Ben nearly forgets to breathe. But she falls still once again, and a few beats afterwards, he is able to relax. "...You move a lot," his voice is a mere whisper to seemingly no one in particular, and the small boy isn't sure if babies can even understand words, but he wants her to react anyway. He is fascinated by the flutter of her lashes and how they fan out over her soft cheeks. "Did they leave you by yourself again?" He doesn't like the thought; for if he could barely run from danger, how would she escape if something were to happen? Ben doesn't like that ugly thought, and he almost panics again.
He freezes when her eyes open; no less bold than the first time she blatantly stared. His neck and ears grow too warm for his liking, and he finds himself growing surly; inflated with lack of dignity. "S-stop staring," he hisses rather pathetically, but still biting venom sheathed underneath. It's a contradicting feeling; no less than a second ago, he wanted her to stare, but for something so… small and harmless, her stare is almost as intense as his governess. He flounders even more when she doesn't take her eyes off of him and instead tilts her head; he's not enough of a threat, not even to her, and he doesn't know how to take such a notion. "I… I said..." building up the courage, the ferocity within his chest doesn't feel natural; he has to force it from within, and it takes too much energy from him, "...t-to stop staring at me like that. I don't like it. You have to do what I say, I'm a prince," he puffs out despite not exactly knowing what the title holds. He knows it's enough to have the maids and servants scurry about and commit to his every whim, even if it's Gidrog that has to bark out the orders instead of him. Hoping that the baring of his teeth is enough to get his point across, Ben tries to stand taller than he really is, to really intimidate her. But when it isn't, Rey breathes out something like a laugh, and it bewilders him.
His gaze lingers on his black gloves; why are her hands not covered? She's more delicate, more frail than him. Why is she not being protected? With shaking anticipation, he removes a glove, revealing the pale, shaky, nearly white skin and bony fingers underneath; he deflates with defeat. "You..." he pokes her softly on the soft, center of her small forehead, massaging the spot as he is fascinated by how soft the skin there is. Not at all pasty or chapped like his, despite his extreme time indoors; there's so much color to her, and he's too aware of their differences. "You're… annoying," and still, she laughs louder; the mere sight makes his own lips twitch in something like a smile, eyes widening in wonder. He shuffles closer, ever so slightly, wanting to poke her in that soft spot on her forehead, if only to get rid of that developing furrow of her brow because he doesn't like it— "I'm a prince," he repeats, talking to himself… to her… whoever is willing to listen, "That means I'm going to be King one day, I think." his brown eyes glaze to something else; thoughts of his father, of his title being thrown about nearly in all of Ben's life, the weight behind the words never fully taken into consideration up until this moment. "And then you really have to do what I say; you're small and can't even speak," his voice is soft, strained and crackling from the clear disuse, but very childlike all the same in its' wonder, "… so I'll forgive you for being no brained," a term he has heard Gidrog all too often use for the servants. "If you do what I say, I'll…. I'll give you nice things." Kings can do that, right? They can give… many things, if his own father is anything to go by. They possess acres of land and kingdoms and knights; that's about as much as he knows. "You can be a knight, or a princess; I'll let you, if you really want to. I'll ask Gidrog what one must do to be a Queen. I think you have to marry me." He doesn't know the definition of the word, having only heard it once or twice in his entire ten year lifetime; Ben has always assumed that the King and Queen were bound because they were the most powerful warriors of their lands, something to that effect. "I'd let you play with all my toys if we were married."
But something in him shifts, and his gaze is growing solemn; shadows graying his sullen expression by the second. "But… are you going to be afraid of me too? Do you think me ugly?" He asks this with no real malice, but growing disappointment, all too readily accepting what he perceives to be the truth. And yet, he still anticipates an answer; all too eager on the infant's opinion. "I think… I think I'm ugly. That's what I hear servants saying sometimes." He shrugs, half ashamed, half a little too hard to trying to mask the wobble of his lips, "… But my governess never really mentions Kings being handsome in the stories she tells me. I don't think it matters much..." he trails off.
