Thin Walls, Thick Chains

by Charlotte.H.Davis

Louis Tomlinson, the Crown Prince. It was never supposed to be him. His mother, the beloved Queen of Doncaster invites Princess Gemma and her brother Prince Harold to their castle. She is to marry Louis. But the Queendom is not nearly as put together as the world is led to believe. Or as safe. And what is Harry doing here? Is Louis like the boy he once knew?

Synopsis:

Louis Tomlinson, the Sapphire Prince, the Crown Prince. It was never supposed to be him. His mother, the respected and beloved Queen of Doncaster invites Princess Gemma and her borther Prince Harold to their castle. She is to marry Louis, if the courting goes well. Harry brings his best friend with him. When the royals arrive, they find the Queendom not nearly as put together as the world is led to believe. Or as safe. And what is Harry doing here anyway? And is Louis anything like the boy he had once known? Where do the truth and the rumours overlap? What secrets are held behind sharp blue eyes?

Or, Harry is invited to Louis' castle with no idea why, or who the Crown Prince has become.

Notes:

Hello! So just to preface this, I am well aware many inventions such as cigarettes or the mentioned guns did not exist in Medieval Europe, but then again, neither did Queendoms. Instead, this is a fantasy setting but there is definitely no such thing as magic (sorry guys), and just to clarify, these are the boys' ages:
Louis: 22
Harry: 20
Niall: 27
Liam: 34
Zayn: 25
And Felicity is the eldest Tomlinson in this story and Louis' father and step-fathers are a little different.
Disclaimer: I don't mean any disrespect to any fandom pairings or the real people, this is simply how I would imagine them in this setting, and any negative behaviour from them is naturally not how I think of them but simply how they fit into this story.
Please enjoy and let me know what you think and any suggestions, improvement, plot, etc, would be greatly appreciated. Happy reading!

Chapter 1: The Sapphire Prince

The mans' lips trembled. He bowed his head, peering up from between the strands of his unkept dark hair. His eyes caught the gaze of the Crown Prince and he instantly regretted it. He ducked his head down again and begged silently for mercy. The Prince's fingers rapped over his throne, finger pads tapping a steady, languid rhythm into the old precious wood. His cold, calculating stare, eyes like ice over a lake, pierced into the man on his knees.

"Do you know what you are being sentenced for?"

The man shivered, the Prince's beautiful voice crackling down his spine. The Royal heir was famous for it. Apparently, some servants walked themselves over the edge of rooftops following that voice, thinking he was calling out for them from the dark. Others fell at his feet, each to be refused.

"Answer me," the Prince spat, words crawling past his mouth, barely a whisper. The man knew better than making him repeat himself.

"Uhhh... Treason... Your Highness."

A slow smirk, almost a snarl, pulled at the Royal's lips and the man had never seen a more gruesome sight.

"And do you know what we do with traitors?"

The man couldn't stop trembling, his breath trapped and suffocating him. He knew all too well. The Prince's punishment was notorious.

The Prince sighed heavily in mock disappointment.

"No final words? No Wishes? No threats..." his words echoed through the wide chambers. "Nothing?"

Hot liquid seeped between the man's legs and a look of disgust poured over the Prince's sharp features.

"For God's sake. Take him away."

The word barely had to brush his lips and two guards sprung forward like a taunt wire. The man scrambled back, his chains clanking against the spotless porcelain floor.

"No, no please, I can be of other use." But the Prince simply rose from his throne and walked away, his meticulously cleaned boats clanking unhurriedly against the floor. The young man folded his hands behind his back, paying no head to the prisoner as he approached the window, the bright morning sun pouring through.

The prisoner struggled against the men as they dragged him up, blurting anything he could offer, himself, his wife, his children. He had no land to barter. But the Prince didn't react. The prisoner's wide eyes roved over the guards as he was pulled back, his filthy shoes dragging over the floor. He searched for sympathetic eyes, a kind face, anyone who would help, but they all looked the same. Dark navy uniforms, their left hand on their sheathed swords as they stared coldly straight ahead. There was no kindness here. Nothing but that same tension, like wound up tin soldiers. At any moment, they would come to life, attentive and ready, dreadfully conscious of the consequences if they weren't. The enormous doors shut almost soundlessly and the crescendo of the man's wails and pleads cut off.

The Prince glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he had forgotten there was anything going on at all. As if he didn't hold the life of the prisoner in his palm, his bleeding, still beating heart in his palm. Crunched by a single command. Apparently satisfied, or disinterested, the Prince cast his eyes back to the awaiting blue. But as his head turned, his piercing icy eyes found a single guard. He was dressed differently, donning the same blue shirt, but lacking the silver buttons and tokens of the uniform, loosely buttoned, brown trousers instead of cream white of the guards and a black belt. He stood just as attentively, though perhaps without the same fear shimmering beneath his skin. His and the Prince's eyes locked for a single moment and the guard inclined his head slightly. The Prince did not react, simply staring out of the window. And none of the guards will have noticed as the Prince's personal guard moved from his station. As he slipped between the walls and disappeared. None will have known that he treaded down dark and slippery stairs, a gently ping of water dripping from the ceiling accompanying him the whole way down. None will have known he went after the prisoner.

Six months later

Harry sighed at his reflection, tugging at the lapel of his shirt. Shit, he was nervous.

"The heart of a lion too beats with blood," he mumbled.

"Don't let them hear you speak Gaelic, brother," a drifting voice called out from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, his lip quirking as his sister walked into the room, closing the door behind her. She smiled at him in a way he had known since he was born, kindness melting into mischief.

"Sister dearest, once upon a time you'll give someone a heart attack marching in unannounced," he said as he turned back to the mirror, slotting in the last of the black buttons into his green jacket, darker than the forests he'd known as a child.

"Unannounced, eh?" his sister said with amusement, "you'd think you'd remember which one of us was the heir." He rolled his eyes but smiled at her through the mirror as she strolled across the room, casting him a glance.

"Aye, sister, you're right, but who'll tell?"

Gemma walked towards him, her peach coloured dress rushing softly over the wooden planked floor. Her long fingers reached over his shoulder, flicking off an invisible fleck of fluff. Harry doubted there was anything there at all, but he lingered in her affectionate touch.

Gemma huffed a private laugh.

"You still smell like horse," she said, amusement ringing in her voice.

Harry's gaze snapped up in alarm, panic flooding his green eyes, but his sister only laughed.

"God, the look on your face," she said, and leant in to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'm only teasing. Niall was saying you were in the stable, you swell perfectly Princelike."
Harry shook his head lightly, his own smile unwavering. Both siblings turned to their reflection, watching each other almost like a painting, disconnected and out of their own bodies. They looked regal, all elegant lines and grace, each blessed with shimmering beauty. And they fit like a portrait, Gemma's leaning into his side, her hand arched to his cheek, Harry with his hand behind his back. A Crown Princess and young Prince. Gemma's smile fell, her eyes cold. Harry's did too and a stone settled in his stomach. The heavy weight of their responsibility fell forcefully on their shoulders, but their backs stayed straight, their heads held high. They could not fail. Could not falter, could not fall. Gemma's eyes flickered to Harry's in the mirror and he nodded. They had to be ready.

Gemma walked away, her feet tapping gently over the shimmering floor and left the room with a chaste farewell. The chambers that had been Harry's before he was even born. He was one day expected to leave them to find his own Kingdom. Leave to whom, he sometimes wondered. To his sister's future children, and their children and their children's children, each to fall the same fate? To stay and rule or move on and be married. Until the castle underneath their feet was nothing but dust. Harry sighed and examined the room, lavishly furnished with deep red curtains, an enormous bed in its centre with gold threaded drapes and small items of luxury dispersed throughout. He wondered how long it would be before he would see it again, and how long before he never would again.

