Written for Day 6 of DenNor Week - "Royalty". I'm really happy with how this turned out! Hope you enjoy!
Names:
- Eirik: Norway
- Mikkel: Denmark
- Lucille: Monaco
- Tolys: Lithuania
The servants remind him of ants. They scurry up and down wide corridors, arms laden with sheets or towels. Some are weighed down by a bucket and mop, others pause in their march to dust the beginnings of a cobweb behind a suit of armour. Their minds focus on the list of tasks they've been assigned, knowing full well they must carry out their duties perfectly unless they wish the face Lucille or Ludwig's ire. Expendable workers, Eirik thinks, whose only role in life is to serve the Royal household.
There's something oddly pleasant in watching people hard at work, a lazy satisfaction at seeing those who scorn him wear themselves down while he bathes in the sunlight that passes through the tall windows beside him.
Lucille will berate him for it later. Her hands will fly to her hips, she'll adopt that stern expression everyone dreads to face, and she'll give him a lecture on responsibility and the attitude expected of him. She believes her angry hissing will change his behaviour. She thinks she can order him around like she can the others.
In many ways, she can. As First Lady of the Bedchamber, she has every right to expect he obey her every order. Yet, no matter how his attitude irritates her, she trusts him to perform his duties, therefore will often let him off with only a stern warning.
She needn't worry about the servants taking offense at his attitude. They walk past him without paying him any attention, not even a curious or confused glance in his direction. Eirik is willing to bet they don't notice him. Almost two decades spent eavesdropping on people has taught him how to go unseen even when directly in their line of sight.
In fact, the only times they do notice him are when he stands tall a few steps behind Prince Mikkel. Only then do they whisper among themselves, spreading vicious gossip and terrifying rumours Eirik prays the King and Queen will never hear of. Most of it is fueled by jealousy. Eirik is an outcast - his mother burnt for witchcraft, his father hanged for desertion - yet serves the Crown Prince as future Gentleman of the Bedchamber. A man of his class should be dead by now, or at the very least live at the outskirts of society, begging for someone to take pity on him and give him a scrap of meat or a few crumbs of bread. Why is he permitted to serve the Crown Prince, while they mop floors and change dirty bedding with not even a whisper of gratitude?
Their theories as to how such an injustice has been allowed to take place are fueled by their bitterness. Prince Mikkel's preferences - or rather, lack of preference - are well-known. Has Eirik somehow seduced him? Could witchcraft be involved somehow? Has Eirik cursed their future king with the vile taint of magic?
Kept separate, neither rumour would alarm him. He helps Mikkel dress, keeps him company day and night, if necessary, serves as his confident, his advisor, his closest friend. In a world where people rarely marry for love, what could be the harm in sleeping with your valet? Even romance isn't frowned upon, though etiquette requests it's kept behind closed doors. As for suspicions of witchcraft, the King and Queen are fully aware of his concealed talent.
But put both rumours together, and the King and Queen might uncover the true nature behind their relationship. They might learn of the unnatural bond between them, in which case Eirik would be thrown into a cell to rot away for the rest of his life. And the kingdom would eventually fall to ruin because of heartache.
Fortunately, the Prince has grown adept at lying, and neither Lucille nor Ludwig have much patience for gossip. Lucille knows of the relationship between the two, Ludwig knows of his ability, but they trust him enough to not share their knowledge with each other.
A twinge of anxiety prevents Eirik from relaxing fully. The clothes the servants wear remind him of the upcoming wedding. Princess Natalya and Prince Mikkel may have been engaged for five years, only now has General Braginsky insisted on them finally getting wed. A multitude of reasons could explain the sudden urgency: political turmoil within their kingdom, tensions with neighbouring power, maybe even something as simple as desire for one of the Braginsky daughters to birth another heir in case something happens to Prince Ivan.
Thus, as tradition requires, Feliks Łukasiewicz has designed a suitable servant's outfit to celebrate the union between their two kingdoms. Scarlet skirts are complimented by white shirts whose sleeves bloom into delicate puffs. Ebony vests add a certain elegance to the look, with the roaring lion of the Densen Royal Family embroidered on their breast-pockets. The male servant's uniform remains mostly the same, though the dark tailcoats have been brightened by red cravats, and the bear of the Braginsky Royal Family has been embroidered in white silk on the pockets used to store away their handkerchiefs.
Eirik's own attire won't change. Mauve trousers to alert others of his position, a navy blue tailcoat to identify which member of the royal family he serves. Splashes of red decorate the blue-grey cravat that hugs his neck, while roaring lions are engraved into his cufflinks. Not one person could doubt his loyalty to Crown Prince Mikkel.
