Pierre couldn't make out his hands in front of him in the thick of the snow. It was dark and unbelievably cold and yet, he wasn't afraid. The snow, piercing and icy stung his soft skin. He scrunched his eyes up against the sleety daggers and strained to see the lights of the house. Nothing. He knew this mountain well, but not in the inky black of a horrific storm could he even dare to find his way back to his Mama. He wandered a little, one hand groping the air in front of him, the other shielding his eyes, offering him a small amount of shelter against the weather. Suddenly a sweeping gust of wind knocked him over. He fell with a soft thud on the snow, his face buried into it.

Perhaps, if it had been any other child, it would not have been so painful. But he was small for a 12 year old and he had never had to survive on his own like this before. He picked himself up with all the strength he could muster, his legs feeling slightly wobbly and his hands feeling as if they were no longer attached to the ends of his wrist. He groped with his hand again, coming into contact with a rough wall of rock. He whimpered slightly as a sharp edge of a prickly edge tore his skin apart. He looked down to his injured hand blindly, running over it with his fingers. The hot blood made him shiver and he applied a little pressure to the vicious cut.

Proceeding forward in his veil of darkness, the snow suddenly started to get lighter, until it no longer fell on his mousy brown hair. This place, wherever he was as he could not make it out in the darkness, was a little warmer and far more sheltered than the storm outside. He came to the conclusion it had to be the cave he so often played in when he came up the mountain.

Feeling along the wall with his hands, whimpering involuntarily as his wound came into contact with it. He had a rough idea where it was and as his hand came to finally rest on the crudely built ledge that his brother and himself had built with the help of Joseph a few years ago, he let out a sigh of relief. Surely the flashlight would still be there, he could only, in his childishness, hope it was. His hand snaked along it, fumbling for anything that felt like a flash light. His hand was sticky with the blood that wouldn't cease to come from his wound. He knew that was not a good sign, - he would have to find something that would at least lessen it.

He groped, lifted it and fuddled for the button on the handle of the heavy torch. Suddenly, and much to his relief the cave was bathed in an eerie glow of yellowy light. He shone the light around, studying his very natural surroundings. The cave was massive and how he enjoyed, even in this case, being here. He remembered fondly coming here with his brother and playing, how he wished Philippe was here now.

The den they had set up still existed, undisturbed as no one ever intruded on 'their' mountain. The old spongy arm chairs that Joseph had heaved up a few winters ago looked suddenly very enticing to the tired boy, yet he felt as if he couldn't sleep. It wasn't like home but it would suffice. He reached up to the ledge and rustled with his healthy hand among the old crisp packets and rusting soda cans that their mother had permitted them to eat and drink secretly. Finding in among them and old piece of table cloth decorated with father Christmases and reindeers he shredded it, making a piece large enough and long enough to wrap around his hand.

Settling down in the old, grey armchair and tucking his legs around him, the flashlight now held firmly in his bandaged hand he shone it out into the mouth of the cave. The snow was still falling thick and fast and he wouldn't dare venture out until it subsided. He knew Joseph would be out looking for him, battling the ferocious winds that were swirling the snow about. He just hoped and prayed Joseph would be safe. He prayed often and a lot, for everyone he knew, for everything he cared about. He prayed secretly that one day he wouldn't have to be King.

His friends, though he had few because he felt he couldn't really trust anyone, made fun of him because he prayed and had a trust in God. He knew it wasn't him that should be King, but he didn't know how to tell his father, or voice his thoughts. He just knew, more than anything, he wanted to go out into the world and serve god differently, not as a monarch.

He smiled, thinking of how praying often helped him understand the strange world that he knew his mother had unwillingly brought him into. It helped when he was trying to fathom out his parents marriage, which he knew was nothing but lies - mostly on his fathers part.

He had, for the first time in his young life, time to think about it - he wanted to serve God, but not in the way everyone else thought he should. He felt a sudden comfort, knowing soon he would be found by Joseph or maybe even his mother and be taken back to the warmth of the house.

