moog: oh me. oh my. richard is a hot mess of problems. special thanks to nienna, who beta'd this chapter for me and rescued me from a rather embarrassing mistake. thank you, nienna-senpai. you inspire me so. o/o may the richass guide your blade.

soundtrack: "Of the Night" by Bastille

A hand, swift, stinging, rough across his cheek. The sound that follows, echoing through the open spaces and among the high rafters. No words, only a stone glare and cold, cold silence. Only the communication of disappointment in his father's eyes. Nothing needs saying. With that slap, and with that look, Richard understands.

You know better, his father's unvoiced chastisement resounds. That was a stupid thing to do.

Richard does not dare ask to be forgiven, lest that hand come at him again. The right side of his face still prickles.

Rule Number One:

A prince does not disobey his father.

Rule Number Two:

A prince never begs forgiveness, even if he must apologize. He makes reparations, for actions speak louder than words.

In any case, Richard has his own reasons for biting his tongue. He is not sorry, and lying to Father is worse than anything else he could have done. He would run away again if it meant being weaved into the stillness of that beautiful place, dozing by the lake among the lilies in the shadow of the black tree. It'd felt right there, like he'd belonged. Never in his whole life had he felt that way, not about any place, nor about anyone. If only that boy had not come…

No, he would not think of that now.

Father stalks off, leaving the familiar view of his broad, retreating back further etched into Richard's memory. As an ambassador, as a father, as the son of ancient kings, it does not matter—that man is ever the picture of dignity.

A small, gloved hand touches Richard's shoulder. He turns, and his nanny smiles at him, her gentle, lavender eyes touched by sympathy. He cannot find it in him to smile back.

Sophie wraps him in her slender arms. She is small and soft and smells so sweetly, yet she is also warm and the hold she has on him is strong for all that it is gentle. Richard wonders if his mother, had she survived him, would have held him the same. He wonders, had she survived him, if his father would too.

Biting hard on his lower lip, Richard lifts his arms—they move slowly, feel heavy despite being so thin—and returns his nanny's embrace. At least while he is with her like this, he can hide his face.

Rule Number Three:

A prince must never, no matter what, be seen to cry.

They arrive at Lhant Manor as if in a parade—two Knights in front, followed by Richard and his father, side-by-side; only steps behind them, Sophie, the nanny, and Bryce, the tutor; at the tail of the procession, two more Knights. By the time they get there, and are ushered in, and have mingled, the stars framing Foselos are high and bright. Richard yearns to be outside, marveling at them. There is too much activity within the manor, and it is too obvious that he is not a part of it. He and Father stand to one side, smiling politely, watching a multitude of happy bodies twirl in tides about the dance floor. He is not even sure what this party is for.

"Master Richard, would you dance with me?"

Sophie's hand is open before him. As always, she dons her long, white gloves. If ever her palms lay bare, Richard never saw them. Timid, he looks to Father.

"Go on," Father answers. Brisk. Gruff. He does not speak often, and when he does, such is the result.

Still, permission is permission, another thing that Father does not often give. Ecstatic to be doing something, Richard takes Sophie's hand and glides with her out among the whirling, spinning, dizzy masses. Of course, he doesn't fail to notice the pair of Knights that follow close behind them, but at this point he could care less.

Dancing! In a crowd!

In Barona, this would be unheard of. In Barona, too many fancily garbed nobles tucked blades or poisoned needles into their sleeves. Even with Sophie around, even with Bryce, Barona was never safe.

It feels so good to be free, to move his feet, stepping in time with the music and the people at last. The heat, the rush, the thrill of company and song—his head spins with it all. His cheeks feel oddly stretched. He is smiling. Now, when was the last time he did that? It doesn't matter what this party is for; he's glad to be here. Like this, he can almost forget who he really is.

Richard, son of Ferdinand, the King's ambassador. Ferdinand, the true and rightful King of Windor. Richard Windor, a prince, dispossessed.

