The king was dead.
And a veil was drawn over the kingdom. There was no entertainment, no music,
and the citizens wore black clothing as befits the passing of a great
leader. But though the face of the kingdom showed great sorrow and mourning
there was no real pain felt by the people... except one.
The day that the prince had been born, his beautiful mother had started to
fade. Although his father sent for the most respected physicians in the
land, no cure could be found. From the day she died, the king refused to
even look upon the face of his son—as it caused him too much pain. The boy
was beautiful, looking so much like his mother that not a trace of his
father's features could be found in his countenance.
Before long, the king forgot that it was sorrow that caused him not to see
the boy. As his loneliness grew, so did his bitterness; and although his
birth had played little part in the queen's illness the prince was blamed by
his father.
As more time passed, the king spent more and more of his time drinking the
fine wines that were brought to him by rich merchants wishing him to find a
new bride in their daughters. The king, who had grown by now to hate his
son, would send for the boy in his drunken state, and would accuse him of
killing his own mother.
The boy bore this, for he could not help but feel guilty when he saw the
state of his father. Although he had been told by his nurse that he was not
at fault, he assumed the blame as his own, took the weight of sorrow on his
shoulders; for that was where his father said it belonged. And he cried each
night for the love of the good man his father had once been, the father he
had never known.
Then one night, when the king had been drinking longer than usual, he called
the boy before him. And he seized his chin in rough fingers and examined the
prince's face with blurry eyes.
"Why is it you look so much like your mother, boy?"
The prince held his tongue.
"Answer me! Is it because you are not my son?" The king turned away and then
spun back and slapped the boy across his face. "Your mother was a whore,
boy. You have no royal blood—you are nothing!"
And though the prince had remained silent for so many years, had let his
father call him all the names under the sun, he would not allow the man to
dishonour his mother. He sprang to his feet and ran toward his father, pain
in his heart, wishing only to stop the foul names that were pouring from his
father's lips.
But as fast as he was, his father's bodyguard was faster. The large man
stopped him before he reached the king, and held him still as his father
kicked him and punched him and screamed abuse... until the pain was too much
and he fell into darkness.
When he woke in the morning, hurting so much that even to breathe was a
painful effort, he blamed himself for being a bad son.
That was the last time that he spoke with his father.
His father never requested his presence more often than twice in one week,
and sometimes not for more than six months together. But it was only after
six days, when the bruises had mostly faded, that the king's bodyguard
brought a man in black before the prince and named him as his father's
murderer.
The prince was unable to feel anything. And this was the ultimate proof that
he had been a bad son, if he was unable even to grieve that his father was
dead. He felt hatred for the man that had taken his father's life, because
he had always held onto the hope that someday his father would forgive him,
would love him... and now that hope was irretrievably lost.
He stared with cold eyes at the man kneeling at the foot of his throne,
chained and held between two guards, and indicated to Skinner, his father's
bodyguard, that his hood should be removed.
As the black cloth was removed, the prince was unable to catch his breath.
He had expected heavy, scarred features that his picture books bestowed on
assassins and mercenaries. Instead, the face that was revealed was
beautiful.
The man's skin was alabaster pale, and his hair as dark as the hood that had
concealed him. But although his features were all equal and finely made, it
was his eyes that held the young prince captivated. They spat emerald fire,
the anger in them almost a physical presence that made the other man gasp.
And the prince felt a bolt of pure lust, stronger than anything else that he
had ever felt... and for that he hated the man even more.
"What would you have us do with him, my lord?"
The custom was to execute the man at dawn. He would be dressed in red, to
symbolise the blood of the man he had slain—and because the victim was of
royal blood the assassin's head would be displayed over the gate of the
palace as a warning.
"I didn't kill your father!" The outburst startled the prince, and the man
kneeling at his feet received a hard blow to his head for his impertinence.
He reeled, and almost fell... but his balance was scarcely held and he spat
at Skinner, the man that had hit him. As the bodyguard raised his arm for
another blow, the prince held up his hand.
"Tomorrow is a Holy day, Skinner. It is a suitable time for a state funeral,
one that all of our people will remember. It is not a day on which a
criminal should be executed—would you have us greet such a day with another
death?"
The bodyguard ground his teeth at the prince's measured words, eager to shed
the blood of the criminal.
"He will be brought to my chambers tonight—I wish to speak with him."
The bodyguard spared a hate-filled glare for the man on the floor, then
raised his eyes to meet his new master's once again.
"Yes, my lord."
The new king (how strange that sounded!) had never taken to leadership with
the easy manner of his father. He hated the idea that some people were more
important than others, that people could be owned. But something in the
older man's face disturbed him greatly and he summoned all of his father's
arrogance to him.
"You are not to touch him before then, Skinner. Do I make myself clear?"
The older man's face flushed darkly, and the look in his eyes showed his
intense displeasure with the order, but he merely nodded and left, taking
the prisoner with him.
The new king was distracted all day, startled whenever the servants
genuflected to him, not raising their eyes until he had passed by. Before he
had been largely ignored, and the life had suited him perfectly. He had been
free to roam the palace and gardens as he chose, and had spent many hours
undisturbed. Sometimes he had ventured into the kitchen, or the laundry, and
had spoken with the servants.
Now that was impossible, as only the highest ranking were permitted even to
lay eyes upon the king, let alone speak with him. When a young girl with a
load of washing had struggled past him, almost dropping it, he had instantly
gone to help. She had turned to thank him, but when she had seen his face
she had fallen to the floor, begging his pardon for remaining standing in
his presence. The poor child was terrified that he would have her executed.