And, almost as a response, she grasps his finger with small, nearly doll-like hand. Ben wriggles his finger, but Rey only grasps tighter with more strength than he's ever possessed. They stay like that for what seems to be like years, and he matches her own, wide stare; entranced and confused and excited that he may have a companion now. He's not so alone. His breath escapes him, and he is left almost speechless. But then something hits his nose, and he nearly wretches back in disgust; "What is that smell?!" As if the baby understand his words, she laughs louder, beaming in delight. But then, both Rey and the crib slowly begin to fade, and something tugs in his chest, almost painfully. And in a blink of an eye, she is gone. His finger is grasped by air, and the child is left with an empty feeling at the bottom pit of his stomach for a long time after the fact.
It only continues on after that.
The encounter leaves him with a desire for more; the days would pass, and whether he would be consciously aware of it or not, even against all of his instincts at the prospect of his governess catching him or noticing any discrepancy, he would stay up as long as he could, just to see if the baby would appear. Whatever fear had previous bubbled in his core, as the very first night he had heard her cry, slowly but surely turned into excitement until he felt very little of whatever madness and panic had possessed him the night they first made contact; he'd pretend to fall asleep once Gidrog would step in, falling just a little too hard on the mattress and snore just a bit more exaggeratedly than he actually does, but he'd try nonetheless and it seemed to be enough for the governess. He would wake up with only thoughts of the baby filling his head; would she appear that night, and if so would she able to understand him? Would she talk? So many questions he'd wanted answers to; he'd even asked for books on babies. Gidrog had given him a look of horror and given him a blatant no.
The next time the baby appears, Ben practically yanks the sheets off him, and rushes over like a duckling; she's wearing the most ridiculous dress he's ever seen. It's dirty, the white color of the fabric rather emphasizing even the subtlest of smudges on the skirt portion; it's too big for her and she's a lot more animated than the first couple of times, eyes still wide and curious and roaming all around her, but when her gaze lands on him, her mouth does that strange thing that's a little wider than a smile and she shows no teeth. She breathes a high pitched "—Agh!" despite the pacifier in her mouth, excited and lively, and he likes to think that she's happy to see him. He has an expression close to bleeding excitement, almost a smile; but it drop into a slight frown in less than a span of a second as he regards her carefully.
"You… You haven't shown up in nearly five days; I've been waiting," he pouts, his brow furrowed in slight annoyance. He expects her to at least be sheepish, but his annoyed mood evaporates as she looks around him. "You're not even paying attention," he huffs. His gaze follows her line of sight and a sudden thought hits him. "Can you see my surroundings? I can't see yours. Just you… and your bed." Of course she still doesn't respond, and his hand reaches out on her dull pacifier, tugging on it lightly; enough to catch her attention, but not enough to yank it away from her. "I don't think Gidrog likes that I'm asking too much about babies; she never responds to my questions." He shrugs when Rey captures his finger with her hand, though, he's reluctant to admit that he actually likes the feeling of her tiny hand his, like she needs him; like he can protect her. He pretends that she's speaking to him, and so he holds the conversation with himself. "Everyone talks about me; they say I'm an o-omen. You know, like a curse; they talk about my grandfather… Fuhrer was his name."
Rey blinks at him.
