SPN Fic: What's a fire and why does it burn? (1/3)
Title: What's a fire and why does it burn? (1/3)
Paring: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 21,700
Summary: Written for the j2_everafter challenge, for The Little Mermaid. A little bit Hans Christian Andersen, a little bit Disney, a whole lot of melodrama.
A/N: My dearest thanks to my beloved rivers_bend for the lightning-fast and thorough beta of an early draft of this story. All remaining errors in content or style are entirely mine.
Also, when I originally signed up to write this for last year's challenge, the incredible mkitty3 made some spectacular art. Please, please go HERE and leave her gushing feedback.
Part 1:
Jensen sat conspicuously on the forecastle of the ship, back straight, one hand relaxed and open resting on his knee, his other in a white-knuckled grip hidden under the double layer of wool lining his cloak. Anyone looking at him would have seen nothing in his face to give away the agitation caused by each plunge and roll of the bow in the choppy, dark sea.
He glanced over his shoulder at the gathering on the deck. Genteel courtiers mingled with ruddy-faced sailors, all equal at sea and in revelry, jostling shoulder to shoulder at the flowing taps of the kegs of ale. One of his men started up on a hornpipe, another with a fiddle, and Jensen was certain dancing would break out any minute; the pitching of the deck might even help it along. It was his birthday celebration and he knew that he really ought to go down and make a showing. His people already thought him aloof, a bit cold, and hiding up here in the shadows wasn’t helping to bridge that gap. It’s just… his presence in their midst would just make everyone uncomfortable, self-conscious. Why ruin his own party by attending?
He turned his face back into the wind and- appearances be damned- gripped the rail tight.
Salt water spit up at him. How he hated the ocean.
Eventually there were fireworks, the hiss and boom of their explosion drowned out by the hiss and boom of the surging waves. Jensen watched as blues and red and greens reflected off of clouds so low it felt like being in a cellar rather than under the sky.
His reverie was broken when the ship’s captain, Manners, swung up next to him.
“Your Highness, there’s a storm approachin’, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a rough one. I don’t mind telling you, I’m concerned." Just then, the sky was lit by streak of lightning so vivid it made mockery of the fireworks.
Jensen swiftly rose to his feet. “How can I help?”
“By gettin’ safely belowdecks and out of the way, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sire.” It’d long been a source of fond concern among the crew of his flagship that Jensen was neither a strong swimmer nor a stalwart sailor. And although he rarely responded beyond a reproving look or two, he took their good-natured teasing for the comfort it was meant to be.
The already strong wind had begun to blow the ship around in earnest, and fitful spikes of rain and sea spray stung Jensen’s face as he stumbled down the length of the gangway. More jags of lightning crowded the sky, lighting his way and raising the small hairs on the back of his neck.
As he reached amidships there was a sharp, loud crack somewhere overhead, followed by a sudden whoosh that sent his cloak billowing and propelled him forward. He crashed head-on into Whitfield, one of the crew, and they whirled in a mad pirouette before falling entangled to the deck. There was confusion all around, with deck hands running and orders shouted. Jensen sat up, trying to collect his scattered wits.
“What is it?” he demanded of Whitfield, as they both staggered to their feet. “What’s happened?”
“The bloody mainmast’s split,” he shouted over the roar of the storm. “Pardon my language, Your Highness, but it has. And now there’ll be hell to pay.” The deck tilted sickeningly under their feet.
All at once they both caught sight and smell of flames. Curses and commands rang through the night, overlaid with a dreadful groaning, scraping noise that Jensen realized must be caused by the rubbing of the ship timbers in an unnatural way. Whitfield pointed to the rail and bellowed, “Sire! To the lifeboats! Now!”
Jensen felt his heart thud like a kick to his chest and he started forward, only to be thrown to his knees again as the deck bucked and listed. He scrabbled a moment on the rain-slick wood, only to freeze as he watched the ropes holding a stack of cargo snap, sending a mass of loose crates and bales careening past. There was a bright shock of pain as one clipped him on the shoulder, another on the forehead, but he ignored it, letting himself tumble aftward to where a boatswain was pinned against the bulwark by one of the cargo boxes.
“Go on, save yourself, S--sire!” the man shouted, white-lipped, eyes like a spooked horse, his leg crushed and trapped. Jensen didn’t reply, just hunkered down, got purchase under the lip of the crate, heaved, shifted, and heaved again. The load barely moved, a couple of inches at best, but it was enough for his man to slip free, collapsing sidewise as the ship lurched once more.
Looking up, he saw that the evacuation of the ship had devolved into chaos. People were running, diving headlong from the sides, shards of rigging and gear falling around them into the raging water. Jensen grabbed the wounded sailor under the armpit and heaved him up, just as a burst of flame roared from the hatchway behind them, causing Jensen to pitch them both forward to the gunwale. He helped his man clamber over, shoving him in the direction of the nearest in the string of lifeboats bobbing just beyond the worst of the wreckage. But Jensen himself hesitated for a moment, paralyzed, balanced on the narrow wooden strip.
The sea spun past in a churn of black far, far below. He could barely see, dizzy with adrenaline, sweating and freezing at the same time. He kicked off his boots, trying to talk himself into jumping.
The decision was made for him by the flaming spar that struck him square in the back, sending him flying into the darkness. Jensen smacked against the icy, churning water, and before he could catch his breath, a wave crashed over him, then another, tossing and disorienting him so that he couldn’t grab hold of any of the hunks of debris skating past. One came right under his hands but he couldn’t hold on and it slipped away.
One more wave sent him under and he thrashed madly, blind, kicking and beating at the water, reaching out, not knowing which way was up. For a second he thought he could hear his men shouting for him, but then he was sucking in water, not air.
He stopped struggling as he sank, everything going salty and numb and grey. But before unconsciousness could finally overtake him, a strong arm slung around his chest. He was propelled upward, the clinging drag of the depths no match for his rescuer. And just as Jensen thought his heart would burst, they breached the surface.
He lifted his mouth to the sky, gulping oxygen, lungs burning. He gasped and coughed and gasped again, head and shoulders supported above the swells.
Despite the vicious roar of the wind and waves, Jensen heard a deep voice murmur in his ear, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
His head lolled against a bare shoulder, and he felt the unexpected but recognizable slick slide of scales against the soles of his feet.
Then there was only darkness.
*****
Jensen found himself wandering the beach every morning. He’d carefully pick his way down the mountain-goat path leading from the cliffs where the palace overlooked the sea down to the shoreline. There he would walk back and forth on the white sands, where he’d woken seven weeks ago after the shipwreck.
He had never spent much time down here before, never before interested in getting any closer to the water than the spectacular view from his bedroom windows. And one would think that, after his dramatic near-drowning, he’d be even more skittish. Certainly his counselors and servants were, their normal care and solicitude over a member of the Royal House amplified to an apprehension that was practically smothering.
But for some reason Jensen felt drawn here. He would stand stock-still listening to the murmur of the wind in the hollows underneath the cliffs, though listening for what, he couldn’t say. It’s not like he’d ever been much for day-dreaming. He’d watch the gulls skim over the surf at daybreak, every so often his heart leaping at the sight of dolphins surfacing. One day he even dragged a pallet down from the heights and laid it among the red-grey grasses in the dunes so that he could be lulled to sleep watching the spray off the rocks and the sound of the waves rolling.
The beach had become one place that brought him a moment’s peace. It didn’t make any sense.
Rarely did Jensen dig his heels in, but this was the one time of day he demanded to be allowed some privacy. His guardsmen waited at the top of the steep stairs carved into the cliff-side. At least his minders knew he would not swim out into the sea; the strength of this pull had its limits.
