Well, here's the next part as promised! I'm sorry for the long wait!

In this chapter we finally venture into the contents of the movie. I try to be as true to the original movie as possible, but still had to make a few tweaks here and there to fit my story. Let's play a game! See if you can find the tweak to the movie I made besides the change of perspectives! XD

Without further ado, enjoy!

The Prince and His Valet

v. – part 1

It had been a little bit more than two years since the Ball Room Incident (he had no idea who gave it this name), and most of Donald's wounds had already healed perfectly. The only one that bothered him was the dull ache whenever he flexed his left hand, but he supposed that he should be glad that it wasn't amputated from the start.

After he woke up in his room, both he and the Prince immediately came to the silent agreement that they were going to honor the promise made in the ball room and pretend that neither of them knew how much they cared for each other. This, much to Donald's chagrin, led to the Prince once again playing pranks on his behalf once he had healed enough to be framed, though the pranks themselves were much less intense than before.

So the rivalry was back. Donald didn't really have anything to complain about, though at times he did wish they didn't have to continue to pretend to hate each other. Then a cream pie would land itself on his head, and any form of regret would be swiped away as he angrily chased after the mouse responsible. Then he would inevitably run into Horace, who would assume it was Donald's fault, and the Prince would laugh his butt off in his private quarters.

Oh, joy.

At least he could get a kick out of watching the Prince struggling to survive the horror known as studies. Like he had been doing a few minutes ago, before His Highness decided it would be a good idea to blow pellets at his tail feathers. He really should have known better than to fight back, but he had had enough and thought maybe, just maybe, he could get away with it this time. Then he had then been harshly reminded by Horace's yelp as to why he didn't really trust his luck anymore.

Now, he settled for sulking in his room. If His Highness was going to continue being a jerk, then he was going on strike until the Prince behaved otherwise. Or at least until the Prince called for his services again.

His resolve quickly evaporated when from the halls came a loud CRASH.

The mallard all but jumped up from his bed, rushing out to see what had caused the crash. As he ran, he cursed the distance between his room and the scene of the crash and hoped with all his might that it wasn't another attack. It had only been two years. His body wouldn't be able to take another beating it did two years ago, that much he knew.

When he finally turned the corner and reached the place, he gaped at the pieces of armors that now littered the floor. His eyes traveled further down the hall, and were just in time to catch a glimpse of the end of a mouse tail disappearing into the Prince's room.

So that's what's going on. He thought in irritation. If this was the Prince's idea of humor, then he was seriously considering getting His Highness a dictionary for his next birthday. He then sighed and began picking up the pieces of metal and setting them back to way it was.

He heard familiar footsteps behind when he got to the last armor.

"It wasn't me." He deadpanned, not even bothering to look back at the person. He heard a sigh and the beginnings of a lecture. "Honestly, Donald, when are you and the Prince going to actually get along?"

"Tell that to His Highness." The Duck muttered almost darkly. "I'm only doing what I'm told."

"You know it's infuriating."

"Of course I know!" Donald scowled and finally turned to point an accusing finger at the advisor. "Especially when the third party that knows everything won't step up for the one being bullied!"

Immediately he regretted his action, because apparently pointing too hard could lead to strain on the hand as well. He should have thought it through before doing anything with his left hand. Now, he only let out a "wak!" in pain and quickly withdrew his hand to hold it protectively in his other hand, the helmet that he had tucked under his arm clattering to the ground.

As he nursed the aching hand, he was aware that Horace was slowly walking towards him. His plan to ignore the older man was quickly foiled when two larger hands reached out to take his left hand and began gently massaging it. "You know why I don't call on the young sire for the pranks he plays on you." He said quietly.

"Yeah," Donald replied sulkily, trying not to show how grateful he was for the pain relief. "I know. I just…it's so exasperating. Why can't His Highness be more like Henry?" He winced at the slip he made. But surprisingly, Horace didn't reprimand him for the "discourtesy", and instead chuckled, "You'd be surprised how much trouble His Majesty used to get me into."

That got Donald's attention. "Really?" He asked, genuinely curious. The one that had raised him gave him a knowing smile. "I'd say he was about ten times worse than your royalty."

"No way!" Donald laughed, and soon Horace joined him. For about a full minute, that was all they did. But then slowly, Donald ceased laughing. Thinking about Henry made him sad, as the King never recovered from what they had assumed was a common cold the night of the Ball Room Incident. The seventeen-year-old knew that it was irrational, but he couldn't help but feel that it was somehow his fault that the King's health was the way it was now. If he'd been stronger, then maybe he wouldn't have let Mortimer's taunts get to him. Then maybe, without having to fuss over him and his injuries that night, someone would have noticed something, anything. Then maybe, if they had noticed sooner, Henry wouldn't be lying on his deathbed now. And Donald wouldn't be forced to watch the Prince pretend that he wasn't affected when the clenching of his fists by his father's bedside revealed how worried he really was. If only…

"There. Better?"

Donald gave himself a mental shake at his caretaker's voice. He muttered his thanks as he withdrew his no longer aching hand and turned to pick up and place the last helmet back to its rightful place. Horace watched him quietly before speaking again. "You just have to give it time. When the young sire takes the throne, he will change for the better. He'll have to, with his new responsibilities."

The mallard felt his breath catch in his throat when he realized the undertones of that statement.

"I hope that's still a long way off." He croaked quietly.

The advisor didn't reply, but they both knew that he agreed with the teen wholeheartedly.

To be continued…

There we go! All finished!

I loved writing Donald and Horace's interaction here. I really believe that in that world they have more of a father-son relationship, and I'm a sucker for those. XD

Of course, Donald doesn't know about the switcheroo that had already happened. Will they ever find out?

~ruth~