"Why am I coming again?" Niall voice cut through Harry's thought, stepping into the room. Harry turned to look. Niall was dressed impeccably, pressed into a tight jacket with a row of cream buttons and blue and red swirled pattern, perhaps branches and leaves. His hair was combed neatly across his forehead. Harry almost snorted, it did not suit him one bit. Niall was coming under his father's strict instructions. He was to gain diplomatic experience and leave behind the gambling and various enjoyed luxuries and indulgences he had become notorious for. Harry had decided to take pity on him.

"You won't be needing that," Harry said. Niall frowned and looked down at himself. He subconsciously patted down his hair. His eyes widened as he understood the meaning behind his Prince's words. He looked up, a smile spreading over his face, childish and impish. Harry returned it, his friend's joy the most infectious of anyone he knew.

"Really, Harry?" he asked hopefully, happiness lifting his words. Harry nodded.

"Of course, now go on. Change."

Niall nodded enthusiastically and spun on his heels, already out of the door when he paused. He retreated two steps, back in sight of the young Prince.

"What?" Harry asked, amused.

"Doesn't explain why I am coming, is all," Niall said curiously, shrugging with nonchalance.

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's a Royal court, the Royal court, in fact. I doubt anyone will have a personality as colourful as yours."

Niall laughed, his entire body shuddering with his boisterous joy. He knocked his head back too. Once upon a time, Harry had thought it dramatic and fake, but it was simply who Niall was. Exaggerated in every movement and basking in every second of joy.

"I'm to be your entertainment then," the lesser Royal teased. "A glorified jester."

"Glorified? You should be honoured to be considered half that," Harry said snarkily.

"Hey!" Niall protested. Harry snorted.

"Would you rather stay?"

Niall shook his head rapidly. "Course not, Your Highness. I'll bring the juggling balls."

Harry smiled to himself, shaking his head. They were both fully aware it was far more likely the Prince would bring alcohol instead. The least Harry could do was provide the cards, Harry thought as he swiped his desk from his desk and briskly walked out of the room, not quite knowing what to expect.

Louis watched the arriving carriage from his chambers, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in a light blue waistcoat, silver threats woven through in a laurel pattern, gleaming lightly in the warm morning light. His trousers were a darker blue along with his cloak, a deep soft velvet. He had been dressed in blue since he was a child. The Sapphire Prince, they called him, and he had embraced the title. Well, his dressmaker certainly had, anyway. He knew there were many more, much worse nicknames that flowed among the tongues of his mother's subjects and enemies alike. He brushed his fingers over the ring on his right hand. Not the sapphire as big as a cherry pip, or the diamond embedded golden band, but a simple silver one. One smelted with such gentle swirls and curved ridges, and within, words he could never forget. He mumbled them aloud as the stuttering clump of horse hooves over the gravelled road reached his room. He looked up, snapped from his wandering memories. Four dark horses, near black as night stopped in sync beneath his window, their reins pulled taut. He peered down, noting the second carriage that stopped behind the first. He closed his eyes for just a moment, and breathed in deeply. It had begun.

He whirled and strode across his bedchamber, Wallace bowing as he passed. Louis barely noticed him and strode out of the room. He didn't have to look behind him to know his guard was there, half melted into the shadows, his footfalls silent as they turned down the hall. They passed painting after painting, generations of the Royal family in various stages of their lives. Louis had long since stopped noticing them too.

"Cutting it a little close, no, brother?" a voice sing-songed from his left. Louis' frown relaxed a little, a small smile he had been told he'd inherited from his father blooming to the surface.

"Indeed, Charlotte," he said as he stopped in the centre of the hall, two more branching out to either side of him. He held his hand out to the left, where Lottie appeared, a calm smile over her red lips. She look beautiful. A gown of almost gold trailed down her frame, arching out into a wide hoop, and two strips of white ran down either side of her torso, embroidered immaculately with silver thread to match his own. The bodice in the centre was decorated in a pattern of elaborate roses, red and white bleeding together. Her blond hair was piled up on her head, thick braids arching around the crown of her head and twisting around the back in a swirling twist. And of course, to finish it off, an enormous white rose settled just above her left temple. Charlotte of the Red Roses, they called her. Born upon the day in summer when the roses first bloomed. It was as much part of her image as blue was for Louis.

"You look beautiful, Charlotte," Louis said, his voice gleaming. She bowed her head lightly in thanks as she took his hand and gracefully stepped into place beside him. He pulled her side to his for just a moment, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, on the opposite side of the rose. He pulled back and they shared a rare, warm smile that only seemed to exist between such siblings. Siblings who understood the other, who could speak without words and comfort without touch. Who had gone through hell together and wouldn't dream of letting the other ever do it alone. Two souls entwined. They stood at the same height, one dark, one light, and some believed they were the opposite side of the same coin. That if he was sapphire, cold stone, and she was roses, warm flowers, they were life and death. But neither bothered with such titles among themselves.

Their gazes broke away from one another and they stared ahead. As one, they stepped forward, their hands entwined between them, held up in a Royal manner, but really clinging to each other tightly. A line of servants stood to either side of them, each bending like wheat as they walked passed. Louis had long since stropped trying to find their gazes, to find the life in their cold eyes. He just stared ahead as they approached the great wooden doors of the throne room.

Two guards reached for the handles on either end, and the oak parted for them, soft music and light pouring out from within. Across the room, upon the long red carpet that stretched the entire length of the magnificent chamber, two figures kneeled, their heads bowed as if upon an execution block. Louis forced clam breath through his lungs as their paces echoed dimly in the room. Even Charlotte's steady surgeon-like fingers trembled ever so slightly in his grip. He squeezed her hand, a silent promise as they walked passed the two figures. Where beyond, upon the thrones lining the far wall, two sets of twins already sat. Phoebe and Daisy sat at either end, identical in appearance and dress, save for the pendent hanging around each of their necks. Phoebe, a silver round moon and Daisy a golden sun. The twins of day and night.
Louis cast his very youngest siblings a glance and had to smile, some of the heavy weight of what being in this room meant lifting off his chest. Ernest and Doris sat squeezed in next to each other on a backless, wide cushioned seat. They were doing their very best to be quiet, their legs swinging backwards and forwards as they pressed their lips together to contain their giggles, their wild blonde curls bumping together. A maid stood beside them, Annalise, glaring at both of them, daring them to make a sound. Louis new the promise of a hot chocolate from the cook later was more motivation than anything else to the young Royals.

Louis cast his gaze to his own throne, not sparing a single glance to the King Consort sitting upon his father's throne and the heavy absence of his mother beside him. The higher, empty throne beside the Consort's and Louis', the central in the long line. Instead, Louis guided his sister to the right of the two central thrones, gracefully letting her hand slip from his as she lowered herself to her throne, her head posed and high as she slid effortlessly into her role. Louis' own movements were practiced and precise too as he crossed before the throne of his stepfather back to his own.

Only once he was seated, did he dare look upon the kneeling Royals, more out of fear than protocol. He almost stopped breathing entirely, just by the sight of the Prince on his knees, his curls wilted over his forehead caught by the glittering sunlight from the high windows, his chest broad and shoulders wide. A boy become a man. Louis was dimly aware of the King's voice, welcoming his guests, as if they were his to claim, and inviting them to rise.

The Prince before him rose, the full extent of his body unfolding himself. His black booted foot pushed up against the red carpet, and then his head lifted and Louis couldn't even breath. God he was… there was no word for it. Green eyes stared straight into his, a colour like a forest, like light breaking through the trees, bleeding through the soft green of a leaf. Deep and beautiful, intelligence and alertness blooming in their hearts. And lower, his nose that had once been somewhat too big for his face fit into it perfectly, wide and strong. And lower still, Louis' eyes lingered. To his lips, curved like a bow, plump and thick, a deep red against his tanned, smooth skin. Louis swallowed hard, and the Prince's full lips pulled into a gentle, contained smile. The world exploded back into existence all around him, and Louis blinked, just once, and looked away. Looked to the Princess beside the Prince.