One morning just after dawn, as he dared to wade slowly in the shallows, ankle-deep brave and nudging shells with a toe, he spied something on the shore up ahead, just west of the ragged jetty of rocks that marked the end of the beach. Jensen approached cautiously until he realized what it was, then broke into a run and threw himself on his knees in the sand next to the body that had washed up, face down on the sand.
It was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, beautifully made, the long bones of his body sleek with muscle. His skin was golden-bronze above the waist, pale below, like a sailor or workman, but his long-fingered hands were as fine and smooth as any nobleman’s. Jensen quickly reached out to check for a pulse and felt a strong, steady beat beneath skin that was troublingly cool in the chilly, shallow surf. Jensen grabbed the man under the arms and dragged him the ten yards above the tide line to the sun-warmed sand there. He panted with exertion-- this castaway was no lightweight, fifteen stone at the least-- then quickly whipped the cloak from his shoulders and knelt again to carefully cover the stranger’s naked form.
He needed to go fetch help. There was no way he could move the fellow alone. And yet he found himself lingering a moment, reaching out, placing a hand in the dripping hair, tangling his fingers in long dark strands. His thumb rubbed slowly over the curve of the skull where it met the long, graceful neck. Checking for head wounds, that’s all.
*****
It was hours later before Jensen managed to free himself from an interminable morning of unavoidable, fruitless meetings with advisors and bankers and claimants of various sorts. Guests would be starting to arrive soon, too, to add to his obligations. His eyes itched with fatigue and his jaw ached from clenching, but he held himself straight and still until the last of the petitioners was dismissed from the receiving room. It was what a prince was expected to do.
It’s not as if he was unused to it. He’d been a public figure since the day he was born, and he’d shouldered the particular burden of ruling for almost a year now. But these last few weeks, the nature of the burden had become so personal, he felt wrung out and hollow.
He glanced over to the far wall, where the low dais with its collection of five ceremonial, carved-and-gilt oak chairs stood empty. His parents’ thrones had high, wide backs and elaborate embroidered cushions; Jensen’s and his siblings’ were lower and simpler, but still elegant. Jensen himself refused to sit there for anything less than the most formal occasions, having ordered a large round table arranged for the purpose of court business. It was a small eccentricity, but one most people understood.
He stood, stretched. Chancellor Lehne sidled up to him before he could make his escape.
“The man you found on the beach? I have had him placed in one of the guest rooms in the South Wing under guard until he is well enough to be on his way.”
“Thank you, Fredric.” Jensen smiled, but he could not help the thin blade-like edge that crept into his voice. “However, under the circumstances, having been the one who found him, I count myself responsible for determining his well-being.”
“You have other matters weighing on your mind, Your Majesty. Leave this tedious business to me.”
“Tedium is not at issue.”
“But-“
“That will be all for today, Chancellor.”
“Yes, my lord Prince,” Lehne replied smoothly, and withdrew.
Jensen knew that his advisor was right, that the last thing he needed right now was one more duty on his plate, but curiosity had him in its grip. He found himself wandering over to the South Wing of the palace where the staff had ensconced the stranger in one of the multitude of currently unoccupied guest rooms.
He immediately identified which room was his target by the two guards lounging against the walls on either side of the deep-paneled double doors. When they spied him approaching, the men quickly pulled to attention, but the one on the right was an old veteran of the palace guard and he threw Jensen a broad grin.
“’Mornin’, Your Highness. Come to check on the castaway?”
“Um…. Yes. Indeed.” Jensen hesitated, suddenly reluctant to go in. “Any news, James?”
“Well, he’s awake now. Seems harmless enough, but the poor kid’s apparently lost his voice. Can’t speak a word.”
“I see.” Jensen stared at the door for a moment, then turned to leave.
“Aren’t you going in, Sire?” the other guard asked.
“Oh. Of course. I should… greet our guest.” This was foolish. Why should he be nervous of an interview with some chance stranger? He set chin a bit higher as his men simultaneously swung open the doors, resolving to stay but a moment, assure himself of the man’s good health, and be on his way.
The room was typical of this wing of the palace, expansive and comfortable and low-ceilinged with a small bank of lead-paned windows facing the sea. Jensen observed that it was appointed with a writing desk and a cozy seating area of couch and two chairs and a strange claw-foot settee Jensen couldn’t recall seeing before, all set before a grate within which crackled a small fire, despite the mild weather.
The space was dominated, however, by a huge four-poster bed set against the near wall. It was a veritable confection of sunny yellows and pale pinks; the tufted curtains pulled back to reveal mounds of duvets and pillows reminded Jensen of a bowl of Italian sherbet. In the middle of this froth of bedding sat the stranger, propped up against the headboard and sipping from a steaming cup of what Jensen could smell was hot chocolate, his eyes closed in apparent ecstasy.
The sight of him brought Jensen up short.
He was even bigger than Jensen recalled from the beach, his hands wrapped around the mug of chocolate made it look like a toy doll’s, and his scandalously bare shoulders seemed to stretch the width of the huge bed. He wore his hair long as they did in his father’s and grandfather’s time-- rather than, as Jensen did, clipped fashionably short-- and it was tucked back behind his ears so that Jensen could clearly see the clean, striking lines of his face: sharp nose, dimpled chin, wide brow.
The three servants fluttering about at the bedside turned at Jensen’s arrival and immediately curtsied and murmured a chorus of “Your Highness,” despite Jensen’s standing order to leave off those kinds of formalities. He supposed it was for the benefit of their audience, and waved awkwardly at them to rise.
The stranger, too, seemed about to leap up at the sight of Jensen, but then realized he was as yet unclothed, and clasped the blankets up to his neck with both hands. A pink to match the pillows colored his cheeks.
Jensen felt like pinching himself. This? This is who washes up on the beach and ends up naked in one of Jensen’s beds? He must be dreaming. Or, given the week’s impending events, there was a strong possibility it was a nightmare.
Breaking the silence, he said, “I am Jensen, of the House of Ackles. I am the sovereign in this land. Welcome.” He immediately cut himself off. Jensen knew he tended toward sounding pompous when he got nervous, but this was ridiculous.
The man in the bed simply pointed to his throat and shook his head with an exaggeratedly rueful look on his face, then broke into a broad smile and extended his hand.
Jensen stared, first at the deep dimples that appeared along with the grin and then at the hand, strong and wide-palmed. There was a pause of several long seconds. Finally, one of the chambermaids leaned toward the stranger and, in an audible whisper, instructed, “His Highness doesn’t usually shake hands.”
The man simply shrugged and laid the hand over his heart instead, gifting Jensen with a neat bow of his head.
Jensen turned to Genevieve, who had spoken up, and asked her, “Is there no clothing available for our visitor?”
She bobbed another small curtsy in apology. “Nothing large enough to fit could be found in the general stores, Sire. We’ve sent for Gabriel.”
“Ahh. I see.” The eccentric little tailor would either have a field day with the challenge or a fit over being asked to work this project in with all the other chores he had at the moment. Jensen glanced back at the stranger, who was staring at him, wide-eyed and animated. Never been this close to royalty before, I imagine, Jensen thought. But the look on his face wasn’t awe. He was… beaming.
The door opened and everyone turned to see Misha, Jensen’s valet, stride in clutching a bundle of silk cloth. “Success!” he announced gaily, but then, noticing Jensen’s presence, skidded to a halt. “Hello, Sire.”