He doubts the General is flattered by his in-laws subtle touches of hospitality. His own servants wear dull, grey clothes; more befitting of a soldier's march than a union between two kingdoms. As a matter of fact, the Braginskies have made no effort to engage in the universal customs, nor have they tried to familiarize themselves with the traditions of the Densen lineage. They came bearing no gifts, no entertainment, no skilled workers. It wouldn't surprise Eirik if the General were to just take and take, giving nothing in exchange, until nothing remained of Mikkel's future kingdom but barren lands.
There is one custom he has followed, however. And it involves Eirik.
As tradition dictates, the bride and groom may not meet each other until their wedding day. Thus, Eirik flutters from one end of the palace to the other, a messenger bird carrying letters no one cares to receive. Princess Natalya treats him with the barest of civilities when her siblings are around, outright hostility when he encounters her by herself. In a strange way, this reassures him. She won't be disappointed when she eventually learns her future husband's heart is already taken.
Her servant, on the other hand, unnerves him. Tolys is a man, short with shaggy air and the posture of one who tries to stand straight but the terrors of the world cause him to cower. He speaks softly, his words iced with a delicate layer of politeness and civility, the epitome of courtesy. He turns his mistress' passive aggressive remarks into flattery, twists her barbed comments into compliments.
At first, Eirik assumes Tolys is simply good at his job. He must have undergone years of training, learning the rules of high society and manners of etiquette Eirik still struggles with. He clearly hasn't been given a crash-course lesson like the oucast has.
Yet, as the wedding draws nearer, Eirik starts to notice things, small details most people wouldn't look at twice. He realises that Tolys studies his face when he talks, searching for a hint of dishonesty in his expression. He memorises every little thing Eirik tells him, dropping it casually in future conversations with an ease that startles the young man. He hides personal questions behind formal queries, sets traps in the form of innocuous musings. Why?
Eirik studies him in turn, threading hypotheses from the bare strings he manages to glimpse.
Tolys watches him come and go in the hope of spotting a limp in his step. His gaze flickers to Eirik's covered neck whenever they were exchange greetings, checking for discolorations in the small slither of visible skin there. His subtle interrogations seek to understand the circumstances surrounding his first meeting with the Prince, to uncover just how Eirik had saved the man's life.
He wants Eirik to confess. To explain how, one sunny afternoon, the Prince had left the safety of the palace to explore the nearby forest. So engrossed in his newfound freedom, he hadn't noticed something was stalking him. Times had been desperate, even one measly human would satisfy a starving forest demon.
He wants Eirik to describe the rush of adrenaline that had surged through his veins the moment he'd heard the terrified shout. How without thinking twice, he'd drawn his inner strength and let his body morph into something inhuman. He'd crashed out of the undergrowth, into the massive predator with teeth the size of daggers, and had clamped his jaws around his neck, crushing it until Mikkel gathered his wits and dispatched of it with a fierce blow to its skull.
What a strange sight it would have seemed to any passerby! On the left, a future king wielding an axe stained with crimson. On the right, a shapeshifter disguised as a bear of the purest white, its muzzle dyed red. No trace of fear in either's eyes, only a deep understanding neither could explain. It had been this peculiar feeling that had caused Mikkel to reach a trembling hand out, this unexplained bond that had led Eirik to press his muzzle against his palm.
Tolys wants to know why the King and Queen gave into Mikkel's request the shapeshifter be made his personal servant. He wants to know just how close the two have grown over the years.
He wants Eirik to let it slip that they are lovers and the bond between them - that sacred union spoken of in the tales of old, a union between man and magic prophets had been warning people about for centuries - can never be severed. For if anything bad were to happen to one of them, the other would tear down the entire world to bring him back.
Tolys' persistence chills Eirik to the bone. He finds himself constantly on edge, weighing every word he says in his mind before speaking. He's warned Mikkel to hold his tongue, does everything in his power so his lover won't accidentally reveal something he shouldn't. But Eirik is far from perfect, and subtlety isn't Mikkel's strong suit. How long do they have until one of them makes a simple yet devastating mistake?
What exactly do the Braginskies hope to gain by unearthing these secrets, anyway? Do they want Eirik out of the picture? Do they wish to blackmail the Prince? Or do they wish to use this bond for their own gain?
"Don't you have a prince to attend to?"
Lucille's haughty voice snaps him back to reality. She's peering at him through her spectacles, her lips pulled into a thin, disapproving line. Everything about her, from the carefully braided ponytail that hangs down her back to the lack of creases in her dress, points towards neatness, expectation that people will do their jobs without her needing to remind them. A proper Lady's Maid, in the traditional sense, the light pink of her dress symbolizing the Queen, a woman who can both assist her mistress and organise the household staff.
Though she often drives him mad, Eirik holds her in the highest esteem.