His eyes drooped a little as he snuggled up, using what was left of the table cloth to wrap around him, just for extra warmth - he knew he'd be ok.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Clarisse flung open the door and watched Joseph go, perhaps only meters in the thick snow and then he disappeared. She stood, motionless for a moment. She wanted desperately to go with Joseph, but she knew if she did he would get angry at the fact she was risking her life as well as her sons'. Her little boy, standing by her side shivering, his teeth chattering slightly brought her back to the world where he was.

"Oh, Philippe," she smiled distractedly, shutting the door with a gentle thud, "my darling, you're freezing, go change right away." He done as she bid, running up the wooden stairs of the house and leaving slushy footprints behind.

Clarisse felt the silence of the house envelope her horribly. She felt ill as she realised the enormity of the situation. Pierre, her beautiful son was missing. Pierre, the heir to the throne. She swallowed, if it went wrong, if they never found him not only had she lost something that mattered to her most in the world, she had failed the country. Shivering slightly, though the room was warm, she pulled her wrap around her as she sat down on the couch. She felt helpless. Joseph was out there battling the elements while she sat in the warmth, wishing she could help. Her little boy, how dear he was to her, how much he amused her with how deep and philosophical he was. It was a quality he took from neither of his parents. She knew her oldest didn't want to be king, it simply showed through as the type of person he was. He was deep, deeper than she could probably imagine. She knew there was something about him that was not in royal blood, something special, something that cried out to be answered. She knew it was about helping people, and she knew as a king he could never really fulfill whatever it was that attracted him so.

Joseph; nor could she lose him, what a horrific thought. Perhaps it was selfish, but she needed him, a tiny part of her wanted him, if she admitted it. She didn't want him as a friend, she wanted more than that. She scolded herself, she wasn't allowed to think like that, it wasn't right or proper . It was, above all, highly immoral.

Her want, her fear of losing him, was far different from the fear for her son. Her fear for him, though no stronger or prominent, frightened her further than anything. It wasn't right to care about him so much, yet hide it. She couldn't breath when he was near her, she couldn't think straight. All she felt was for him, all she felt was wrong. It wasn't lust, well partly it was. But something else, something far more meaningful, something far more dangerously enticing lingered in her.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Joseph shone the flash light over the snow, looking for footsteps. The small prints, deeply imprinted in the snow, faint because they were quickly being covered by fresh snow led to the 'den'. His heart done a little flip as he seen the faint light emitting from the mouth of the vast cave buried in the mountain. Horror filled him as he noticed the blood that coincided with the footsteps, appearing every few centimetres in the virginal white of the snow as he followed the outer wall of the cave.

"Pierre!" he bellowed over the storm, nearing the mouth of the cave and shining the torch inside. Relief, or more than that washed over him as he saw the young boy, quite contently curled up on the old chair that Joseph had grudged lugging up the mountain a few years ago. Now he was glad he'd done it. He stopped his raged shouting, instead quietly tip-toeing over to where Pierre was curled up. He had been smart, Joseph admired. The bandage round his hand, though covered in blood had perhaps, he hoped, slowed the bleeding now from what appeared to be a very vicious cut. He had been alone longer than two hours and he was freezing, even though he had a skiing jacket and snow trousers on. His lips, usually pink were a faint shade of blue and his skin was so pale it was almost transparent.

Sitting down the torch momentarily, Joseph pulled his Jacket off himself and wrapped it round the young prince, then scooped Pierre up into his strong arms. Shivering, the young boy half-consciously rested his head in the crook of Josephs neck. Lifting his own flashlight, leaving the other behind, he made his way, unobstructed to the mouth of the cave and into the snow storm. It had lightened and eased considerably and now, if only a little, he was able to see a few paces in front. In no time, with the help of the flashlight the house came into view. Pierre stirred a little in his arms as Joseph's freezing feet sunk further into the abysmally deep snow. Joseph smiled inwardly to himself - he could already see the relief and joy on Clarisse's face.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Clarisse jumped as the door of the house flew open, leaving the drowsy Philippe on the couch. Joseph stood in the doorway, clutching her sleeping son in his arms, smiling at her and shivering slightly. She felt as if she couldn't move her feet to reach them quick enough.