Jensen raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
Misha replied, “Just helping in the search for something for our large friend here to wear until Gabriel can whip something up with those magical needles of his.” The bundle turned out to be a pair of pajama pants and robe, which Misha laid out at the foot of the bed.
“I see,” Jensen repeated. He winced internally. Yes, he was certainly making quite an impression with his debonair conversational skills.
The girls and Misha huddled around the bedside while Jensen turned his head to gaze out the windows, giving the stranger the illusion of privacy as he slipped into the pajamas. Jensen really should leave now. The list of tasks that remained to be seen to yet this morning was longer than he cared to contemplate. He continued to try to convince himself to depart as he overheard Misha say, “I’m apologize that there’s no top to match. Well, there is one, but it would never have fit you.”
From the corner of his eye, Jensen saw the man blithely hold his arms out to allow Misha to drape a robe around his shoulders, for all the world as if he were accustomed to valet service. But he caught Jensen peeking, and with another slight blush, he twitched together the front edges of the robe to cover as much of his bare chest as possible.
Jensen made a show of turning his attention back towards the tableau around the bed; he would look where he liked, thank you very much. But as the man went to stand out of respect, he let out a sharp gasp and stumbled forward down to hands and knees, his face twisted in pain.
Impulsively, Jensen leaped forward, and was as shocked as his servants-judging by the looks on their faces-when he found himself crouched beside their guest on the floor, one hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Your Highness?” One of the attendants moved to come to their assistance.
“Never mind, Sophia. I have him.” Why didn’t he just let the servants help the man up? I’m the only one here strong enough. I don’t care if it’s unseemly.
Jensen heaved him up under one shoulder as best he could-the man was even taller than he’d looked lying down and seemed to be made of solid stone-and helped him limp over to one of the nearby chairs.
Once he was settled, Jensen asked, “Are you injured after all? What is the matter?” But the only response he received was a dismayed shrug.
Jensen watched as the stranger extended one foot and flexed it back and forth, wiggling his toes. He pressed on the smooth ball of his foot with his thumb, then stroked along the arch. He set his foot flat on the ground and applied some pressure, winced and stopped. After a moment, he squared his shoulders and returned his attention to Jensen. He lifted his hands, palms up, as if to say, I don’t know, either.
They stared at each other a moment, then Jensen cleared his throat. “Well then, how shall I address you? You cannot tell me your name-” Jensen glanced over at the gleaming cherry writing desk. He picked up a pen in one hand, gestured toward the inkpot in the other. “Perhaps you might write it?”
The man flashed another of his bright smiles, dimples winking, and held his hand out for the implement. He examined it for a moment, turning it this way and that, his brow furrowed slightly. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and stretched across Jensen for the stack of paper, inadvertently brushing against Jensen where he leaned on the desk, making all the hairs on Jensen’s forearm stand on end. He signed across the top of the blank white sheet with a flourish and extended it to Jensen eagerly.
Jensen glanced at it and then stopped to examine it more carefully, but the markings made no sense.
“I don’t understand.” The crisp paper rustled in his hands. “You can comprehend our language, but you can’t write it?”
The stranger’s face fell when he saw that he’d failed the task, and Jensen couldn’t resist reassuring him, “No, no! That’s fine. You’ll get along nonetheless. We’ll look for someone among the staff to instruct you in our style of writing, alright?”
Jared nodded and smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Jensen crossed his arms over his chest, tapping one finger against his lips in thought. “And we still are stuck with the difficulty that I do not know your name.”
The stranger stared at him intently, that absurdly mobile mouth pursed for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it, his eyes at last lighting up again, his mood constantly shifting like clouds on a windy day. He twisted to reach the desk where a breakfast tray still sat and picked up the earthenware container of orange marmalade. He spun back around and held it up for Jensen’s inspection.
“Yes?” Jensen asked, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
The man pointed one long finger insistently at the marmalade, the other to his own broad chest. His eyebrows quirked upward, inviting Jensen to guess.
“Jam? Jelly?”
The man threw his head back in a silent laugh, slapping one hand against his thigh. Jensen instantly longed to hear what it would sound like-loud and rich, he imagined. The man recovered himself, shaking his head and pointing again, this time indicating the vessel itself.
“Crock? Bowl? Pot? Jar?”
At the last one, the man lifted a hand, palm out, and nodded quickly, but then held up a single finger and scanned the room again. In quick succession, he pointed to a velvet chair cushion, a rose in a vase on the tray, and one of the attendant’s dresses.
“Red,” Jensen replied. “Jar-red?”
This inspired another small, soundless laugh, pink tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. Shaking his head, the man held his hands out about a foot apart and then brought them together as if he were squeezing an accordion.
Jensen tried again. “Jared?” He was rewarded with a pleased nod.
Jensen turned to servants, “Would you please arrange for someone to show Jared around the palace and grounds? He’s welcome anywhere he wishes to go.”
Jensen turned back to Jared. “Now we merely have to determine just where you came from and how you got here.” Jared blanched a little, expressive brow again wrinkling between the eyes. Jensen was intrigued.
He was considering how to press for information from someone who couldn’t answer much beyond a nod for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when Gabriel entered in a flurry of motion, nodding to each of them in turn. “Good morning, Your Highness. Ladies. Misha.” Jensen watched as Gabriel bustled over to the visitor-Jared-looking him up and down critically. “Hmmm, I see what all the commotion is about. Nothing I have will fit legs this long!”
At that, Jensen stood a shade too quickly and strode toward the door. “Well, I have much to do this morning,” he announced to the far wall, but then on impulse turned back to face Jared. “Shall you join me for dinner, sir?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the chambermaids exchange shocked glances. Jensen was notorious for insisting on dining alone unless he was obligated to entertain. Well, sometimes a man wants a little conversa-- a little companionship, he insisted to himself. Why is that so strange?
Jared nodded his head with puppyish eagerness and, as everyone else in the room executed the appropriate bow or curtsey, Jensen departed.
He couldn’t help throwing one last look into the room, watching the stranger-Jensen tested out the name Jared again, rolling it around in his mind-limp over to the bank of windows and fumble with the latch of the shutters, thrusting them open, flooding the room with the sound of rushing waves and the cold, fresh smell of morning.
*****
Jensen wandered back down the hallway toward the main staircase, trailing one finger along the horizontal groove in the polished wood wainscoting just as he’d done since he was a tiny boy and had to reach above his head to touch it.
His chamberlain, Kripke, intercepted him before he had made his way very far, gesturing anxiously to the ever-present sheaf of papers that comprised his to-do list in his hand. “Sire, the envoys from Mystische Fälle and Colline D'arbre have arrived early, both at the same time, and there appears to be some… controversy over precedence.”
As they continued on to Jensen’s offices in the main part of the palace, talking over the idiocies of nobility and diplomatic necessities and the various decisions that needed to be made immediately, Jensen relegated thoughts of Jared to the back of his mind. They didn’t stay there for long, however, as, over the course of the day, Jensen felt as if he saw Jared everywhere he looked.
*****
Lunch had probably been offered to Jensen several times, but if it had-between soothing diplomatic ruffled feathers, signing letters of credit, and approving musical programs for the next six formal dining occasions-Jensen had ignored it. As a result, sometime mid-afternoon his stomach began rumbling in an alarming and uncouth manner, sending him out of his office and across the sunlit courtyard. He could’ve very easily called for a tray, but he loved visiting the enormous expanse of rooms off of the main banquet hall that comprised the palace kitchens: long counters gleaming steel and rough wood, massive copper pots the size of bathtubs, banks of knives and ladles and implements of uncertain employ everywhere, cupboards and hidden nooks, the constant heavy aroma of fresh-baked bread, and ever-present staff members taking breaks with gossip and a cup of tea. Jensen regularly scandalized Chef by snatching a quick bite of breakfast or snack from one of the kitchen storerooms, so his presence there would cause no comment.