No wonder so many want you dead. Imagine if people learned the truth…

Cold seizes him. His knees lock.

Sophie pulls him close before he nearly collides with a hapless young couple dancing beside them. Richard, gray with sick, tries to squeak out an apology. Rule Number Two keeps his lips pressed into a thin line. It is the young couple, recognizing him as the ambassador's son, that apologizes. He shakes his head weakly, smiles weakly. Bowing, excusing themselves, they shuffle awkwardly away.

"I'm sorry, young master," says Sophie, guiding him to a space clear of the mess of dancers.

"Did I spin you too fast?"

Richard shakes his head, attempts a smile. His lips only twitch.

"Do you want to sit down?"

"It's okay, Sophie. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

He is not sure. His hands are shaking. He thrusts them into his pockets, swiftly, before anyone can see. The excited buzzing in his blood is something else now, a sinister ringing. He looks. He really looks. There are too many people. The manor is too small, too hot, too crowded. They are all too loud, much too loud and louder still, with feet stomping, music roaring, glasses clinking, strangers murmuring and hundreds laughing, laughing, laughing. They could be laughing at anything, or anyone. They could be laughing at him.

Father is leagues away, faces and faces far. Richard must get back, he knows it. The drumming in his head knows it. Gripping Sophie's hand, he tugs her in Father's direction. Weights like hands grabbing at his ankles, pulling, slow him.

It's happening again.

His breath, dragging; his head, whirling. The world sways, side-to-side-to-side.

Panic. I'm panicking. Must calm down.

He tells himself this, even as his heart races. He cannot move.

All at once, silence. Mild alarm amongst the crowd as the music, the dancing, stop. Still, everyone is smiling. Apparently, this is expected—yet Richard finds the silence worse than the incessant sound. There is a heaviness in the sudden hush that makes his shoulders ache. His gaze follows the turning heads to the stairway, where a young boy in sky blue descends with a pointed frown. Beside him, a dignified woman and another, smaller boy, both with hair a shocking depth of blue. In the back of his mind Richard thinks, mother and son. The thought comes from far away, a mere observation among the countless things he must and does observe on a day-to-day basis. He makes nothing of it.

The string instruments take up the traditional Windorian birthday song, and the gathered masses begin to sing. As if waking from a momentary dream, the world stirs again. Breath returns to Richard's lungs in an almost painful surge. Suddenly it is not he clinging to Sophie's hand, but Sophie clinging to his. Her fingers, small though they are, squeeze tight.

His eyes come back into focus, settling on his caretaker's ashen face.

"…Sophie?"

"It's him," she whispers, and if Richard didn't know any better he'd think the glimmer in her eyes to be tears. She turns, grips his shoulders, and kneels before him. "Richard, listen to me. That boy, he's—"

She is interrupted by the cheering that erupts as soon as the boy in question reaches the bottom of the stairs. Richard loses sight of him behind the flurry of adults. Still, he'd looked familiar. The name "Asbel" flashes through his mind. Scowling, he pushes it away. The only Asbel he knows is a young man, a knight loyal and brave, beloved by all who meet him; beloved especially by his king. The only Asbel he knows exists solely within his dreams, and within the stories that he writes.

I misheard him, Richard thinks, that boy by the lake. I misheard him. I must have.

Even as his thoughts run thus, he overhears the damning words. He overhears, and goes cold all over again.

"Asbel!" comes the high-pitched shout.

A small girl with rose hair braided tight against her scalp flies by in a blur. He catches himself reaching out to her, the syllable "che" caught between his teeth. The "ch" is soft, a mere careless shush, and the "e" fades into a whisper. Richard's hand retreats, burned by a memory he swears he does not have. He curls his arms around his waist to stop his shivering. Sophie pulls him close, bracing her arms tight across his chest.

"Why do I…"

Why do I know her name?

The words stick in his throat. Sophie's grip on him tightens.

"You must have heard someone calling for her," she soothes. "There are lots of people here, Richard."