"His Royal Highness is studying. Or, at least, he should be. He dismissed me because I was, and I quote, 'being a pain in the backside'. Apparently I should never go into teaching."
Lucille accepts his explanation, eyes sparkling with mirth as she seats herself down opposite him, though she continues to watch the steady stream of servants. She lowers her voice so only he can hear her.
"I suppose His Royal Highness would know all about pains in his lower half, wouldn't he?" her tone turns serious. "Tolys has been asking about you. He tries his best to be discreet, but you know how word spreads in these parts. I'd suggest you mind what you say around him."
"Trust me, I already do."
She nods. Her approval, worth as much as a chest full of gold, fills him with pride. Having said what she'd planned on saying, she lingers only a short while longer, taking the time to listen to his opinion on a few minor matters before she rises to her feet and bids him farewell.
Suddenly, Eirik feels Mikkel call for him. A gentle tug at the red string that binds them together. Nothing urgent. He isn't in danger. In fact, Eirik knows instinctively that Mikkel only wants company. He heads to his lover's chamber at a brisk place anyway. No matter how much time they spend together, joy still floods his being whenever these small opportunities arise. For a few hours, they can pretend they're nothing more than two young men helplessly in love, and that's almost enough to wash away all his worries.
Eirik never knocks. He opens the door without warning, walks in without a world, and closes it behind him. Only does does he utter a greeting, in that soft voice he reserves for Mikkel's ears alone. He stands still, back straight, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for his lover to give him the all clear signal.
Mikkel smiles at him, returns his greeting with all the warmth a human voice can carry. That's their signal. Eirik relaxes his posture into a more natural stance, arms hanging loosely at his shoulders, shoulders sagging ever so slightly. Here, in this room, together, with no one else to watch them, they are equals.
Mikkel never once thought he'd love someone as much as he loves Eirik. He had hoped, of course - his friends call him a hopeless romantic for a reason - but he never expected to actually feel that rush of dopamine every time he sees him, he never expected his stomach to flutter the way it does whenever Eirik speaks.
The prince wants nothing more than to hold his lover in his arms until the sun kisses the Earth and the moon sinks into the ocean. He dreams of lazing under the shade of a tree to escape the summer heat, hands intertwined, the only sound being the endless stream of words that flow between them.
Eirik's worried about something. A certain vacancy dims the light in his eyes, and his arms are folded over his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeves in an iron grip. Eirik's good at hiding his concerns most of the time, but sometimes they can be blatantly obvious. Mikkel knows his lover so well he doesn't even need to ask what's bothering him.
"Come on, come here," Mikkel pats the empty space beside him.
With Eirik perched on the edge of his bed, sinking into the soft mattress, Mikkel can pull Eirik close. He breathes in his sweet scent, eyes fluttering shut as he puts to memory this precious moment. Eirik's breath tickles his neck, and his lover shifts, making himself comfortable, arranging himself so those arms don't become overbearing, so he's free to stretch his legs and lean into the prince's chest. Eirik isn't much of hugger. He much prefers using Mikkel as a cushion over becoming his teddy bear.
"I'm fine. Really."
His words are barely more than gentle vibrations, muffled by skin, but Mikkel catches every last one of them without needing to concentrate.
"Sure you are. But you know I'm here if you aren't."
They bask in each other's warmth for as long they are able to. Mikkel talks and talks, tells Eirik all about how boring his lessons are, complains about the quantity of information he must assimilate before becoming king. He muses about the endless possibilities ahead of them, comes up with funny schemes to rid himself of the obligation of marrying a woman he's never met. Eirik listens quietly, humming agreement and letting out puffs of laughter at all the right places. Occasionally, he'll tell Mikkel about an amusing scene he witnessed earlier, but most of the time, he's happy to let the prince do all the talking.
Their blissful peace is interrupted, as always, by Eirik's impeccable internal clock. Mikkel needs to prepare for dinner. One last chaste kiss and his servant is ushering him to his feet, falling back into professionalism as he goes to pick out a suitable outfit. Mikkel is relieved to see no trace of anxiety tensing his muscles.
His hands brush against Mikkel's bare skin as he helps him dress, never lingering longer than a few seconds, freezing to the touch even though they've spent the last few hours nestled in the creases of Mikkel's shirt. He makes a quick attempt to style his disheveled hair, which Mikkel ends up fixing for him. He loves playing with it; it passes through his fingers like silk.
And then it's back to business, back to pretending there's nothing between them. How could anybody guess that their relationship is of the romantic kind, when Eirik is all frowns and cold politeness? How could anybody guess that Eirik is a shapeshifter, and that the bond between them is of the most intricate kind on this planet?
Mikkel finds himself grinning. No, there's absolutely nothing for Eirik to worry about. Nothing at all.