Coming out of one of the pantries-apple in one hand, cheese in the other-he spied Jared sitting on a stool amidst a large group of busy scullery servants. Without thinking, he found himself ducking back behind the door and peeking cautiously around to see what was going on.
Across the open expanse of slate floor he could see Jared’s hands busy with something, moving industriously back and forth. He was shelling peas alongside Richard, both of them picking the pods neatly apart and stripping out the insides into a pot, as the other staff busied themselves with their own chores, with a great deal more laughing and joking than Jensen was accustomed to observing when they knew he was there. Jensen saw Richard swat Jared on the shoulder, and Jared throw an empty pod at him. He saw Jared hop up to help Alona as she stretched in vain for something on one of the higher shelves; instead of reaching the item for her, Jared picked up Alona herself to reach it, his hands nearly wrapping full around her waist, lifting her several feet off the floor.
Jensen slipped away before he could be discovered.
Later, he caught another glimpse of his unexpected guest as he hurried by the main library on his way to an emergency meeting with the master of the shipyards. The library was a point of family pride, enormous, filled floor to ceiling with crumbling, ancient texts and modern works and more books than Jensen could read in three lifetimes, although as a child he’d gone through phases where he poured through books like it was a race.
The afternoon light shone through the windows as he strode past a set of the library’s glass-paned French doors, illuminating Jared sitting at one of the room’s ornate mahagony desks, stacks of books piled around him, head bent over a massive open tome. Chancellor Lehne was with him- oddly enough-which immediately triggered Jensen’s concern, and he almost turned back to defend Jared’s right to be there. Almost turned back, that is, until his brain caught up to the fact that he’d seen his advisor leaning over one of Jared’s broad shoulders, smiling encouragingly and pointing to something on the page. Jensen tried to remember whether Fredric had ever smiled so warmly at him.
At the end of the day, Jensen made it back to the refuge of his office, wrung out from dealing with so many people, all of their problems inevitably his. With no one watching him, he thumped gracelessly down onto the cushion of the window seat, scrubbing one hand over his face and using his off-hand to fumble at the latch and swing open the sash. He leaned his temple against the wall adjacent and strained to catch some sound of the sea. Instead, he heard someone talking down in the gardens below.
“You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on, save for the Prince, of course.”
Jensen was eavesdropping, he knew, but how was he supposed to resist that? He peeked over the sill of the window and saw Sandra, work gloves on, picking her way through the garden’s tract of rose bushes with a pair of shears. Behind her trailed Jared carrying a large flat basket piled high with fresh cut buds in pink and red. Even though he was wearing what appeared to be castoff clothes from Clifford in the smithy, the coat loose around the middle, the breeches cut all wrong, Jensen understood Sandra’s admiration. There was something in the way Jared held himself-head high, eyes bright-that drew the eye and caught it. He exuded strength and safety and an artless joy and… perhaps Jensen was more exhausted than he’d realized.
“You must sneak into the ball with me,” he heard Sandra continue. Jared reacted with a look of surprise.
“Oh yes, there’s to be a ball. Tomorrow night is the big one, and not much good to come of it if you asked me, as if all of us don’t know it already. But, oh Jared, if you come with me, think of it! All the foreign noblewomen will look at you and say, ‘Who is that dashing man? I do believe I’m in love and must dance with him, and my rich young son must marry the servant girl standing at his side.’”
Jared laughed silently and tugged at Sandra’s braid. He shook his head ruefully but then shot a glace up toward the second floor windows, where Jensen barely jerked away in time to hide.
He strained to keep listening, heard Sandra continue her one-sided chatter as she led Jared farther down the path in their work. “But it might happen! It does in all the fairytales. Besides, once Gabriel’s through dressing you, you’ll rival even Prince Jensen; all of us are helping him sew in our spare time. Please say you’ll come… or, rather, nod you’ll come.”
He heard the tinkle of her laughter fade as they turned the corner, and Jensen, foolishly, felt a little jealous. Jealous of how Jared could arrive out of nowhere, not a penny to his name or even the ability to speak, for god’s sake, and yet make friends with the entire palace. Jensen knew his staff were fond of him- after all, they’d either practically raised him or been raised alongside him-but he’d never had that easy way of ingratiating himself, of flirting or teasing people into laughter and admiration.
But, even more keenly, he was jealous that he was not the one on the receiving end of Jared’s attention. Here it was being showered around the palace and Jensen was left out, standing in the shadows.
This was madness, really; he knew he should send Jared away. His presence was a distraction, throwing off Jensen’s equilibrium at the worst possible moment. He should gift Jared with some funds, a formal escort, even find him a place in someone else’s court, if that’s what he wished.
But the thought of sending Jared away was like deliberately letting go of that last spar of wood and letting himself sink.
Jensen considered whether this was really about Jared at all. It was probably just a simple crush, a way for Jensen to distract himself from his duty, to hide in the fantasy of a beautiful, mysterious lover. It had been so long since Jensen had allowed himself to look with longing, allowed himself to want. When he’d been at the university, things had been so much simpler: discreet trysts with classmates, all noble-born and unintimidated by a second son from a trifling little country not much bigger than many of their outlying estates. Marriage awaited most of them at some point, they knew, but other kinds of relationships were accepted as part of the life of so many young men thrust together. It had been easy to find each other, moments of soft, quiet kissing under the stairs and drunken fumbling after a night of gambling, long nights fucking and getting fucked with no consequence come dawn.
Now, here at home, he was wholly encompassed by being Prince Jensen. So much was wanted of him, from him; the weight of ascending to rule, of continuing the Ackles’ line, pushed thoughts of a personal life out of his mind. Jensen found few opportunities for anything more than a quick, impersonal release, and even then, he was aware his lovers were often using him or, worse, allowing themselves to be used by him, for the favor he could provide.
Which brought his thoughts back around to Jared. The man was his guest, alone and unprotected, afflicted, with no means to protest mistreatment. Pursuing Jared would be an abuse of his power even greater than he already felt when bedding a willing partner.
Jensen shook his head, disgusted with himself. From what he’d observed in this short time, Jared appeared to gravitate toward women and would not welcome Jensen’s advances. And to top matters off, Jensen was not free to offer… anything. It was unthinkable, truly, and so Jensen resolved to think on it no more.
Jensen glanced over at the small porcelain clock that ticked away on his desk, then rose from the window seat. As he did every afternoon, he climbed the stairs from ground to first floor, taking a deep breath at the top of the landing to steel himself. With absent politeness, he acknowledged the respectful nods of another set of household guards as they opened a private door. Jensen entered, blind to the familiar luxurious tapestries and brocade bed-curtains, his footsteps echoing on the golden-tan parquet floor in the silence that suffused the dim room.
The attendant on duty-Danneel today- moved out of her chair at the bedside over to stand by the door in order to give him some privacy, and Jensen took her place on the velvet-cushioned seat, looking down at his father.
Every day Jensen came, and every day the King looked the same, as if at any moment he would sit up and rub his eyes and tease Jensen about his horsemanship or demand some coffee. But since the accident, he had neither woken nor spoken. He was fed and washed by servants, unresponsive to appeal, all of his plans for the county and his people and his son spinning into disarray under Jensen’s poor stewardship.
Jensen took the cool and unresponsive hand in his. “Papa. What am I to do?”