Never mind that he'd never fully given voice to his question. Never mind that Sophie forgot herself and addressed him as "Richard" instead of "young master." Such slips happen fairly often, and Richard does not mind. In fact, he sees it as testament to how well Sophie knows him, how close they are. Of everyone in his life, the flurry of personal security, the tutors, the dignitaries, the nobles, maids, footmen—everyone—Sophie has been by his side the longest. He cannot remember a time before Sophie was in his life, though he knows she only became his nanny around the end of his third summer. That moment he remembers vividly. The way she swept into his bedroom with the skirts of her white gown swirling like soft petals about her slender knees, her gloved arms held open to him; the way she plucked him up so easily, so naturally; how her skin smelt of fresh-cut flowers in an open field as she held him to her like a child long-lost and belovedly found; how could he not love her wholly, indiscriminately, after that?

Sophie knows him. She knows him better than anyone. It'd be no shock to him if she understood always the run of his thoughts, whether his voice found form for them or no. She is the only friend, the only mother that Richard has ever known. And so he let her hold him, and comfort him, even though it was the mark of a child (not a prince) to feel no shame being coddled in public.

"Why don't we go outside?" suggests Sophie. "It's too crowded in here, isn't it? You could tell me a story. You haven't told me one in a while. I want to hear more about the knight. About Asbel."

Asbel…Sophie is the only one Richard has ever told about Asbel. She is the only one in the world who he has let glimpse the fogspace of his dreaming, and even she does not know the extent of it—of the dark place at every dream's end, or of the dull ache it leaves in his chest each time he wakes.

Once, when he was very small, he'd cut his hand very badly during fencing practice. The fencing master had been sacked for allowing the ambassador's young son to handle sharpened blades—there was a reason for that of course, but Richard did not like to think about it. More than anything, he remembered the pain—the sharp burn as red rivers soaked his palm and pooled around his feet. He'd stared in fascination at his life source flowing freely and away, even as so many people gathered screaming around him. Even as he stared motionless and dumb at the chaos of his wound, his hand was wrapped tightly in someone's shirt to staunch the bleeding, and losing sight so suddenly of such a bright color had been a shock. Even after the hand was stitched, scarred, and healed, for a long time after Richard still felt a dull throbbing beneath his skin, sometimes so badly that he spent whole hours curled up in bed cradling his palm, biting back tears.

The ache he wakes with in his chest is like that, only much, much worse. It has to do with the dream about the knight, he knows it does, but he can never remember exactly how it ends. There is only the deep, deep dark. There is only the silence, and the cold, and the pain.

He cannot tell Sophie all of that. Even imagining the concern in her all too expressive eyes is more than Richard can bear.

Instead he disentangles himself from her protective embrace, turns to face her, musters a smile.

"I'm sorry, Sophie. I didn't mean to worry you. I'm alright, really. Besides, Father won't like it if we leave without telling him."

Thankfully she smiles back, though Richard knows she isn't fooled by him one bit. She never is.

Hand in hand, they skirt the dance floor, which is once again a crush of bodies in motion. The knights that had been ever nearby slide in to walk on either side of them, and they make it back to Father without incident. Beside him, they find Aston Lhant, mayor of this small outskirt town and master of this quaint yet spacious manor. Richard warms under the mayor's appraising eyes, and lets out a sigh of relief when the man nods in apparent approval.

"A well composed young man," says Aston, smiling now. "You can tell just by looking at him that he's bright." He turns to Richard. "It's nice to finally meet you. Your father and I are close friends. He speaks of you often, and with great pride. I can see now that his boasts are not only boasts."

Richard finds the copper hair and the gentle, steady gaze to be somewhat familiar, though he cannot place why. Gathering his wits about him, he draws himself up to his full height (which is not much, admittedly, but still more than most boys his age) and, with perfect grace, he gives the Mayor of Lhant his best bow.