The likeliness was unmistakable, but there was a maturity to her he didn't think the younger Prince would ever gain. Experience and wisdom appeared to be lined into her skin itself, and her brown eyes seemed to tease him. As if she had caught him watching the wrong Royal, even if it could only have been for a moment. Strands of soft, straight locks were braided back from her face, coming down neatly behind her ears, and her skin was light. More striking than her beauty was the power she seemed to radiate. As she rose from her knees, her long skirts blooming beneath her, strength and control pouring from her. As if, even on her knees, she knew how to strike any one of them down. And on her feet, she towered above them all. Louis watched her with some awe, recognising his own mother's ability to capture anyone's eyes by the sheer power she wielded in her posture. And she was the woman meant to be his bride.

The carriage door slowly creaked open. Stumpy, thick fingers wrapped around the carriage door and a delighted face popped out, looking about him excitedly. Niall grinned and swung the door open, hurriedly climbing out. He rolled up his sleeves, folding the ends, the dull brown shirt and white apron over top a far cry from his regal wear, but he was perfectly happy with that. He tapped the side pocket of his trousers, satisfied by the cold metal presence of his flask. He tugged his hair up and briskly walked towards the back door leading into the kitchen. He grinned, turned the handle and threw it open. A wave of heat struck his face and a few glances cast his way but most stayed with their head down, flower caking their faces, hands and forearms. A burley, sturdy woman came up to him, her eyebrow raised in a questioning grump he was sure he would see plenty more of. She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him, and a mighty scowl it was indeed.

"Who are you?" she huffed.

Niall's grin didn't waver. "Niall, mam."

"Irish, eh?" her brow rose even further, if that was possible. "Niall what?"

"Just Niall, mam."

"Right, they said yous was coming. What ya good for then, Niall?"

Niall licked his lips. "All sorts, mam. Bread, choppin', eatin', that sorta thing."

The woman rolled her eyes, but her eyebrow came down.

"All right, then, best set you to work."

Niall rubbed his hands in anticipation and the headwoman naturally set him straight to potato peeling. He didn't mind. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was peel potatoes. He easily worked the short blade between his fingers, seated on a low stool before a wide bowl of shavings, the potatoes piled up beside him. Just four thousand more to go.

"I reckon he'd rather eat alone afterwards from his rooms. God knows, I would," a strong Birmingham accent flooded through his speech. Niall's head rose, instantly alert. That certainly wasn't the kind of accent found around here. He peered over the table in the centre of the kitchen, covered in dishes in various stages of completion. He couldn't make out a head, covered by a brass hanging pan, but the clear chest of the Royal colours stood just in the kitchen, barely through the doorway.

The head cook waddled over to him, appearing almost cheerful.

"Course, Sir Payne. No problem. The Prince will have his diner when he wants it."

Niall's curiosity only peeked. He set the peeling knife down, pocketing the potato and stood. He leaned to the side, attempting to appear inconspicuous, but just as he caught a glance, the figure turned, a head of dark brown hair walking through the door, the sheathed end of sword swinging behind him. Without giving it much thought, Niall darted after him.

He rushed through the door, a few surprised and not so surprised gazes following him. He burst out into the stone hallway and turned down the hallway, once again catching sight of the soldier's retreating back.

"Hey!" he called out, his words bouncing of the dark walls. The figure froze and slowly turned as Niall approached him. A handsome, broad face greeted the Prince, and there was something both incredibly manly and brooding about his features while at once puppy-like and gentle. His brows creased in question and Niall wasn't sure whether to swoon or awe, it was honestly discombobulating.

"Yes?" a rasping, but surprisingly falsetto voice came from the larger figure.

Niall crossed his arms and cocked his head. "You're a knight then?"

The soldier blinked. "No, I'm the Captain of the Royal Guard."

Niall slapped his thigh. "That's too bad, would have loved to have met a knight, and call you sir, and all that," he said, grinning impishly.

The guard blinked, his frown unrelenting.

"And who might you be?"

"Niall."

"Niall what?"

Niall sighed, it seemed this was to be a regular thing then. He thrust out his hand towards the older man.

"Just Niall. I'm working in the kitchen," he introduced himself proudly. The guard blinked, but seemed to decided there couldn't possibly be any harm in it, and went to shake Niall's hand.

"Captain of the Royal Guard, Guard to—"

"You said that already," Niall interrupted, pressing his lips against a lurking smile. Liam glared at him over their clasped hands.

"As I was saying…. and Guard to the Crown Prince of Doncaster. Liam Payne."

"So basically a knight…"

"No, I just said…"

"Either way!" Niall exclaimed loudly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Lovely to meet you, Sir Liam." He curtsied exaggeratedly, and not in a masculine way. Liam rolled his eyes.

"Don't call me that."

"Whatever you wish… Sir," Niall said, and spun on his heels, heading back for the kitchen. He didn't look behind him. He could imagine the guard's bewildered face perfectly well. He smirked and walked back through the kitchen door.

This was going to be fun.

Louis reached for his goblet, wishing there was more wine. He brought the near empty cup to his mouth as he watched the Royals seated around him over the lip. The youngest had long since been dismissed and it was just the four of them now. His eyes caught the Prince seated across the table to the left of him, his lips stained red and pulled into a polite smile. He quickly looked away again, blaming his lingering gaze on boredom. Conversation was scares and scattered, not helped by the bright pink elephant in the room. The Queen's absence. But predictably, it took only so long before it came up, and seemingly by the only person at the table who had the balls to.

"I'm sorry to see our Queen is absent, is she well?" Gemma asked kindly, her eyes darting curiously over a warm smile between the Consort and Louis. Our. It made his hand clench over the stalk of his cup as it clicked gently down on the table. A careful choice of words, and a heavy reminder of Gemma's future Queendom and twelve others' allegiance to the absent monarch. Before Louis could speak, his stepfather did, his words and voice practiced and smooth, his smile all white teeth. Louis despised it. Shaped by a lifetime of grovelling and pleasing people, of being the least powerful person at the table. Louis' two-year-old siblings held a higher status than him.

"Thank you for your inquiry, Your Highness. Yes, Her Majesty is perfectly well, simply absent on a prior engagement I'm afraid. We waited until the very last moment in hopes she would make it back in time— hence the late invitation, but unfortunately, no such luck."

Louis shoved— or rather neatly poked and gracefully placed— an olive in his mouth to conceal his clenched jaw. The ease with which the man lied, and charismatic tweak of his lips when the truth was so heart-breaking made Louis murderous. Gemma nodded, but her eyes darted briefly to Louis.

"We're very sorry to hear it," came Harry's low, slow drawl, entirely different from how Louis remembered it, his accent corrected too. Appearing to be seeped from all energy, all eagerness. And the practice in it was all the more evident. We. Because he was not a Crown Prince and hence had no use in expressing personal opinions, but speaking as a collective for his court and Queen. "We have heard repeatedly of the splendour of Her Majesty's festivals and birthday celebrations."
One such festival that were due to happen in a week as time slowly sank down the hourglass. Their time.

"Indeed, the horse races especially are wonderful to witness," Louis said to the table, his own steady and calm voice foreign to his ears. "And you, Princess," he directed his gaze to her poised face, seated elegantly and effortlessly across from him, "have you interest in such events and horseback yourself?"
He smiled kindly, a mix of amusement and genuine intrigue he had practiced a hundred times before. And she answered just as warmly, just as trained, drilled and manufactured, and Louis half listened. Conversation continued, stunted and tedious, but Louis found his comfort in the bottom of his glass, barely touching the food before him.

Louis dragged himself through his hallway, a guard, Eversteen, trailing him at a respectful distance. Liam's spies he sometimes called them, reporting to their commander every time he went out for a smoke with Zayn, earning him a raised eyebrow and disappointed silence from Liam. Not that he really minded. No one else bothered to tell him off for anything.