Ben shrugs, as if exasperated with her for 'asking' and having to explain. "It's a weird name. Gidrog doesn't like to talk about him. I don't think he was very nice." He pokes her forehead with his other hand, not wanting to break contact with her hand. "But you're really curious about it, I can tell; I'll ask, if you like…. I wonder when you'll be able to talk. I'm ten; you still have a long way to go, you're tiny." He blinks, realization dawning on his young features. "When you turn ten, I'll be twenty." His small fingers try to count the number out, but young Ben can't even begin to digest that number; it seems like centuries from now, a lifetime that he's always been told he'd never fulfill, and something in his eyes shift. "Don't worry; I'll still talk to you. I'll protect you. You won't be alone when you're ten. I promise." And in that moment, only pure, naive, genuine honesty bleeds through his words; wholehearted and meaningful, Ben curls his finger on her hand just a little tighter, a little closer. She seems content with the action, because she nestles her head back comfortably, her eyes closing slowly. Before he is sure that she is to disappear, he reluctantly yet hastily breaks his finger free, running to crouch below the bed, lanky arm prodding for the pair of dice he had discarded on his birthday, gifted to him by his father. As if his life depends on it, he clutches the small toy to his chest, and runs back to the ghost crib, nestling it in the crook of baby Rey's arm and curling it around her fingers, her chin nuzzling against the soft fabric behind her. The golden dice dissipate along with her.
( &. )
"You're quite excited, child."
Something in the ambiance within the castle's walls has shifted irrevocably; it's in the way Ben walks, how he carries himself even beneath his black garb, and it's how his gaze lingers to something else beyond the narrow view of the hallway he walks in, almost as if he wants to take the mask off. It's a worrisome new development; the boy is more animated, more childlike, a concept that all too easily flusters anyone who is around him, even the doctor who regularly visits to give him his check ups. Nearly two months after his tenth birthday, after his encounter with the phantom baby and after a very awkward shuffle of words with his Governess, the doctor had taken the boy's bony wrist, hidden beneath the folds of his long sleeved cloak, the man's gaze withered and worn from years of loyalty and service and seeing too much death and tragedy in his whole life— it's a steady, inescapable stare, one that clearly and all too easily makes Ben falter visibly, but there's a spark that even the doctor doesn't miss; one of life and mischief. The aged man rubs his forehead with a thumb and forefinger, exasperated as though a live tragedy is taking place, and it makes Ben wonder what exactly he's done wrong this time. Preferring to shrink away in shame; shame of what, he doesn't know, but it's prevalent all over his small body, making his toes wriggle in discomfort. The doctor notices this, gaze flickering to the small movement at the end of the sheets. The child's lips continue to remain shut, however.
"Too much excitement is not healthy for you, prince. What sort of activities have you been up to? You haven't been sleeping enough."
The sound of Gidrog's sharp cough slices through the silence like a sharp axe; it makes Ben jump in surprise, eyes nearly pleading at his governess, begging to not be amplified, for he doesn't want to speak. Yet the woman gives him something close to a scowl, and her thoughts are almost manifested verbally, even without words; You are a young man now; speak when spoken to. She has no compassion for him in times like these for he had to learn how to step out of his shell now that it has been more than disproved that he is not fated to a life of constant fatigue and illness. Her hands clasp tighter behind her back, and she stands just a bit straighter. "Your Highness," she somewhat-hisses the word out, trying to grip his attention and call him to behave properly. "Speak plainly boy; the doctor asked you a question."
This just makes Ben's lips clamp tighter, the urge to hide away into nothing is amplified by the sheer weight of both the adult's stares; as if they're trying to dissect him alive. He doesn't like the discomfort, and he's almost sure that Gidrog won't accommodate him in these times anymore. He wants to ask so many questions, for he wonders why exactly 'too much excitement' is bad for him. Do they wish him dead? He doesn't understand and he wants them to go away, they suffocate him. Ben's hands clamp tighter around the sheets, desperately clenching them into his fist and the feeling bringing nothing more than an itchy feeling traveling all the way up his neck and scalp. He wants them to leave because he wants to see if Rey will appear; the longer they stay, the more chance they might have of seeing her and he doesn't like to share. Rey is his secret; the only thing he stays up for and the sole reason he doesn't sleep anymore. His eyes clench so tightly that he feels they're about to burst from the pressure that is reigned in. "I… I..." he stutters again, and he wills everything he can muster to not to. "...no-nothing. I… haven't been doing anything."