"It is an honor to meet you, sir," says Richard, and surprisingly, his voice does not tremble as it normally does when he speaks to imposing adults.

"And with perfect manners," the mayor exclaims. "If only my son was half as self-disciplined as you are."

Father's hand descends upon him, and it takes all of Richard's self-control not to draw back or to flinch. But Father merely places his hand atop his head, gently, and ruffles his hair in a way he hasn't done in years and years. The soft smile hiding in the shadows at the corner of his lip is something Richard has never seen before, not once. After the debacle of only hours ago, the shock of Father's sudden affection is near numbing. Richard's eyes prickle and burn. His vision blurs. He swallows hard, and clenches his jaw.

"He is skilled at much, my Richard," father muses, his hand still brushing at Richard's hair. He pauses a moment, considering, and then adds, "Remind me to enroll you in dance lessons when we return to Barona. We can't have you waddling about ballrooms like a baby penguin your entire life."

Fingers of heat trail up the back of Richard's neck and curl around his ears, reaching forward to warm his entire face. Behind him, Sophie giggles.

"Dancing lessons," says the mayor, his gaze fixed on some unseen thing through the crowd and across the wide room. "That's not a terrible idea. Maybe I'll enroll my son in dancing lessons too. It might teach him some discipline."

A chuckle. A shake of his auburn head.

Although Richard suspects Mayor Aston to be jesting, Father, smiling warmly, claps his friend amiably on the shoulder.

"You should let him come to Barona, with us. There isn't really anyone Richard's age back at the palace. I suspect it gets rather lonely for him. Besides, if they take lessons together, they may be more motivated to do their best. Friendly competition and all."

"Your Ma…Forgive me, Lord Ambassador…I could not possibly impose on you in such a way."

"Nonsense, Aston. I'm inviting him. He can stay with us. Our quarters are more than sufficient to accommodate a single child."

"Even so…"

"If it's his studies your worried about, he can continue them with us. Bryce is the best tutor in Barona, and an excellent fencing master on top of that. Your boy is thirteen now, isn't he? No better time to learn more about the world."

"I don't disagree…I would have to discuss it with my wife."

"Of course."

Even as Father and Mayor Aston Lhant continue making plans—glancing now at Richard, now at the mysterious Lhant son who must even now be mingling amongst the birthday wishing men and women of the entire town—Richard repeats the mayor's words in his head, again, and yet again, and again once more.

Your Majesty. He was going to say Your Majesty.

He knows who we are. There is someone who knows.

Panic rises. At once Sophie's hands are on his shoulders, a firm yet gentle grip. She smiles at him, a bright smile that ebbs his bubbling anxiety.

"It's okay, Richard," she whispers, kneeling so that she's eye-level with him. "Lord Aston is a good man. I've known him for a long, long time. You can trust him, okay?"

Richard has no time to wonder how she knows, how she always, always knows, because suddenly she is standing again, her amethyst eyes open wide in shock, in joy, in wonder, in fear. He turns to learn what has caught her attention so fully, only to find himself staring into a beloved sea.

A sunlit sea, a shallow bay at low-tide in summer, with flecks of gold glittering in the warm, white sands. Yet even still a sea deep and unknowable, sun struck as it is. Inviting in its unknowableness, daring, no, welcoming would-be explorers to wade, to sink, to drown.

Richard stumbles backwards, one step, two. Sophie catches him. Father and the mayor eye him curiously, and so does the sea.

"Holy crap! It's you!"

"Asbel! Mind your tongue!"

The boy, Asbel, flinches, but only just. He seems more interested in Richard, and Richard wishes desperately for him to lose that interest as quickly as possible.

"It's you," repeats Father, almost smiling. "You speak as if you've met my son before, young master Asbel."

Richard does not find this to be worth smiling about in the least. He wants to crawl into a dark hole deep in the earth and stay there, forever. Anything. Anything to escape wanting to leap headlong into the promise of that sea. Anything to escape the hollow rhythm that that name beats against his heart.