*****
Part 2 here | Part 3 here
Paring: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 21,700
Summary: Written for the j2_everafter challenge, for The Little Mermaid. A little bit Hans Christian Andersen, a little bit Disney, a whole lot of melodrama.
A/N: My dearest thanks to my beloved rivers_bend for the lightning-fast and thorough beta of an early draft of this story. All remaining errors in content or style are entirely mine.
Also, when I originally signed up to write this for last year's challenge, the incredible mkitty3 made some spectacular art. Please, please go HERE and leave her gushing feedback.
Part 1:
Jensen sat conspicuously on the forecastle of the ship, back straight, one hand relaxed and open resting on his knee, his other in a white-knuckled grip hidden under the double layer of wool lining his cloak. Anyone looking at him would have seen nothing in his face to give away the agitation caused by each plunge and roll of the bow in the choppy, dark sea.
He glanced over his shoulder at the gathering on the deck. Genteel courtiers mingled with ruddy-faced sailors, all equal at sea and in revelry, jostling shoulder to shoulder at the flowing taps of the kegs of ale. One of his men started up on a hornpipe, another with a fiddle, and Jensen was certain dancing would break out any minute; the pitching of the deck might even help it along. It was his birthday celebration and he knew that he really ought to go down and make a showing. His people already thought him aloof, a bit cold, and hiding up here in the shadows wasn’t helping to bridge that gap. It’s just… his presence in their midst would just make everyone uncomfortable, self-conscious. Why ruin his own party by attending?
He turned his face back into the wind and- appearances be damned- gripped the rail tight.
Salt water spit up at him. How he hated the ocean.
Eventually there were fireworks, the hiss and boom of their explosion drowned out by the hiss and boom of the surging waves. Jensen watched as blues and red and greens reflected off of clouds so low it felt like being in a cellar rather than under the sky.
His reverie was broken when the ship’s captain, Manners, swung up next to him.
“Your Highness, there’s a storm approachin’, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a rough one. I don’t mind telling you, I’m concerned." Just then, the sky was lit by streak of lightning so vivid it made mockery of the fireworks.
Jensen swiftly rose to his feet. “How can I help?”
“By gettin’ safely belowdecks and out of the way, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sire.” It’d long been a source of fond concern among the crew of his flagship that Jensen was neither a strong swimmer nor a stalwart sailor. And although he rarely responded beyond a reproving look or two, he took their good-natured teasing for the comfort it was meant to be.
The already strong wind had begun to blow the ship around in earnest, and fitful spikes of rain and sea spray stung Jensen’s face as he stumbled down the length of the gangway. More jags of lightning crowded the sky, lighting his way and raising the small hairs on the back of his neck.
As he reached amidships there was a sharp, loud crack somewhere overhead, followed by a sudden whoosh that sent his cloak billowing and propelled him forward. He crashed head-on into Whitfield, one of the crew, and they whirled in a mad pirouette before falling entangled to the deck. There was confusion all around, with deck hands running and orders shouted. Jensen sat up, trying to collect his scattered wits.
“What is it?” he demanded of Whitfield, as they both staggered to their feet. “What’s happened?”
“The bloody mainmast’s split,” he shouted over the roar of the storm. “Pardon my language, Your Highness, but it has. And now there’ll be hell to pay.” The deck tilted sickeningly under their feet.
All at once they both caught sight and smell of flames. Curses and commands rang through the night, overlaid with a dreadful groaning, scraping noise that Jensen realized must be caused by the rubbing of the ship timbers in an unnatural way. Whitfield pointed to the rail and bellowed, “Sire! To the lifeboats! Now!”
Jensen felt his heart thud like a kick to his chest and he started forward, only to be thrown to his knees again as the deck bucked and listed. He scrabbled a moment on the rain-slick wood, only to freeze as he watched the ropes holding a stack of cargo snap, sending a mass of loose crates and bales careening past. There was a bright shock of pain as one clipped him on the shoulder, another on the forehead, but he ignored it, letting himself tumble aftward to where a boatswain was pinned against the bulwark by one of the cargo boxes.
“Go on, save yourself, S--sire!” the man shouted, white-lipped, eyes like a spooked horse, his leg crushed and trapped. Jensen didn’t reply, just hunkered down, got purchase under the lip of the crate, heaved, shifted, and heaved again. The load barely moved, a couple of inches at best, but it was enough for his man to slip free, collapsing sidewise as the ship lurched once more.
Looking up, he saw that the evacuation of the ship had devolved into chaos. People were running, diving headlong from the sides, shards of rigging and gear falling around them into the raging water. Jensen grabbed the wounded sailor under the armpit and heaved him up, just as a burst of flame roared from the hatchway behind them, causing Jensen to pitch them both forward to the gunwale. He helped his man clamber over, shoving him in the direction of the nearest in the string of lifeboats bobbing just beyond the worst of the wreckage. But Jensen himself hesitated for a moment, paralyzed, balanced on the narrow wooden strip.
The sea spun past in a churn of black far, far below. He could barely see, dizzy with adrenaline, sweating and freezing at the same time. He kicked off his boots, trying to talk himself into jumping.
The decision was made for him by the flaming spar that struck him square in the back, sending him flying into the darkness. Jensen smacked against the icy, churning water, and before he could catch his breath, a wave crashed over him, then another, tossing and disorienting him so that he couldn’t grab hold of any of the hunks of debris skating past. One came right under his hands but he couldn’t hold on and it slipped away.
One more wave sent him under and he thrashed madly, blind, kicking and beating at the water, reaching out, not knowing which way was up. For a second he thought he could hear his men shouting for him, but then he was sucking in water, not air.
He stopped struggling as he sank, everything going salty and numb and grey. But before unconsciousness could finally overtake him, a strong arm slung around his chest. He was propelled upward, the clinging drag of the depths no match for his rescuer. And just as Jensen thought his heart would burst, they breached the surface.
He lifted his mouth to the sky, gulping oxygen, lungs burning. He gasped and coughed and gasped again, head and shoulders supported above the swells.
Despite the vicious roar of the wind and waves, Jensen heard a deep voice murmur in his ear, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
His head lolled against a bare shoulder, and he felt the unexpected but recognizable slick slide of scales against the soles of his feet.
Then there was only darkness.
*****
Jensen found himself wandering the beach every morning. He’d carefully pick his way down the mountain-goat path leading from the cliffs where the palace overlooked the sea down to the shoreline. There he would walk back and forth on the white sands, where he’d woken seven weeks ago after the shipwreck.
He had never spent much time down here before, never before interested in getting any closer to the water than the spectacular view from his bedroom windows. And one would think that, after his dramatic near-drowning, he’d be even more skittish. Certainly his counselors and servants were, their normal care and solicitude over a member of the Royal House amplified to an apprehension that was practically smothering.
But for some reason Jensen felt drawn here. He would stand stock-still listening to the murmur of the wind in the hollows underneath the cliffs, though listening for what, he couldn’t say. It’s not like he’d ever been much for day-dreaming. He’d watch the gulls skim over the surf at daybreak, every so often his heart leaping at the sight of dolphins surfacing. One day he even dragged a pallet down from the heights and laid it among the red-grey grasses in the dunes so that he could be lulled to sleep watching the spray off the rocks and the sound of the waves rolling.
The beach had become one place that brought him a moment’s peace. It didn’t make any sense.
Rarely did Jensen dig his heels in, but this was the one time of day he demanded to be allowed some privacy. His guardsmen waited at the top of the steep stairs carved into the cliff-side. At least his minders knew he would not swim out into the sea; the strength of this pull had its limits.