Gidrog and the doctor share a glance; frustration etched into their faces at the boy's lack of cooperation. "Your Highness, please, be civil. We must inform your father of any discrep—" But something in those words must have seared through the boy's mind, because no more than a second after the man's words, he is startled with wide brown eyes that are much closer than they were.
"Don't tell him!" Ben's declaration is so loud, so full of lively energy and raw emotion, that both Governess and doctor's breaths hitch; this is not the child that has bared such isolation, such lack of socialization and companionship. He doesn't resemble their image of the boy in the slightest; for he is unruly and is that the start of a true temper tantrum? Not the kind he always does, where he sits and screams; no, one more fit to a boy his age, one which he talks back with reasoning and is as stubborn as a mule? "I won't allow it! I already sa-said I haven't done anything! Like always!" Each words is a rung of a ladder, escalating in volume and certainty; fire and excitement behind each syllable. He never speaks so outwardly, never in full phrases, and never in such a cohesive manner. "It's not like he cares!"
Gidrog's mouth sets into a very fine line, her icy blue eyes hardening with the onslaught of a blizzard. "Cares. About. What?" The tone of her voice sends a chill to the very center of the room, into both recipient's spines; more so Ben than the doctor. Her teeth are clenched, and she's absolutely livid at the sheer deviance of the young prince. Such mannerisms are not befitting to the boy; not when he's beginning to grow a voice and thinking he can actually command something other than types of tea he wants. "What have you been doing? Are you confirming that you've been doing irregular activities, Young Prince? Is that what this is? We had to bring in the doctor for you to tell me that?" Each question is a very cold dagger to Ben's chest, and every accusation laced into them is an inch closer to his secret. Guilt and the sense of trouble worm through his throat, blocking any chance he has of responding properly. The doctor looks like he's about to speak, but an armored clad arm is held out as firm as a sword in front of him; Gidrog's eyes never leaves Ben's soft brown ones. "Quite then; if what you say is true, and I will take you on your word that it is, then we'll excuse ourselves for tonight," the words form a soft reprimanding, but from her lips they are thinly veiled concealed threat that makes Ben want to run. The soft thunder of his small heart echoes within his ears, each thump making his chest rise. Both doctor and governess collect themselves and step away from Ben's quarters for the night. Ben doesn't miss the icy gaze sent his way when Gidrog glances at him just before stepping out the door. "Do sleep tonight, young prince."
He gulps, but he says nothing otherwise. The anxiety from the encounter has him visibly shaken, and he feels like throwing up right then and there. All too suddenly, he doesn't want Rey to appear; he doesn't think he can utter even a syllable from his quivering lips. Yet he finds himself very disappointed anyway when she doesn't. His eyes are clenched shut, and he hides himself beneath the covers, and in that moment, he hates himself more than words can ever express; he doesn't exactly know why, but even he knows that he is much too weak. For how can he protect her if he can't even stand on his own? That night, she doesn't appear, but it doesn't stop him from being restless anyway, and so he lays on his bed with eyes wide open and with tears threatening to leak but not quite letting himself cry just yet, and he prays, to whoever is willing to listen, to pay attention to him, that for he stop being him. Because the boy, however much sheltered he is, already wants nothing more to be anyone else. Anyone else beside himself. He throws the blankets off himself, and he in sheer desperation and senseless hope, he kneels down beside the bed, arms resting and hands clasped in a united fist as his wet eyes stare at the darkness ahead him dead on. Gidrog had taught him to pray only once, out of basic principle more than anything else. But Ben understands the weight of such beliefs and mildly comprehends the basic level of 'spiritual guidance'. It's what he thinks he needs; an ear willing to lend itself to him. "F-fuhrer…." he doesn't remember the exact prose to a formal prayer; bu the knows that it's baring your soul to the Lord.