Sometimes he really hated living in an enormous castle when all he really needed is a bed to collapse into, bowl to piss in and a kitchen, though probably fully staffed since he wouldn't have a clue what to do with it otherwise. But those weren't the notions of a Prince's life, so he begrudgingly forced himself along the dull stone walls and his door.

The guards parted without making eye contact. Not once had he caught a single one slacking off, drinking, playing dice or even as much as lean back. It was exhausting to just watch. He recalled as a kid he had tried to play with them, to catch them unaware and give them a fright, hoping them would chase him, but all he'd get was that dull look. He hated it so much, were he more of a prick he'd ask them to turn their backs so he didn't have to see it all day.

He was dragged from the peaceful nothingness of his thoughts by confident, striding steps. He looked up surprised. Guards didn't dare make so much noise.

To his left, sauntering down the corridor were unmistakable long, lanky legs, each graceful in a natural, effortless manner. They tapped lightly against the ground, with an air of self-respect and confidence. With a sense of belonging not even Louis could sometimes muster in these halls. He was merely a silhouette, a ghost of Louis' memory come to life. He folded his hands behind his back and held his head high, the slight bounce of his curls accompanying his every moment. The silhouette stepped under the light and burst into colour, revealing the glowing warmth of his green, green eyes. Louis almost smiled, remembering those eyes on a young boy looking at him in a way no one else really did again. Those red, red lips parted, a smile dancing among pearl white teeth.

"Thought you might be ignoring me, rushing off after diner like that," the younger Prince mused. Louis smiled, seeing the man beneath the facade of a Prince that had sat opposite him at diner. His accent too was more like he remembered. That rasp of a Scott.

"And now why would I do such a thing, your Highness," Louis responded in kind.

"I don't have the faintest idea," Harry said, myrrh twinkling in his eyes, toying at his lips.

"Wouldn't want to miss your charming company after all," Louis said easily.

Harry smirked, standing a mere two meters away, his hands hanging easily by his side. He looked more relaxed than Louis had seen him all evening.

"Then make it up to me," he declared, stepping forward. Louis turned to him fully, his head tilting in pleased interested. "Ride with me," he shrugged, "sometime."

Louis pretended to consider it, a lightness on his heart he hadn't felt before. A relief perhaps, that the dapper Prince before him remembered him too, and perhaps that things hadn't changed so much after all, if that was possible. He nodded.

"Alright then, once."

"Oh, Your Highness, must you make me ask for more?" he said, his voice silken and poised to mimic a poet.

Louis' mouth tweaked. "Perhaps. Your sister must accompany us then."

But maybe it was the wrong thing to say. Disappointment appeared to flash briefly over Harry's face. Louis barely caught it before the young man composed himself and nodded regally. He couldn't bear to see it.

"Right, of course," the young Prince said stiffly. "Your time must be sparing, after all."

"Well, it is my duty to do so." He hated the words the moment they passed his lips. God, why was he being so cold, so awkward? But fatigue and irritation tugged at him. He just wanted his bed. He didn't want to deal with the complicated emotions of Princes and… well, just Harry in general.

The Prince's smile wavered. "Yes, I understand, of course." He paused. "I suppose I should bid you goodnight then."

Louis nodded, the awkwardness hanging stale between them.

"Goodnight, Your Highness," Louis said. Harry made no move to turn away, his smile now gone. The younger Prince tilted his head, appearing to try and examine Louis. Louis felt dissected and made to leave when Harry's voice stopped him, his voice so low and slow, like the words took a thousand thoughts and hesitations to make it passed his lips.

"You're not like I remember you, Louis. So serious, composed. What happened?"

And there was pain in the question, too much. Too close to being real. Louis' fingers curled ever so slightly. He looked over his shoulder to the young Prince, uncertainty flashing over his face where there was nothing but cold in Louis'.

"Goodnight, Your Highness," Louis simply repeated, his voice softer. He faced away, forcing himself to walk steadily back to his room. He shook off the encounter. He couldn't dwell on that Harry had called him by his name. He couldn't dwell on the realization how rare the sound of his own name was.

He walked the last steps to his door and nodded his greeting to the uniformed guards to either side of his door, Smith and... he did a double take. He glanced the younger man he was sure he had never seen before. He looked him up and down. Shiny boats, but not like they had been scrubbed, scratchless brass buttons, the silver skinnier over the top. Undoubtedly new, but he was clearly older than eighteen, which was unusual for Newlings, as Liam called them. They usually got them young and fresh, so they grew up loyal and familiar. Louis lifted a brow but said nothing and stepped into his chambers.

He was greeted by the soft crackle of the fire and Liam seated before it upon a low wooden stool only he used, or was draped over by Louis' occasional shirt. His legs were spread, boat-clad feet set sturdily against the floor and half turned towards the door, his torso facing into the room. Louis marveled at Liam's physique sometimes— not ogling, Payne was too old and familiar, and certainly fit, Louis wasn't blind but it wasn't that— it was the way he held himself that intrigued him. Relaxed but always alert, balanced and braced, but light on his feet and quick, and of course, never turned his back on the door. Not even now as he nodded to Louis in greeting and stood, taking a steel closed dish off the low fire and placing it on the laid table for one. Not that Louis actually ever ate alone, and he didn't want it any other way.

He nodded in thanks. There were only so many thank yous that could be shared between two people over six years, but they both knew it was there. He sat and lifted the heated lid, revealing a much more appealing diner than the one served downstairs. No doubt the kitchen was amazing, but a certain brand of Royal snobbish food like dolphin, turtle, goats' hearts and what have you not, did not sit well with him. Pork on the other hand? He could live of it. He eagerly eyed his food and waited for the steam to curl off as Liam poured water from the pitcher into two glasses, another silent interaction. Yes, Liam could stay, yes, Louis wanted water, yes, Liam could pour himself too, yes, they would share. It was an old, sweet song. And so, as Louis blew on his food, Liam sat down opposite him. Louis looked up to the older man.

"Newling?" He asked. Liam nodded, his mind appearing elsewhere as he pulled himself back to Louis' question.

"Yeah, bit a strange fellow, but no harm. Adam Collins."

Louis shrugged and picked up his cutlery. "Good to know." He glanced back up to his friend and found his eyes once again lost, his mind someplace far off. Louis was almost jealous.

"Anything else happen today?" Louis asked casually instead, knowing whatever it was, the answer would be best if he coaxed it out of him. Liam pressed his lips together and a frown penetrated his features.

"Nothing, just met someone today, perhaps new too. In the kitchen, Niall, he called himself, no last name." There was something in Liam's tone Louis couldn't quite place.

"You don't trust him?"

Liam considered then swayed his head as if looking for the words.

"I just don't know him. Seemed to have dropped in from the sky and very... outspoken. Would have noticed him before." The determination and intrigue in his final sentence made Louis pause. He slowly smiled and Liam gave him a warning look he happily ignored.

"Intrigued, are we?" he teased. Liam sighed in his very common 'you-are-insufferable-you're-lucky-you're-a-Prince' expression. Louis just stabbed at his food, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"You're one to talk, don't think I didn't notice you looking at our dear Prince Harold," Liam said, equally pleased with himself. Louis scowled at him. He pressed away the painful thought of their teasing conversation turned sour so quickly.

"That's not fair," he pouted. Liam just chuckled.

"Who said anything about fair." Louis very Princely stuck his tongue out at him. "How well do you still remember him, anyway?" It was before Liam's time, but he had heard the stories.

Louis raised his eyebrows and dropped them again. "Plenty," was all he offered. Liam eyed him suspiciously, stealing the Royal's carrots from his plate, but didn't push it.
"Seems strange he's here, no? Why would your mother invite him too?" Liam pondered a loud. Louis had wondered the same thing more than once.

"Don't know," he shrugged, not dwelling on it. "To be polite perhaps, someone familiar for Gemma to be with, another possible alliance? Who knows."

Liam hummed, "Yeah, perhaps."

They settled into easy silence and conversation and didn't mention it again, but somewhere in the back of Louis' head, he knew there had to be another reason.