One morning just after dawn, as he dared to wade slowly in the shallows, ankle-deep brave and nudging shells with a toe, he spied something on the shore up ahead, just west of the ragged jetty of rocks that marked the end of the beach. Jensen approached cautiously until he realized what it was, then broke into a run and threw himself on his knees in the sand next to the body that had washed up, face down on the sand.
It was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, beautifully made, the long bones of his body sleek with muscle. His skin was golden-bronze above the waist, pale below, like a sailor or workman, but his long-fingered hands were as fine and smooth as any nobleman’s. Jensen quickly reached out to check for a pulse and felt a strong, steady beat beneath skin that was troublingly cool in the chilly, shallow surf. Jensen grabbed the man under the arms and dragged him the ten yards above the tide line to the sun-warmed sand there. He panted with exertion-- this castaway was no lightweight, fifteen stone at the least-- then quickly whipped the cloak from his shoulders and knelt again to carefully cover the stranger’s naked form.
He needed to go fetch help. There was no way he could move the fellow alone. And yet he found himself lingering a moment, reaching out, placing a hand in the dripping hair, tangling his fingers in long dark strands. His thumb rubbed slowly over the curve of the skull where it met the long, graceful neck. Checking for head wounds, that’s all.
*****
It was hours later before Jensen managed to free himself from an interminable morning of unavoidable, fruitless meetings with advisors and bankers and claimants of various sorts. Guests would be starting to arrive soon, too, to add to his obligations. His eyes itched with fatigue and his jaw ached from clenching, but he held himself straight and still until the last of the petitioners was dismissed from the receiving room. It was what a prince was expected to do.
It’s not as if he was unused to it. He’d been a public figure since the day he was born, and he’d shouldered the particular burden of ruling for almost a year now. But these last few weeks, the nature of the burden had become so personal, he felt wrung out and hollow.
He glanced over to the far wall, where the low dais with its collection of five ceremonial, carved-and-gilt oak chairs stood empty. His parents’ thrones had high, wide backs and elaborate embroidered cushions; Jensen’s and his siblings’ were lower and simpler, but still elegant. Jensen himself refused to sit there for anything less than the most formal occasions, having ordered a large round table arranged for the purpose of court business. It was a small eccentricity, but one most people understood.
He stood, stretched. Chancellor Lehne sidled up to him before he could make his escape.
“The man you found on the beach? I have had him placed in one of the guest rooms in the South Wing under guard until he is well enough to be on his way.”
“Thank you, Fredric.” Jensen smiled, but he could not help the thin blade-like edge that crept into his voice. “However, under the circumstances, having been the one who found him, I count myself responsible for determining his well-being.”
“You have other matters weighing on your mind, Your Majesty. Leave this tedious business to me.”
“Tedium is not at issue.”
“But-“
“That will be all for today, Chancellor.”
“Yes, my lord Prince,” Lehne replied smoothly, and withdrew.
Jensen knew that his advisor was right, that the last thing he needed right now was one more duty on his plate, but curiosity had him in its grip. He found himself wandering over to the South Wing of the palace where the staff had ensconced the stranger in one of the multitude of currently unoccupied guest rooms.
He immediately identified which room was his target by the two guards lounging against the walls on either side of the deep-paneled double doors. When they spied him approaching, the men quickly pulled to attention, but the one on the right was an old veteran of the palace guard and he threw Jensen a broad grin.
“’Mornin’, Your Highness. Come to check on the castaway?”
“Um…. Yes. Indeed.” Jensen hesitated, suddenly reluctant to go in. “Any news, James?”
“Well, he’s awake now. Seems harmless enough, but the poor kid’s apparently lost his voice. Can’t speak a word.”
“I see.” Jensen stared at the door for a moment, then turned to leave.
“Aren’t you going in, Sire?” the other guard asked.
“Oh. Of course. I should… greet our guest.” This was foolish. Why should he be nervous of an interview with some chance stranger? He set chin a bit higher as his men simultaneously swung open the doors, resolving to stay but a moment, assure himself of the man’s good health, and be on his way.
The room was typical of this wing of the palace, expansive and comfortable and low-ceilinged with a small bank of lead-paned windows facing the sea. Jensen observed that it was appointed with a writing desk and a cozy seating area of couch and two chairs and a strange claw-foot settee Jensen couldn’t recall seeing before, all set before a grate within which crackled a small fire, despite the mild weather.
The space was dominated, however, by a huge four-poster bed set against the near wall. It was a veritable confection of sunny yellows and pale pinks; the tufted curtains pulled back to reveal mounds of duvets and pillows reminded Jensen of a bowl of Italian sherbet. In the middle of this froth of bedding sat the stranger, propped up against the headboard and sipping from a steaming cup of what Jensen could smell was hot chocolate, his eyes closed in apparent ecstasy.
The sight of him brought Jensen up short.
He was even bigger than Jensen recalled from the beach, his hands wrapped around the mug of chocolate made it look like a toy doll’s, and his scandalously bare shoulders seemed to stretch the width of the huge bed. He wore his hair long as they did in his father’s and grandfather’s time-- rather than, as Jensen did, clipped fashionably short-- and it was tucked back behind his ears so that Jensen could clearly see the clean, striking lines of his face: sharp nose, dimpled chin, wide brow.
The three servants fluttering about at the bedside turned at Jensen’s arrival and immediately curtsied and murmured a chorus of “Your Highness,” despite Jensen’s standing order to leave off those kinds of formalities. He supposed it was for the benefit of their audience, and waved awkwardly at them to rise.
The stranger, too, seemed about to leap up at the sight of Jensen, but then realized he was as yet unclothed, and clasped the blankets up to his neck with both hands. A pink to match the pillows colored his cheeks.
Jensen felt like pinching himself. This? This is who washes up on the beach and ends up naked in one of Jensen’s beds? He must be dreaming. Or, given the week’s impending events, there was a strong possibility it was a nightmare.
Breaking the silence, he said, “I am Jensen, of the House of Ackles. I am the sovereign in this land. Welcome.” He immediately cut himself off. Jensen knew he tended toward sounding pompous when he got nervous, but this was ridiculous.
The man in the bed simply pointed to his throat and shook his head with an exaggeratedly rueful look on his face, then broke into a broad smile and extended his hand.
Jensen stared, first at the deep dimples that appeared along with the grin and then at the hand, strong and wide-palmed. There was a pause of several long seconds. Finally, one of the chambermaids leaned toward the stranger and, in an audible whisper, instructed, “His Highness doesn’t usually shake hands.”
The man simply shrugged and laid the hand over his heart instead, gifting Jensen with a neat bow of his head.
Jensen turned to Genevieve, who had spoken up, and asked her, “Is there no clothing available for our visitor?”
She bobbed another small curtsy in apology. “Nothing large enough to fit could be found in the general stores, Sire. We’ve sent for Gabriel.”
“Ahh. I see.” The eccentric little tailor would either have a field day with the challenge or a fit over being asked to work this project in with all the other chores he had at the moment. Jensen glanced back at the stranger, who was staring at him, wide-eyed and animated. Never been this close to royalty before, I imagine, Jensen thought. But the look on his face wasn’t awe. He was… beaming.
The door opened and everyone turned to see Misha, Jensen’s valet, stride in clutching a bundle of silk cloth. “Success!” he announced gaily, but then, noticing Jensen’s presence, skidded to a halt. “Hello, Sire.”