But Ben has never truly believed in a being called God; not when he's been alone and isolated and timid and scared. So he calls out to the name of his grandfather, unknowing that Fuhrer isn't his name at all. In his innocence, he thinks he is addressing his grandfather; someone who had seemed to be as misunderstood as he is. "I've n-never met you… but I d-don't think you were that mean. Everyone talks about you, yet they never tell me when I ask. I think… I think we're a lot alike." His throat clamps, and he wants to cry, but he snuffs it out with a cough. "I don't think you were that mean; maybe nobody listened. I know that you liked black and you also had to wear a mask." The small details he's heard here and there bring Ben comfort; the more he's been able to hear, the more he's paid attention, the more he's come to realize that maybe there's someone out there like him. For a second, an image of Rey fills his mind, and his eyes squint through the tears. "I think… I think I can become a great King like you; not like him, he never visits me… I wa-want to be strong, like I hear you were… like I know you were. Can you teach me? Can you show me how to be strong, like you? So I can prove everyone wrong?"
Ben shifts his gaze ever so slowly, overcome by his one-sided talk with someone who's long gone, someone he doesn't even fully know about… and at that very second, a pair of eyes connect with his through a crack in his door. Icy blue pits of pure ire make him freeze on the spot; he hears the sword before he even knows what the sound is. There's a scream –her battle cry, her swears, her calls of 'wretched beast!' or his terrified shriek that bounce along his walls, he isn't sure which is more prominent– and he finds himself falling back and nearly passing out from the shock. Gidrog has a wild sneer, eyes lively and bloodthirsty as she strides closer and closer to him, sword held high above her head about to strike. He's hit his head against the edge of his windowsill, and he's frozen in sheer fear, absolutely helpless as he looks on, pleading and confused, to his most trusted caretaker. He sees no compassion there; perhaps there never was. It all happens too fast, too quickly for him to digest but he understands that in that moment, he is meant to die and he's never been more afraid. "I knew it… I knew it! Wretched child! King Solo be damned; I will not allow this… I will not allow this! Not when it can be stopped! I should have killed you the second I saw you kneel in the hallway! What witchcraft have you been committing?!" Half of her rambles don't make a lick of sense to him, he's only aware of her thunderous power behind every intake of breath she takes; every word is a blazing fire, poison directed at him for being a curse.
This time, he truly believes he's going to die; he can almost see it, almost envision in whatever limited capabilities he has within his imagination. He's never seen battle, has never drawn blood; he has been far too protected, too sheltered to truly digest or even think of such horror. But it doesn't stop him from thinking about such horror anyway. Something in him shifts in pure instinctual, animalistic sheer will to live; he holds a small hand out in front of him, in a vain attempt to shield himself from the offense, and immediately, it's as if air and time itself halts; something that makes his spine grow cold and freezing sweat glaze over his forehead. He hears Gidrog's sharp gasp, and he feels the vibration of her weapon falling onto the floor, beside him and the sharpened blade touching his foot, but it takes him nearly a lifetime to look up. He's completely taut with a tenseness that physically hurts and nearly takes all of his strength to hold together in one piece.
He is met with sight of her floating in mid-air, clutching her throat; "—J-just like him. Like HIM!" Ben's arm and hand tremble nearly violently; her wide-eyed gaze has him trapped against his own quivering stare. "W-wretched. C-c-cursed. MONSTER!" The words echo in his mind, it's the only thing he can understand from all this madness. Unwanted. Curse. Omen. Ben doesn't understand; hadn't she been in disagreement with such talk? Hadn't she gotten rid of those who dare speak such words about him?! But he doesn't let his arm down, even after his tears spill like a cascade. His hand trembles in mid-air, but out of sheer paralyzing fear, he doesn't let it down; Ben screams in pure, childish agony.
The Young Prince would never be the same after that for years to come.
( &. )
(*) Guinevere Gidrog: Guinevere is a variant of Gwendolyn, named after Phasma's actress, Gwendolyn Christine. Gidrog is the Old Saxon word for phantom.
NEXT SEGMENT: 003. I wished upon a star and received you