"Oh, my little boy," she gasped, taking the half-awake Pierre from Joseph's arms and cradling him to her. Joseph turned, shaking the snow off of himself and closing the door behind them.

"Beside the fire," Joseph chattered, taking Pierre from her and laying him in front of the fire on the bearskin rug. Pierre murmured, opening his eyes as Clarisse hovered over him - gently stripping him of his clothing.

"Here," Joseph said mechanically, handing the queen a basin of steaming water and a bottle of oil that he'd quickly fetched from the kitchen, "bathe his hand while I warm him up". She silently did as she was told, unravelling the bandage delicately.

"Ahh!" Pierre flinched, jerking into a sitting position.

"Sorry darling," she muttered, throwing the blood drenched cloth into the crackling fire and plunging his small hand into the basin. She hated blood, especially that of her sons.

His skin, now considerably more coloured was still freezing as Joseph rubbed each part of his body ferociously, reaching for the foil he'd taken from the kitchen and wrapping it around his feet.

"Pierre," Joseph smiled, more to Clarisse than the young boy, "you had us worried." She smiled back, then returned, administering to her son lovingly. Glad, glad for the fact her son was safe………….as was Joseph.

Clarisse watched her two sons disappear to bed from the bottom of the stairs, noticing how tired Pierre looked. She didn't blame him, he had, after all, endured the freezing of a European night.

She turned to Joseph after a moment. He was standing by the fire, rubbing his hands in front of it. His clothes, she could see were soaked through, even though he had had a jacket on. Then she remembered it had been wrapped around Pierre when they had unceremoniously came in.

"You must be freezing," she muttered, moving towards him.

" I-I a-am," he chattered, clearly embarrassed that he wasn't acting very tough now. She smiled slightly.

"Is this your case?" she questioned, pointing to one in the mountain of cases, that in the events of the evening where still lying on the floor, packed. Only Pierre's and Philippe's lay open, Clarisse having rummaged for their pyjamas.

He nodded, still shivering. She wasted no time, unzipping his case and pulling out a warm black jumper and a pair of black trousers.

"Here," she ordered, handing him the dry clothing and making her way to the kitchen, "I'll make the coffee."

Warmer and far dryer now, Joseph smiled at her as she handed him a steaming mug of coffee and sat down beside him on the couch. She looked quite beautiful, tired but beautiful.

"Thank you," she whispered, after taking a long sip of steaming tea from her china cup, "thank you for what you did this evening, it was brave and it…." She trailed off, not sure how to convey how much what he'd done had meant to her, even though she thought he already knew.

"It's my job," he smiled, brushing off her compliment kindly and in the process dispelling the silence, "and I would have done it, even if it had not been my job."

"I'm glad you have this job," she smiled, leaning forward and resting her hand on his knee. She didn't mean for it to have that affect on him, it had been a friendly gesture, or at least she wanted to pretend it was.

He jumped, losing control of a situation he thought he had well handled. She touched him and it…..well, it was what he wanted but not what was right…..how could he, how could he resist what he felt. Her hand, burning on his leg was soon gone as she saw his reaction - realising something she never had as it burned in his eyes. Fighting the urge to keep her hand there, fighting the urge to see that if she kept her hand there, what would he do? She wanted to see his reaction, to know if every moment he spent with her, and without, he thought about her.

"Well, goodnight Joseph." she murmured quickly, standing up from the sofa and placing the nearly full cup of tea on the table. She edged away from him, nearing the stairs.

"Clarisse I-," he tried, wishing he hadn't let her know, wishing he'd kept his desires to himself. She turned to him, her eyes quite clearly telling him an explanation was needless.

He sat, scolding himself for his reaction to her wonderful touch. When had he not wanted that? When had he not wanted more than just that? He wanted her so badly, he wanted her to know what he'd do for her - he wanted her to know he'd quite happily die for her. He wanted to keep her safe and make her his, even if what he wanted, he could never have.

Please R&R, it would be greatly appreciated.

Yours,

The authors.