Jensen raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
Misha replied, “Just helping in the search for something for our large friend here to wear until Gabriel can whip something up with those magical needles of his.” The bundle turned out to be a pair of pajama pants and robe, which Misha laid out at the foot of the bed.
“I see,” Jensen repeated. He winced internally. Yes, he was certainly making quite an impression with his debonair conversational skills.
The girls and Misha huddled around the bedside while Jensen turned his head to gaze out the windows, giving the stranger the illusion of privacy as he slipped into the pajamas. Jensen really should leave now. The list of tasks that remained to be seen to yet this morning was longer than he cared to contemplate. He continued to try to convince himself to depart as he overheard Misha say, “I’m apologize that there’s no top to match. Well, there is one, but it would never have fit you.”
From the corner of his eye, Jensen saw the man blithely hold his arms out to allow Misha to drape a robe around his shoulders, for all the world as if he were accustomed to valet service. But he caught Jensen peeking, and with another slight blush, he twitched together the front edges of the robe to cover as much of his bare chest as possible.
Jensen made a show of turning his attention back towards the tableau around the bed; he would look where he liked, thank you very much. But as the man went to stand out of respect, he let out a sharp gasp and stumbled forward down to hands and knees, his face twisted in pain.
Impulsively, Jensen leaped forward, and was as shocked as his servants-judging by the looks on their faces-when he found himself crouched beside their guest on the floor, one hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Your Highness?” One of the attendants moved to come to their assistance.
“Never mind, Sophia. I have him.” Why didn’t he just let the servants help the man up? I’m the only one here strong enough. I don’t care if it’s unseemly.
Jensen heaved him up under one shoulder as best he could-the man was even taller than he’d looked lying down and seemed to be made of solid stone-and helped him limp over to one of the nearby chairs.
Once he was settled, Jensen asked, “Are you injured after all? What is the matter?” But the only response he received was a dismayed shrug.
Jensen watched as the stranger extended one foot and flexed it back and forth, wiggling his toes. He pressed on the smooth ball of his foot with his thumb, then stroked along the arch. He set his foot flat on the ground and applied some pressure, winced and stopped. After a moment, he squared his shoulders and returned his attention to Jensen. He lifted his hands, palms up, as if to say, I don’t know, either.
They stared at each other a moment, then Jensen cleared his throat. “Well then, how shall I address you? You cannot tell me your name-” Jensen glanced over at the gleaming cherry writing desk. He picked up a pen in one hand, gestured toward the inkpot in the other. “Perhaps you might write it?”
The man flashed another of his bright smiles, dimples winking, and held his hand out for the implement. He examined it for a moment, turning it this way and that, his brow furrowed slightly. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and stretched across Jensen for the stack of paper, inadvertently brushing against Jensen where he leaned on the desk, making all the hairs on Jensen’s forearm stand on end. He signed across the top of the blank white sheet with a flourish and extended it to Jensen eagerly.
Jensen glanced at it and then stopped to examine it more carefully, but the markings made no sense.
“I don’t understand.” The crisp paper rustled in his hands. “You can comprehend our language, but you can’t write it?”
The stranger’s face fell when he saw that he’d failed the task, and Jensen couldn’t resist reassuring him, “No, no! That’s fine. You’ll get along nonetheless. We’ll look for someone among the staff to instruct you in our style of writing, alright?”
Jared nodded and smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Jensen crossed his arms over his chest, tapping one finger against his lips in thought. “And we still are stuck with the difficulty that I do not know your name.”
The stranger stared at him intently, that absurdly mobile mouth pursed for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it, his eyes at last lighting up again, his mood constantly shifting like clouds on a windy day. He twisted to reach the desk where a breakfast tray still sat and picked up the earthenware container of orange marmalade. He spun back around and held it up for Jensen’s inspection.
“Yes?” Jensen asked, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
The man pointed one long finger insistently at the marmalade, the other to his own broad chest. His eyebrows quirked upward, inviting Jensen to guess.
“Jam? Jelly?”
The man threw his head back in a silent laugh, slapping one hand against his thigh. Jensen instantly longed to hear what it would sound like-loud and rich, he imagined. The man recovered himself, shaking his head and pointing again, this time indicating the vessel itself.
“Crock? Bowl? Pot? Jar?”
At the last one, the man lifted a hand, palm out, and nodded quickly, but then held up a single finger and scanned the room again. In quick succession, he pointed to a velvet chair cushion, a rose in a vase on the tray, and one of the attendant’s dresses.
“Red,” Jensen replied. “Jar-red?”
This inspired another small, soundless laugh, pink tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. Shaking his head, the man held his hands out about a foot apart and then brought them together as if he were squeezing an accordion.
Jensen tried again. “Jared?” He was rewarded with a pleased nod.
Jensen turned to servants, “Would you please arrange for someone to show Jared around the palace and grounds? He’s welcome anywhere he wishes to go.”
Jensen turned back to Jared. “Now we merely have to determine just where you came from and how you got here.” Jared blanched a little, expressive brow again wrinkling between the eyes. Jensen was intrigued.
He was considering how to press for information from someone who couldn’t answer much beyond a nod for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when Gabriel entered in a flurry of motion, nodding to each of them in turn. “Good morning, Your Highness. Ladies. Misha.” Jensen watched as Gabriel bustled over to the visitor-Jared-looking him up and down critically. “Hmmm, I see what all the commotion is about. Nothing I have will fit legs this long!”
At that, Jensen stood a shade too quickly and strode toward the door. “Well, I have much to do this morning,” he announced to the far wall, but then on impulse turned back to face Jared. “Shall you join me for dinner, sir?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the chambermaids exchange shocked glances. Jensen was notorious for insisting on dining alone unless he was obligated to entertain. Well, sometimes a man wants a little conversa-- a little companionship, he insisted to himself. Why is that so strange?
Jared nodded his head with puppyish eagerness and, as everyone else in the room executed the appropriate bow or curtsey, Jensen departed.
He couldn’t help throwing one last look into the room, watching the stranger-Jensen tested out the name Jared again, rolling it around in his mind-limp over to the bank of windows and fumble with the latch of the shutters, thrusting them open, flooding the room with the sound of rushing waves and the cold, fresh smell of morning.
*****
Jensen wandered back down the hallway toward the main staircase, trailing one finger along the horizontal groove in the polished wood wainscoting just as he’d done since he was a tiny boy and had to reach above his head to touch it.
His chamberlain, Kripke, intercepted him before he had made his way very far, gesturing anxiously to the ever-present sheaf of papers that comprised his to-do list in his hand. “Sire, the envoys from Mystische Fälle and Colline D'arbre have arrived early, both at the same time, and there appears to be some… controversy over precedence.”
As they continued on to Jensen’s offices in the main part of the palace, talking over the idiocies of nobility and diplomatic necessities and the various decisions that needed to be made immediately, Jensen relegated thoughts of Jared to the back of his mind. They didn’t stay there for long, however, as, over the course of the day, Jensen felt as if he saw Jared everywhere he looked.
*****
Lunch had probably been offered to Jensen several times, but if it had-between soothing diplomatic ruffled feathers, signing letters of credit, and approving musical programs for the next six formal dining occasions-Jensen had ignored it. As a result, sometime mid-afternoon his stomach began rumbling in an alarming and uncouth manner, sending him out of his office and across the sunlit courtyard. He could’ve very easily called for a tray, but he loved visiting the enormous expanse of rooms off of the main banquet hall that comprised the palace kitchens: long counters gleaming steel and rough wood, massive copper pots the size of bathtubs, banks of knives and ladles and implements of uncertain employ everywhere, cupboards and hidden nooks, the constant heavy aroma of fresh-baked bread, and ever-present staff members taking breaks with gossip and a cup of tea. Jensen regularly scandalized Chef by snatching a quick bite of breakfast or snack from one of the kitchen storerooms, so his presence there would cause no comment.