Even as he stands, dumbstruck, wishing with all his strength, the boy called Asbel reaches out, seizes his hand, and stares him dead in the eyes. Richard squeezes his eyes shut, but that only forces him to focus on the rough fingers enslaving his palm, on the coarse, warm skin and the thrumming pulse in the narrow wrist. His eyes open once more, only to trap him in the other's searching gaze. Pounding, his heart hitches in his throat.

Asbel's serious expression dissolves into a small frown.

"No," he says, his voice low. "No, I really don't know you at all, do I? I thought…Well, doesn't matter."

And he lets go Richard's hand. And he steps away.

All of this happens in the span of seconds, when to Richard it had felt like minutes. When he finally remembers to breathe, there is something lacking in the flavor of the air. A bitter taste, like ash or dirt, settles on his tongue. Somewhere in the spaces between his thoughts there lurks the specter of a memory, but he cannot grasp it. Straining for it sends a sharp pain shooting through the front of his skull. Reluctantly, he lets it go.

Leaning back, the boy called Asbel folds his arms and grins. The carnation tucked so proudly into the breast pocket collapses totally. A careless child, this one. The suit becomes him, yet somehow it's so obvious that he is exactly uncomfortable in it. Perhaps it is the way he stands—shoulders tense, drawn up, all his weight set on one leg while the free foot tap-tap-taps a nervous rhythm almost in keeping with the music from the band. Despite his discomfort, Richard finds himself having to bite back a smile—this boy, Asbel, had looked so much more natural in that pocket of space on the cliff side, with his hair tousled and twigged and his face a muddy mess.

"So," says Asbel, "dance buddies huh? Man, that sounds lame. But at least I'll finally get to see the capitol! Hey, is the palace really as big as they say it is? Are there a lot of knights there? I bet you throw some pretty fancy parties, right? Nothing like this—"

The mayor shoots his son a withering look, effectively silencing him. "Your mother worked hard to put this together for you. Do not disrespect her, Asbel."

Asbel mutters indistinctly, huffs, frowns again. He scratches the back of his head, and a faint hint of red tints his cheeks. Richard almost smiles. Almost.

"You ought to show your guests more respect, Asbel," the mayor goes on. "You didn't even greet them properly. These are very important friends of ours, you know."

"Ohhhhh, so you're the V.I.P., huh? Who'd have guessed!"

Behind him, Mayor Aston Lhant shakes his head. And Father…Father does something Richard has no memory of him ever having done before—Father laughs. This strange boy, course, crude, shameless, had made Father—his father, Ferdinand, the stone giant, the cold sentinel—laugh. He goes on laughing, even as the mayor apologizes for his son's uncouth behavior.

Richard's almost-smile sinks into the pit of his stomach.

This isn't jealousy. It's…wonder? disbelief? denial? No. None of those, either. None account for the fluttering in his abdomen or for the sudden lightness where moments before had only been a suffocating weight. None account for the urge in him to reach out, to take up those hands and to hold them for no other reason than they were worth being held.

Finally, he settles upon it.

Grateful. I'm grateful to him.

"I apologize," he says, even now forcing himself to look directly into those mystifying blues. "It seems I have been the rude one. You're right, Father. Asbel and I have met before. But I'm afraid I didn't properly introduce myself."

Strange how those eyes glimmer as Richard steps forward, how the pupils (small whirlpools in the ocean depths) suddenly contract, dilate, contract again.

Uncomfortable still, terrified still, he extends his hand. Those eyes follow his hand all the way to where it stops, hovering midway between the two of them.

"My name is Richard. It's a pleasure to meet you, Asbel."

Asbel, who had lunged for Richard's hand only moments before, now eyes it with uncertainty. The passing seconds become a minute, and the minute becomes too long. Richard swears that his pounding heart must be audible to half the manor. If his knees were not already pressed together, he was certain they would be knocking. As it is, he can barely keep his feet.

He doesn't trust me. He's afraid of me.