Chapter 2

Harry made his way to the stables. He stepped up into the covered wood structure, the familiar sent of horse and hay greeting him. He remembered those most from his few visits to this castle. His mother spoke of Johanna sometimes, their beloved Queen, always with fondness and often lingering regret. Regret about time that slipped unnoticed through their fingertips as distance grew between them. Perhaps that was the fate of all Royals, too caught up in their own courts. He remembered his mother's hands carding gently through his hair, soothing.

"I suppose it happens," she would say. "Part of being a Queen means to make sacrifices. I don't blame her for the unreturned letters. Especially not after what happened to her husband."

She would trail off, the subject something a little boy wasn't supposed to understand. Just like that, he hadn't seen Louis for ten years.
He had been practicing what to say, running his tongue over a range of royal and casual wording, none of them fitting. And when he had finally stood before the Crown Prince, none of the right words had come out at all, just lingering on the tip of his tongue. When he'd gone after diner to find him, foolish and impulsive, he'd frozen at the sight of the Prince. At diner, he had been calm and tense smiles, regal words and empty statements, but without them, they made Harry stop in his tracks. He'd looked like a stranger, a ghost. Nothing like the boy he'd once known. Not like the diplomat at diner with his impenetrable shell.
He'd forced himself to say something, anything. To press ease into his voice, so much so he let his guard slip and some of his accent slid through. Louis hadn't commented on it. Perhaps it hadn't been as apparent as Harry had thought. Perhaps Louis just didn't care. He'd meant to be restrained, standoffish, giving himself the chance to decipher the man before him who couldn't possibly be just two years older than Harry.
Instead, he'd asked him to ride with him, his heart in his throat, his relief poorly disguised as Louis agreed. Something boyish and carefree, something so foreign to his face but so familiar to Harry's memories had flashed over Louis eyes. So easily contained and hidden away again as Harry had mentioned his duties. He closed his eyes at the swell of embarrassment of the fresh scab of the encounter. Why did he have to mention Louis' duties, the heavy weight over him? If he had just kept his mouth shut, Louis might not have mentioned Harry's sister and just as quickly erected the walls Harry had begun to peek through. Instead, Louis had just reminded him that he didn't matter here, not really. He wasn't wanted. Not by Louis, not by anyone. He was just here as his sister's companion. He didn't know why it made his chest feel so tight, but it did.
Harry approached the black mare. His mare. Deep brown eyes flickered to him in recognition. They reached for each other, his horse pressing her head against his hand. A calmness swept over him. Something only felt in the presence of the creature beneath his fingerprints. His Shadow. His Dubhar.

"Hello, love." He said, and the horse stared back at him, the gentle huff of her breathing exhaling through her nostrils. He smiled and entered the stable. He proceeded to brush her down as he always did, and Dubhar stood perfectly still. He liked to imagine his presence calmed her too in such a foreign place. He saddled her and patted her lovingly as a reward. She nudged back against him. He pulled open the stable door and pulled her along by the reigns looped over her shoulders. He walked her out as a servant appeared, freezing in his steps at the sight of the Prince. He hastily bowed, his surprise evident. Straw stuck to his trousers, a simple variation of the court uniform.

"Apologies, Your Highness, should I have come earlier…" the servant hastily apologised, a slight panic to his tone.

"No, no, it's my fault. I should have alerted you I would be saddling my own horse." Harry said easily, tugging his mare along, her hooved clicking over the stone floor.

Relief flashed in the servant's eyes. "Oh, thank you, Your Highness. His Royal Highness will be awaiting you in the courtyard."

"Thank you," Harry said, sweeping himself with ease up into his saddle.

He clicked his mouth and his horse begun walking without further prompt. He turned the corner to the courtyard, surprised to find the Crown Prince already waiting for him. Harry's stomach flipped slightly at the sight of him. Louis wore a lose jacket, a light blue, plain and not adorned with a delicate pattern. Louis sat upon a white horse, a magnificent beast, ears twitching with alertness, but its stature poised and steady. Harry's black mare could have been its shadow. Louis' was larger though, but Harry bet his own trusted steed was faster.

Louis turned his head as Harry came up beside him. The Crown Prince smiled, small and timid but genuine. Harry wondered how long he'd been awake. The sagged bags of sleep depravity seemed too well settled into his features. Harry smiled back.

"Didn't mean to keep you waiting," Harry said, his tone light. The sun had barely breached the horizon. Luckily, he'd awoken in his strange bed early, unease robbing his restful sleep. He'd left his chambers, finding a note left just beneath the door. He'd picked it up, unfolding it to reveal black, neat, cursive writing.

'I'll take you up on that offer. Stables, at 7.'

It had made him smile.

"Don't worry," Louis responded, his voice warm and calm. Gentle. "You didn't."

He urged his horse on and Harry fell into step beside him. The rest of Louis' outfit was less blue, his riding trousers a soft brown and he was wearing a simple white shirt tied with a string, his jacket parted. It suited him.

The courtyard was stone, paved and somewhat uneven. Behind them was a sweep of steps up to the entrance and to either side the tall walls of the castle within, a fortress more than a glamour palace. Ahead of them, the great double doors of the castle gates opened, the mechanics whirring as metal chains clanked over their wooden gears, parting the wood as if by magic. The Princes passed through.

A weight Harry hadn't realised had tightened over his chest lightened. No more walls, halls and watching eyes. Before him, a great expanse of rolling green hills and fields unrolled like an endless carpet. The dipping and rising of trees, groves, and wheat fields. Figures scattered between them, farmers and children, dogs and cattle. Images of home and his sister and him in their youth giggling and chasing each other through such fields flooded his minds. The smell of it, faint now but so distinct in his mind. Dry grass, crisp, strong, stale, and carefree.

Harry felt Louis watch him. He turned his head, not sure what to expect to find in the Prince's old eyes. There was understanding in their blue depth, so clear and deep. It seemed no secrets could possibly hide in such clear waters, but Harry was all to aware how little he knew of the mind hidden behind. Now though, he understood something that wasn't spoken. Louis was just as conscious of his freedom, standing here just outside the gate and the fine balance he had to live between gratitude and entrapment. They were both Princes after all.

They walked on, the gentle rasp of the sun over his skin and the air grips and clear even as clouds basked in its highest reaches.

"It's as you remember it?" Louis asked. Something jumped in Harry's chest. He almost hated his reaction. That Louis remembering that he had even been here had such an effect on him. But he couldn't help it, something shifting inside him at the acknowledgment.

"A little. More of a dream than a reality, really. It's so beautiful." Genuine awe rung through his voice. Louis' mouth tweaked, visible in the corner of Louis' mouth.

They walked on in silence for a while, not tense but a gentle comfort growing between them. Harry didn't mind it. It felt peaceful, especially after the busy torment of the last few days. Walls weren't only made of stone, often words too. It felt nice to escape those too.

"Thank you for suggesting this," Louis said softly, his eyes sweeping over the landscape. His gaze as consumed as Harry imagined his own to be. As if taking it all in for the first time in a long while. "I forget sometimes, how beautiful it is out here." He smiled at him. "Thank you for reminding him."

There seemed to be more light in his eyes; his shoulders less weighed down. Harry's smile grew.

"You're welcome," he said earnestly, just as softly.

They continued along the winding paths, a combination of footpaths and roads drawn through the earth by carts, treaden with coves.

"You ride often?" Harry dared venture, not sure a personal question would receive a response. Louis seemed to ponder it, perhaps wondering the same.

"I used to," he said with a sigh. "I used to get away all the time."

There was more meaning in what he didn't say. In how this Queendom had changed without its Princess. Sadness swelled in Harry's chest for the young Prince.

"I imagine if you had your way, you would do it all the time," Louis continued, a lightness to his voice.

Harry's lips twitched. "What gave me away?" he said warmly.

"The way you sit on your horse," Louis said, bemused. Harry looked to Louis with surprise and down at himself with some surprise.