Coming out of one of the pantries-apple in one hand, cheese in the other-he spied Jared sitting on a stool amidst a large group of busy scullery servants. Without thinking, he found himself ducking back behind the door and peeking cautiously around to see what was going on.
Across the open expanse of slate floor he could see Jared’s hands busy with something, moving industriously back and forth. He was shelling peas alongside Richard, both of them picking the pods neatly apart and stripping out the insides into a pot, as the other staff busied themselves with their own chores, with a great deal more laughing and joking than Jensen was accustomed to observing when they knew he was there. Jensen saw Richard swat Jared on the shoulder, and Jared throw an empty pod at him. He saw Jared hop up to help Alona as she stretched in vain for something on one of the higher shelves; instead of reaching the item for her, Jared picked up Alona herself to reach it, his hands nearly wrapping full around her waist, lifting her several feet off the floor.
Jensen slipped away before he could be discovered.
Later, he caught another glimpse of his unexpected guest as he hurried by the main library on his way to an emergency meeting with the master of the shipyards. The library was a point of family pride, enormous, filled floor to ceiling with crumbling, ancient texts and modern works and more books than Jensen could read in three lifetimes, although as a child he’d gone through phases where he poured through books like it was a race.
The afternoon light shone through the windows as he strode past a set of the library’s glass-paned French doors, illuminating Jared sitting at one of the room’s ornate mahagony desks, stacks of books piled around him, head bent over a massive open tome. Chancellor Lehne was with him- oddly enough-which immediately triggered Jensen’s concern, and he almost turned back to defend Jared’s right to be there. Almost turned back, that is, until his brain caught up to the fact that he’d seen his advisor leaning over one of Jared’s broad shoulders, smiling encouragingly and pointing to something on the page. Jensen tried to remember whether Fredric had ever smiled so warmly at him.
At the end of the day, Jensen made it back to the refuge of his office, wrung out from dealing with so many people, all of their problems inevitably his. With no one watching him, he thumped gracelessly down onto the cushion of the window seat, scrubbing one hand over his face and using his off-hand to fumble at the latch and swing open the sash. He leaned his temple against the wall adjacent and strained to catch some sound of the sea. Instead, he heard someone talking down in the gardens below.
“You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on, save for the Prince, of course.”
Jensen was eavesdropping, he knew, but how was he supposed to resist that? He peeked over the sill of the window and saw Sandra, work gloves on, picking her way through the garden’s tract of rose bushes with a pair of shears. Behind her trailed Jared carrying a large flat basket piled high with fresh cut buds in pink and red. Even though he was wearing what appeared to be castoff clothes from Clifford in the smithy, the coat loose around the middle, the breeches cut all wrong, Jensen understood Sandra’s admiration. There was something in the way Jared held himself-head high, eyes bright-that drew the eye and caught it. He exuded strength and safety and an artless joy and… perhaps Jensen was more exhausted than he’d realized.
“You must sneak into the ball with me,” he heard Sandra continue. Jared reacted with a look of surprise.
“Oh yes, there’s to be a ball. Tomorrow night is the big one, and not much good to come of it if you asked me, as if all of us don’t know it already. But, oh Jared, if you come with me, think of it! All the foreign noblewomen will look at you and say, ‘Who is that dashing man? I do believe I’m in love and must dance with him, and my rich young son must marry the servant girl standing at his side.’”
Jared laughed silently and tugged at Sandra’s braid. He shook his head ruefully but then shot a glace up toward the second floor windows, where Jensen barely jerked away in time to hide.
He strained to keep listening, heard Sandra continue her one-sided chatter as she led Jared farther down the path in their work. “But it might happen! It does in all the fairytales. Besides, once Gabriel’s through dressing you, you’ll rival even Prince Jensen; all of us are helping him sew in our spare time. Please say you’ll come… or, rather, nod you’ll come.”
He heard the tinkle of her laughter fade as they turned the corner, and Jensen, foolishly, felt a little jealous. Jealous of how Jared could arrive out of nowhere, not a penny to his name or even the ability to speak, for god’s sake, and yet make friends with the entire palace. Jensen knew his staff were fond of him- after all, they’d either practically raised him or been raised alongside him-but he’d never had that easy way of ingratiating himself, of flirting or teasing people into laughter and admiration.
But, even more keenly, he was jealous that he was not the one on the receiving end of Jared’s attention. Here it was being showered around the palace and Jensen was left out, standing in the shadows.
This was madness, really; he knew he should send Jared away. His presence was a distraction, throwing off Jensen’s equilibrium at the worst possible moment. He should gift Jared with some funds, a formal escort, even find him a place in someone else’s court, if that’s what he wished.
But the thought of sending Jared away was like deliberately letting go of that last spar of wood and letting himself sink.
Jensen considered whether this was really about Jared at all. It was probably just a simple crush, a way for Jensen to distract himself from his duty, to hide in the fantasy of a beautiful, mysterious lover. It had been so long since Jensen had allowed himself to look with longing, allowed himself to want. When he’d been at the university, things had been so much simpler: discreet trysts with classmates, all noble-born and unintimidated by a second son from a trifling little country not much bigger than many of their outlying estates. Marriage awaited most of them at some point, they knew, but other kinds of relationships were accepted as part of the life of so many young men thrust together. It had been easy to find each other, moments of soft, quiet kissing under the stairs and drunken fumbling after a night of gambling, long nights fucking and getting fucked with no consequence come dawn.
Now, here at home, he was wholly encompassed by being Prince Jensen. So much was wanted of him, from him; the weight of ascending to rule, of continuing the Ackles’ line, pushed thoughts of a personal life out of his mind. Jensen found few opportunities for anything more than a quick, impersonal release, and even then, he was aware his lovers were often using him or, worse, allowing themselves to be used by him, for the favor he could provide.
Which brought his thoughts back around to Jared. The man was his guest, alone and unprotected, afflicted, with no means to protest mistreatment. Pursuing Jared would be an abuse of his power even greater than he already felt when bedding a willing partner.
Jensen shook his head, disgusted with himself. From what he’d observed in this short time, Jared appeared to gravitate toward women and would not welcome Jensen’s advances. And to top matters off, Jensen was not free to offer… anything. It was unthinkable, truly, and so Jensen resolved to think on it no more.
Jensen glanced over at the small porcelain clock that ticked away on his desk, then rose from the window seat. As he did every afternoon, he climbed the stairs from ground to first floor, taking a deep breath at the top of the landing to steel himself. With absent politeness, he acknowledged the respectful nods of another set of household guards as they opened a private door. Jensen entered, blind to the familiar luxurious tapestries and brocade bed-curtains, his footsteps echoing on the golden-tan parquet floor in the silence that suffused the dim room.
The attendant on duty-Danneel today- moved out of her chair at the bedside over to stand by the door in order to give him some privacy, and Jensen took her place on the velvet-cushioned seat, looking down at his father.
Every day Jensen came, and every day the King looked the same, as if at any moment he would sit up and rub his eyes and tease Jensen about his horsemanship or demand some coffee. But since the accident, he had neither woken nor spoken. He was fed and washed by servants, unresponsive to appeal, all of his plans for the county and his people and his son spinning into disarray under Jensen’s poor stewardship.
Jensen took the cool and unresponsive hand in his. “Papa. What am I to do?”
*****
Part 2 here | Part 3 here