He hates me. He hates me.

He must hate me.

Dropping his hand, dropping his gaze, his lips move, but no words come out. He takes a step back, seeking for the warmth of Sophie behind him. Before he can step again, however, Asbel catches his hand a second time.

"S-sorry!" he blurts out (and he is shaking, more than Richard is shaking, and Richard is amazed to see tears flowing freely down the odd boy's still rosy cheeks). "I…I'm glad to meet you, really! I was just surprised, since before you…you…ah, crap."

Still holding tight to Richard's hand, Asbel swipes his free arm across his eyes to brush away the tears.

The mayor lays a concerned hand on his son's shoulder. "Are you alright, Asbel?"

"Y-yeah, sorry, I…I don't know why I'm…man, this is embarrassing."

He smiles then, a bright, warm, open smile, full of easy Windorian summers, of thirteen years roaming over green hills and down long, lazy valleys, of days spent picking apples and climbing windmills, and of hours and more hours spent watching boats slide in and out of harbor, meanwhile gazing across a sunset sea and dreaming of far-beyonds. He smiles, even as tears continue to fall.

Richard's chest aches. It aches with a burn and a depth beyond what his dreams have ever left him with before. Despite that, he can't bring himself to let go of Asbel's hand. There is safety in that hand. There is promise, and acceptance, in those eyes.

Throat tight, he realizes he is already sinking. He is sinking, and sinking fast.

-end chapter two-

moog: yes, hi, hello! i normally don't insert extensive author's notes, but i thought i'd take this opportunity to explain a bit about a certain stylistic choice i made, which, if that sort of thing interests you, feel free to keep reading! if it does not, then no worries! skipping my notes should not affect your understanding of the story overall.

now then! /cracks knuckles/ let's begin, shall we?

the stylistic choice i'm examining is that of writing richard's pov sections in the present tense while asbel's are written in the normal past-tense style. this is a rare and unusual stylistic choice to make, and fairly difficult to pull off (i love writing in the present tense, but i struggle with it a lot, and i don't claim at all to be good at it .~.). it's even more unusual, and not generally a good idea, to switch between a passive voice and an active voice within the same story. so just why the heck did i choose to enmesh myself in an unholy stylistic nightmare?

well, i actually considered my choice very, very carefully. i do, in fact, have reasons for doing this that, as a writer (and as someone who really loves richard), are very important to me. i'm not saying that they're good reasons. heck, i'm not even saying that my choice was right. what is "right" in writing, anyway? if nothing else, you may take this as my excuse to rant about richard for a small while 8)

see, when i sit down to write about richard, or to even begin thinking about writing richard, i immediately latch onto some of his most basic qualities-that he is ridiculously intelligent, that he is observant to the point of being hyper-aware; and when it comes to young richard, i also consider his inability to trust, and how the constant threat on his life forces him to be hyper-vigilant about studying, understanding, and even predicting the behavior of the people around him. all of this carries over into his adult life too, of course, but at that point his skills are more refined and manifest a little differently, so i won't go into my thoughts on that just yet. in any case, the only way that i felt able to even begin to capture the moment-by-moment of richard's thoughts, and to give attention to details as he would have given them attention, was to write his sections in the active present-tense. all points of time meet in the "now", and that's where richard needs to be if he's to make any sense of the hectic world around him.

asbel, on the other hand, is written in the passive voice because he has a bit more leeway (at least in his childhood) to let time go by around him without giving it much thought. he can't wait to grow up. he can't wait to become a knight. his eyes are always looking forward to the next challenge, to the next adventure. the "now" only concerns him when he's bored, because only then does he become aware of an immediate present in which he is trapped. even then he does not stay in that mind state long, for he is bound to spend it thinking of a future in which he is not bored.

so, yes. those, more or less, are the reasons behind my stylistic narrative choices in this story. thank you for your time, and i hope you enjoy! comments and criticisms are always welcome!

have a nice day!