"Why, what about it?" he said with mock accusation.

Louis snorted. "You've become part of it." He said it jokingly, no snide to his face. Harry let his jaw drop with faked wounded pride.

"Oi! How dare you?" he said, stealing the local exclamation.

Louis huffed with amusement. "Take no offence, Prince. You sit far better on a horse than you do any uncomfortable diner table chair."

Harry laughed, the motion bubbling inside him. "Oh, is that so?"

"It is," Louis said, evidently proud with himself.

Harry huffed with fake indignation. "Well then, I'd better put my skill to good use, shan't I?"

Louis watched him with amusement as Harry drove his mare into a trot. Harry bounced in his saddle for a few paces before elegantly pressing himself up in his saddle and promptly, with the ease of walking, swinging his feet out of the stirrups and up and around beneath him. Just like that, he was seated backwards in his saddle, staring back at a shocked Crown Prince. His Highness Prince Harold Edward the third of the family of Styles and the Isle of Worcestershire promptly stuck his tongue out at his future King. Louis barked a laugh, still looking astonished. All the while, Harry bounced along, his arms crossed and not losing any balance whatsoever. Louis trotted up beside him.

"Circus tricks are one thing, Prince Harold," he said amusingly, both horses slowing to a walk, "but how about a more serious competition."

Harry wouldn't admit it, but his heart jumped at the joyous youth returned to the man he had known as a boy. Perhaps the child wasn't entirely gone after all.
Harry's smile twisted to something mischievous at Louis' words. He'd been told by his sister many times there was something wicked and wild about that smile. Harry turned back forward in his saddle with equal ease. He looked out to the landscape before him, narrowing in on a distant landmark.

"Bet I could beat you to that oak," he challenged Louis. The Crown Prince turned to look. It stood at the top of a hill, the countryside sweeping out beside it in rolling valleys of warm, light green. Louis grinned back, not the contained smile of a Prince.

"Alright, but a bet needs a price. What's in it for me?" Louis countered.

Harry considered it for a moment. He spoke the first thing that came to mind, more of a joke than anything else. "I'll cook for you."

Surprisingly, Louis seemed to consider it. "Alright, I accept. I will spare you the torture of having to endure my cooking though, in the very unlikely event you win, that is. Instead…"

Harry cut him off. "Nah, ah! Fair is fair. Loser cooks for the other. No help from any maids or servants or anyone else. And God forbid, try and make it something edible."
Louis grinned as he fondly scratched his horse's neck. "You have no idea what you just got yourself into."

"We'll have to see about that, won't we?"

"On three?"

"On three."

"Three…" They sat up, gazes trained ahead, horses set right beside each other. Their knees clutched the saddle.

"Two…" They bent forward, hands held up high on their reins near the horse' neck. They were both grinning, heels firmly pressed down. Harry spared Louis a single, quick glance

"One."

In an instant, they shot forward. Driving their heels into their beasts, their horses leapt into a full gallop. The Princes' heart hammered in their chests, a mix of fear as the ground thundered beneath them impossibly fast and pure adrenaline and joy. Harry gradually overtook the older Prince, his black mare plunging ahead. He grinned to himself.

"Nas luaithe, mo ghaol. Nas luaithe." Faster, my love. Faster.

He shot passed the oak and whooped victoriously as he pulled his horse to a stop. He proudly clapped Dubhar on the neck with gratitude. He turned her around, grinning as Louis walked the rest of the way up to him. He couldn't have been more than two paces behind, and he was smiling. Harry's breath was ragged, his heart thumping in his chest. He raised his fist in victory as Louis gave him a slow clap, his horse coming to a stop just before the black mare. Louis leant forward, patting his horse gratefully.

"Well done," he said, a laugh in his voice. Harry bowed in his saddle before swinging himself from it. He didn't know why. Perhaps he wanted the moment to last just a little bit longer. Louis did the same, smiling at his horse as he stood beside him. He scratched him affectionally behind the ear, his hand lingering. Harry smiled at them before turning to his mare, undoing the bit from one side to let her eat. He tied up the stirrups too.

"Siud thu." There you go. He said softly.

Louis did the same for his horse, unconcerned. They wouldn't wonder far, their heads already drooped to the grass.

"What's he called?" Harry asked as he walked towards Louis. The older Prince looked up. He snorted.

"Don't laugh."

Harry smirked. "No promises."

"It wasn't my choice," Louis said with an insufferable, but fond smile.

"Go on."

"Prince."

Harry huffed with amusement. "You're right, that is ridiculous."

Louis shook his head. "Don't I know it." He nodded to Harry's mare. "What about her?"

"Shadow." He almost wanted to give up her Gaelic name, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"Yeah, okay, you win."

"Again," Harry said proudly. Louis rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Your Highness, again."

Harry walked on passed him, approaching the oak. Louis followed. The younger Prince plopped himself down beneath the shade of the tree. The sun was high in the sky now. He slumped back, his elbows holding him up. Blades of grass poked him through his riding trousers, but he was comfortable enough. With hesitation, Louis followed. He lowered himself to the grass slowly, not lying down, but sitting at least with his shoulders slumped. Relaxed. At least, a little

"Who named your horse then?" Harry asked, twisting a reed between his fingers. Louis looked over to him. They were both facing towards the sweep of the landscape they had just rode up.

"My sister," he said, the lightness not fading from his voice. Harry dared not ask which one.

"If I let my sister name mine, God know what she might have come up with."

Louis' lip twitched. "Just the two of you, right?"

Harry nodded. "Yep. Ever get too crowded with so many of them?"

"Nah," Louis shrugged. "The more, the merrier right."

"You would know, Louis."

Louis blinked, freezing for just a moment. He relaxed, but the tensing of his shoulders had been unmistakable. At the mention of his name. The moment passed, but the tension was still there. Lingering, the space between them tight, fragile. Harry hated it. As if, with just one wrong word, Louis would bolt. Harry wanted to reach out, to touch him, shake him maybe. To tell him, shout at him if he had to, that he didn't have to be a Prince all the time. He was allowed to be Louis sometimes. God, he was owed that… after everything. But he knew that would only drive the tortured Prince further away. So he said nothing.

After a pause, Louis drew a flask from his coat pocket. Harry's eyebrow rose in surprise.

"A little early, isn't it?"

Louis shrugged. "It's almost midday, besides, it's watered down."

Louis took a swig and held it out to Harry. He took it. He pressed its opening to his lips and knocked it back, warm wine slipping pouring into his mouth, sweet and welcomed. He passed it back to Louis.

"No harm, I suppose."

"Exactly," Louis said triumphantly, taking another swig. He glanced at Harry. "Been riding since you could walk then?"

The questioned seemed like a piece offering.

"Something like that," Harry said, memories absentmindedly running through his head. "You too, I wager."

He expected a short, clipped answer. Perhaps it was the sun or the wine or the calm in Louis' features, but that wasn't what he got.

"My father taught me," Louis said softly, the words whispered before him to the sweep of green grass. "I loved horses and insisted on riding myself. I must have been a nightmare. Eventually, my father pulled me with him into his saddle." Louis smiled at the memory. "My mother was horrified when she found out but every so often, he would take me out with him, carefully holding me between his legs. We'd come out here sometimes," he said, casting his eyes over the expanse of the countryside. He nodded to the forest to the north, an unbroken cluster of trees. "Or there, to the forest. God, he must have spent hours teaching me after that when I was old enough to fit onto that stupid pony." He didn't quite laugh, but there was a rare lightness to his voice.

"Sounds like he loved you very much," Harry said warmly, softly.

"He did," Louis said, the words barely loud enough to hear. He cleared his throat and turned to Harry, raising his voice. "And your father?"

Harry breathed in deeply. "He left," he paused, glancing at Louis. The young Royal looked back at him attentively, patiently. "My mother, she was young, a future Queen in need of an heir, a consort."

It had been a different time back then. Unstable. Turmoil woven through the Elven Realms, suspicion and fear bleeding through. Opposition grew from within and without, distrust breeding paranoia. Even now, some of it remained but pushed to the shadows.

"So she married him three days after meeting him, the perfect political match. They had Gemma. Perhaps that's why he stayed. I… I don't think they meant to have me. They had their female heir after all. Anyway, that's when he left. My mother waited six years for him, not knowing if he was dead or alive before remarrying." Harry looked down. "I still don't know… maybe he's out there somewhere. We don't really talk about it."

There was a pause, the wind rushing softly between the leaves and the gentle chirp of birds the only sound. Louis itched closer, and held the flask out for Harry again.

"I'm sorry," he said, not wavered by pity but apologetic and earnest. Harry nodded and drank a gulp of the offered wine. He passed it back to Louis.

"Yeah, thanks. I like my stepfather though. He's more of a father to me."

Something dark flashed over Louis' eyes, but it was gone just as quickly.

"And uh," Harry continued tentatively, "sorry about your father too."

Louis nodded, but said nothing, his expression sombre. He drank from the flask, more this time. He held it out to the younger Prince. Harry reached out, their fingers brushing together. He drew back, perhaps slower than he normally would. Louis' gaze lingered, his eyes fixed on Harry's. The world slowed around them, the tree unmoving, all sound fading. Harry stared back, deep into those blue eyes that seemed to hold the sky itself, heavy but clear. Slowly, his gaze moved, tracing Louis' face as if touching it. The somewhat uneven cut of his jaw. His raised cheekbones and the slight hollow in his cheeks. The whisk of facial hair and light stubbled. The lines by his eyes that creased when he smiled. The curve of his lips, the upper thin and bottom plush. The slightly dried skin of his mouth from worrying his lips. The soft trails of his dark hair that almost curled and stuck up in places, unruly and stubborn like the Prince himself. The almost almond shapes of his eyes. The more he looked the more he saw. Memorising the lines and dips and crevasses. He wondered how long it would take to look at him and never have to forget a single detail.

His absent exploration was abruptly cut off as Louis looked away. He pushed himself up to his feet, clearing his throat.

"We should get going," he said, his voice unsteady. He wouldn't quite meet Harry's eyes. Confused, Harry stood, approaching him. Louis turned away, just too fast to be natural. He walked briskly towards where his horse had wondered off to, not too far. Harry's heart sunk to his stomach. At that moment, he wished more than anything to know what he was thinking.

Harry sighed, brushed the grass off him and approached his own horse. Even their horses stood apart. He sighed and refastened the bit of his mare, patting her gently. Her deep brown looked into his and he could almost find the sympathy in them. He shook off the absurd thought and swung himself up into the saddle. From there, he untied his stirrups and pushed his feet in. Louis fell into step beside him and they turned back down the way they had come.

They walked in silence. Harry wished he knew what to say. How to say the right thing, but too much came to his mind. None of them the right thing.

The shot rang out, loud and piercing. The gun cocked back in Harry's hand, his shoulder and chest jolting with the motion, and his brow furrowed further. Missed. Again. He sighed and lowered the weapon, a man immediately dashing forward to grasp it from him and reload it with the almost harmless flint balls. Enough to kill a man shot to his eyes, but then again, these grounds were cleared for a reason during such games. Harry glanced to his left where Louis shot soared through the air, smoke billowing from his gun, and seconds later, the pigeon in flight collapsed and fell to the ground. The older man overseeing their activity, a curling white moustache covering his upper lip, nodded in approval.

"Excellent shot, Your Highness."

Louis paid him no heed, simply thanked the young boy who passed his loaded gun back to him and pressed his gun back to his shoulder, never having so much as smiled. It looked exhausting.

Harry turned at the sound of footsteps and, as usually happened, realised Niall was already standing right beside him. He turned to look, the blonde Prince staring out to the littered dead birds as if he had been there all along. Harry still had no idea how he did it.

"Didn't remember you as such a terrible shot," Niall commented, glancing to his dear friend with amusement.

"Don't know, must be the weather." Harry said, squinting into the glaring sun, but the same smile played along his lips.

"Of course, Your Highness," Niall said as Harry lifted his gun back to its position.

"So, what's the news?" he said, as he closed one eye and peered through the target tunnel hole thingy.

"You can always measure the kindness of a man by the way he treats his servant."

"And?"

"It's tricky. He's not cruel, certainly. Simply… indifferent," Niall said with puzzlement.

Harry sighed, "Aren't most Royals."

"Yes, but… I can't quite explain it. Not in this way. He knows all their names, shows them respect and such, but he almost doesn't seem to expect them to serve him."
Harry lowered his gun and looked to his friend, his brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

"Well, Wallace says he'll come in most days to find the Prince already dressed. He said he inquired His Royal Highness about it once, and he seemed almost surprised."

Harry's lip quirked as he rested his finger against the trigger. "He doesn't treat them as his servant, because he doesn't think they are."

"What? Why?"

"You should listen to the way he talks about anything relating the Queendom. He doesn't see any of it as his own, but his mother's. Down to the very breadcrumbs on his plate I believe." And Harry pulled the trigger. To no one's surprise, he was a far cry from hitting anything but a leaf. Moustache-man sighed not so subtlety and turned to watch the Princess. She confidently peered through the target only a second before her finger squeezed the trigger and her bullet flew. A perfect shot. She set the gun down and admired her aim, before turning to the Crown Prince. He was watching her with respect.

"Fantastic shot, Your Highness," he complimented in earnest. She smiled.

"Not so bad yourself," and they shared a friendly look. Harry cleared his throat and looked away. Niall only glanced at him with sympathy.

Harry faced forward again, accepting the gun back from the silent servant. He treated his servants well then, but what about the rumours? He'd heard them, but he knew how rumours could be twisted and changed as they moved from mouth to mouth. The Cruel Prince, The Cold Prince. There were many and varied and he didn't yet know how to distinguish truth from fiction.

"Still not talking to you?" Niall asked with disappointment.

Harry stared unseeing to the woods spread out before them, to where among the trees he was sure men were chasing the pigeons their way and releasing them from wooden boxes with clipped wings.

"No," he bit out. "He isn't."

The Louis he remembered, cheeky and delightful, clever and sneaky who pulled ridiculous pranks on their poor staff was a far cry from the composed, cold Prince standing beside him. Cold to him, or indifferent anyway. He might as well have been an ocean away, an invisible barrier keeping them apart. And he had tried, hadn't he? Had tried to cross that bridge, but he had pushed it too far. He'd caught just the shadow of the boy he'd known, and then he'd pushed it too far. Had realised it the moment louis' walls fell back into place seconds after they had risen. And ever since, he had shut him out completely. Louis had barely spoken a word to him for two days. Gone was the teasing young man of their morning ride. Breakfast had been dull and excruciating with the Prince and his sister exchanging pleasantries, but his own contribution always seemed to fall flat and out of place. It had made him wonder again what on Earth he was doing here anyway.

Liam was doing drills with his men when Niall found him. The kitchen boy sauntered over with his usual quiet steps, but Liam had become somehow attuned to his presence. He didn't look up as Niall stopped at the outskirts of the training ring. Liam focused on his variously skilled soldiers.

"Achilles, left hand higher," he called out, voice raised but not shouting. Without hesitation, the young soldier corrected his sloppiness and recovered with twice as much effort as he faced his opponent. Liam nodded in approval. Niall moved closer. Around him, five sets of men fought each other, some with weapons, axes and swords or knives, others with their fists. They stood in circles of sand, wide enough to allow for movements, but rarely any mistakes. A white ring hooped each circle, a line they could not cross or they were out. Those already defeated were doing cardio and running laps, no longer the interest of Liam's attention. He walked slowly between the circles and paused to watch Eversteen. He was the quickest and likely his best fighter. He ducked a blow and threw his opponent off his balance, not enough to make him step back over the line but he would have him soon. Liam watched his posture, his footwork, noting how accurately and precise he did each, always correcting himself before Liam could call out his mistakes.

"Excellent, Eversteen," Liam said, a rare statement. Green eyes briefly glanced at him, a small smile on Jacob's lips before he turned back on his partner with a look of steel determination.

Niall stepped up beside him in a so-called casual approach. Liam knew very well the servant was only playing at being interested in the training. He glanced over at the shorter blonde.

"Looking good, sir," Niall complimented.

Pride welled in Liam's chest. "They most certainly are."

Niall smirked. "I like you all hot and sweaty."

Liam glanced over at him with a frown before looking back at his men. "I'm not."

"I know. I'm giving you pointers for next time."

Liam chuckled despite himself. He recomposed himself quickly. "Bright, bend your knees!" Not quite able to help himself, he looked back to Niall. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice teasing.

"Nothing, just… came to watch."

"Why don't I believe you."

"Because you're a deeply mistrusting person."

"True."

Niall looked at his soldiers and his gaze seemed to fall upon Eversteen as Liam's had. His brow raised slightly. "He's very good."

Liam smiled. "The best."

They sat in awkward, waiting silence, the guards around the room, at least two against each wall, standing rod straight and staring out at nothing.

Harry sighed again, his stomach grumbling. Where on earth was the fucking Royalty? Gemma sat across from him, sitting equally poised and dressed in beautiful cream rose, but he caught the subtle crease in her brow betraying her annoyance. He'd been told his jaw was his tell, but between the two of them, it was a good thing to be able to recognise the signs between all the games and theatre.

The right door to the lavish room opened, a guard stepping in, facing the long row of windows steaming in warm blue light as he spoke.

"Apologies, Your Highnesses, the Prince has been otherwise engaged, would you wish to be served or dine in your chambers?"

Harry cocked his head in annoyance but didn't say anything. He didn't know about Gemma but they'd been waiting for forty minutes, they might as well get their food now. He looked to his elder sister. She was already watching him when she nodded.

"Yes, we'll eat here, thank you."

Harry's annoyance didn't dissipate but he'd enjoyed the lunch in the end. He'd never pass up a chance for his sister's company, especially when she was most herself around him. By the second course, she snorted with laughter and they were chatting and laughing happily. Afterwards, however, Harry found himself strolling down the hallways with the same flared annoyance. His sister was here to be courted and if Louis ignored him it was one thing, but he shouldn't have abandoned Gemma like that without as much as a personal excuse. He'd find the Prince and tell him that himself.

He turned down the distinct Royal quarters in the left wing of the castle, noticing how guards flanked him as he continued down the lavish corridors, wider and higher with a soft purple rug lining the floor.

Finally, he reached the Crown Prince's section and walked to the door at the very end. He had to admit, the only reason he hadn't had to ask for directions was because Niall had told him the way. On any other occasion, he might have forcefully knocked, but he didn't. He was a Prince of course. So he pulled his shoulders back, brushed his hair to the side and rapped his knuckles politely against the wood.

There was a tense moment of silence Harry knew the guards were responsible for. They knew very well they should have opened the door for him and announced him to the Prince, but Harry hadn't given them the chance. After a moment, the door opened and a confused Crown Prince stood before him. All anger melted on Harry's tongue. He looked... normal. He wasn't dressed in his Princely blue. He wore cream trousers, snug but comfortable, a white shirt baggy and barely pinched in around the waist and a brown open leather jacket over the top. His expression lifted from surprise to a frown.

"Yes?" He asked politely enough but with a hiss to the word. Harry regained his trial of thought.

"We missed you at lunch, Your Royal Highness, I wanted to make sure you were not feeling ill," he said just as politely. Only then did his eyes flicker into the room, where seated upon the bed was the Princess. The moment his gaze met hers, she turned away, but he had seen her red eyes and the anguish on her face. Guilt flared in his stomach. Maybe the Prince had a good excuse after all. He looked back to the Royal, but there was no smugness in his expression, he just looked… tired.

"No, thank you for your concern," he said and just looked at Harry, and he knew he wasn't wanted. So he nodded politely and turned, shame burning his skin. He wasn't wanted. Wasn't needed. And he knew he'd only really gone after the Prince for any excuse to see him. Perhaps to understand him better. Harry sighed and walked back down the hall, feeling the burning gazes of the guards around him. Moments later, another set of footsteps joined his own. He didn't turn to look.

"You don't have to say it," he said gruffly. He could feel Niall smile.

"Wasn't going to," he said, his voice tilted with amusement. Harry rolled his eyes, but fondness tucked his own lips.

"You're right, you've already have plenty of occasions to call me a fool."

Niall chuckled. "Not a foul, misguided perhaps." They walked in silence, but Harry could feel the unspoken words between them. He glanced at Niall, his warm blue eyes trained on him. "Let him come to you," Niall said softly. "You're here for a reason, let it play out and see where you fit."

And he forgot sometimes, his friend's capability to be both right and incredibly wise.

"And if he wants nothing to do with me?"

Niall send him a dancing smirk. "Then he isn't worth a dime of your time."

Harry chuckled and rolled his eyes, but something told him Niall was right about this one too. Niall walked on ahead, about to turn right.

"Where are you going?" he asked curiously, watching him go.

Niall spun on his heels to face him as he retreated down the hall. "Just because you should be waiting for your Prince Charming, doesn't mean I should," he said with a grin and spun back around, a spring in his step as he disappeared down the long hall. Harry shook his head, but he was happy for his friend. At least one of them should be having fun he supposed.

Louis giggled and Harry keened, his cheeks throbbing with his smile. Smiling, smiling, smiling. That's what he always loved about being with Louis. All the smiling.

And now wasn't any different as they sat opposite each other in the long grass, the castle a distant shape on the horizon. Tomorrow, the farmers would come and cut the field, killing all the daisies, but for today, there would grow and Harry and Louis would sit with them for hours. Harry watched Louis as he stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, his eyes cast down and frowning with concentration and his nibble fingers picked at the stems in his hands. Harry impatiently knocked his boots against Louis', his legs spread out to either side of Louis as he sat like a proper Prince, his back straight and legs tucked beneath him. It made Harry giggle.

Eventually, Louis looked up, a grin breaking over his face as he delicately held up his handy work. A crown of bright yellow daisies. Harry clapped his hands and leant forward as Louis gently placed the crown upon the younger Prince's head.

"There, now you're a real Prince," the blue-eyed Prince said with joy.

Harry giggled, "But I already have a crown, dummy," he teased, brushing his hair out of the way as he peered up at his gift.

"But not like that one!" Louis protested. "Not like mine," he said, pointing to the crown he'd made for himself. He'd promised he would teach Harry one day.

"Yes! Now we can be Princes together!" Harry said excitedly.

"Yes, and then one day when we get married, we'll have rings too, like mummy and daddy."

Harry shook his head. "No, you silly. We can't get married!"

Louis pouted. "Can too! Kings can't get married, but Princes can."

"Really?" Harry said, hope and adoration shining through the word.

"Yes." Louis said confidently.

Harry pretended to think about it. "Okay. Promise we'll stay Princes forever then?"

"Yes." Louis jumped forward, his crown falling down the side of his face. Harry laughed and reached out, rightening it.

"Promise!" he demanded.

"Okay, Promise! Princes forever."

"Your Highness?"

Harry blinked, his mind reeling back to the room before him. To the servant standing two metres away with a pressing look he knew meant she'd repeated herself. He closed the book in his lap, the words just swimming in his mind without meaning.

"More tea, Your Highness?" she asked, and he glanced to the untouched mug beside his. If he asked, she would refill it a hundred times, always keep it warm even if he never touched it. He smiled at her, tight-lipped and strained, but polite nonetheless.

"No, thank you."

He turned to the window, his thoughts drifting away as the maid withdrew.
All those years ago, Louis had left, the crown had wilted, and something else with it too.