So it was a long and lonely day. And his thoughts kept returning to stormy
green eyes, and a man that was not frightened by his authority.
So when night came he returned to his chambers, telling himself that he was
not eager to see the man that had killed his father, but knowing that he was
lying.
He was brought in, chained and dressed as before, but with a new cut on his
forehead. That was the only sign of mistreatment, however, and he chose to
ignore it rather than take it up with Skinner who had shown remarkable
restraint. The man was forced to his knees in front of the king, and the
servants left him there.
"Remove the chains, Skinner." The bodyguard stared at him, but
compliedAlthough he had considerably more privileges than most servants he
still would not disobey a direct order. At the prince's next request,
however, he balked.
"Leave you? With this... Majesty, are you sure this is wise?" The prince
frowned at the patronising tone in the older man's voice.
"Wise or not, I am the king. Would you refuse my wishes?" He hated the cold
voice he used, realising how much he sounded like his father at that moment-
but it seemed to work. The other man left the chambers, closing the door
behind him with more force than was necessary, and the prince was left in a
room with a killer.
Part II
"Have you eaten?"
The young man raised startled eyes from the floor to meet his, and the king
smiled slightly. He was pleased to have finally got a reaction from the
silent man who had just sat on the chair he had been shown too, never
raising his eyes from the floor. The hatred he had initially felt for the
assassin had receded, and now he was confused as to what he felt.
He was intrigued, certainly. He watched as the man hungrily tore into the
food that was placed before him, and wondered whether he had been fed at all
today. The other man noticed him watching, and he looked away from curious
green eyes.
When the other man had finished eating, he came and knelt once again before
the king. He bent his head and swallowed thickly, before looking back up at
the monarch.
"I am yours to command, lord." The low, husky voice was full of loathing,
and the king wondered what it was that the assassin thought was required of
him. And then he saw the other man's gaze flick to his crotch and away
again, and he felt sickened.
He had heard of what his father would do... what he would force his
prisoners to do, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. He'd spent so long
carrying around an idealised picture of his father in his head, but as he
had looked into his new responsibilities today, had removed his head from
the clouds and started to pay attention to the state affairs, the picture
had begun to disintegrate.
His father was irresponsible, selfish, had little time for the problems of
his people, and would rather let his ministers take care of affairs as he
spent his time with wine and women. The kingdom was in disarray. The people
were poor, the army was ill-equipped, and the harvests had been bad for the
past three years.
"Go back to your seat." His voice came out much colder than he had intended,
and he inwardly winced as the other man flinched. He had been so
tempted..."I require only your conversation. People fear execution if they
speak impudently to their king, and that is one fear I think that you will
not share. I want you to entertain me." The other man's eyes had widened,
and he stared in astonishment at the king.
"What would you have me speak about?" He could have spoken about anything,
and the king would have been enthralled, captivated by his every word. The
man's voice was beautiful, and he wanted to listen to it all night. And a
conversation would require thought...
"What is your name?"
"Alex."
"Alex... I would have you tell me a story. Perhaps if you amuse me I will
let you live." It was an idle promise, one that he knew his ministers would
not allow him to keep; and although it was against his nature to play with
someone so, he wanted this story. He told himself that it was just to hurt
his father's murderer more, torture him with false hope, but it wasn't
revenge that was holding him so captivated.
"Very well, my lord."
There was once a man. He was a good man, wise and beautiful, but there was
much sadness in his life.
Did he have a name?
Does he need a name? Then let us call him Fox. That was what his mother had
chosen to be his name, but he did not let anyone call him that. He called
himself Mulder, his father's second name.
What did he look like?
I will tell you, in time. I lose my story if I am interrupted. //Teasing in
the husky voice, a glint in emerald eyes.//
He was beautiful, as I said. He had a strong face, determined. His nose was
large, but it suited his face. His hair was golden and brown, soft to the
touch, and his eyes changed with his mood. Many people appreciated his
beauty, but he had never found anyone that could keep his attention. He was
easily bored, and though there were many beautiful people around him he
never found one that he could talk to as an equal.
He worked as a kind of guard. He was very clever at knowing what other
people were thinking, by the crimes they had committed. He was so perceptive
in this that many that had done wrong were rightfully punished. With those
around him, however, he was not so attuned. He had few friends, and spent
most of his time alone.
When Mulder was a child, his sister had been taken. For most of his life he
could not remember what had happened, but when he went to—a...a kind of
magician, I suppose, someone who could retrieve memories that were lost—he
learned that his sister had been taken by...
There was a bright light, and he wasn't able to move. His sister was taken
without hands carrying her. Mulder believed it was by men from the stars.
Then Mulder was crazy?
Perhaps.
Why have you stopped?
I'm sorry—I lost where I was.
You were telling of his sister.
Yes, of course. Samantha was her name. He teased her, as many brothers do,
but they loved each other dearly. When he found out what had really
happened, he chose to change the area in which he worked. Instead of looking
at instances of murder and theft, he started looking into cases which
involved mysterious disappearances, or strange lights, or faeries...
anything that the minstrels sing of, or that a child might hear from a
nurse.
Some of his work was making some powerful men nervous. Although he was now
thought of as strange, perhaps a little crazy //a grin// they feared that
people might start to listen to what he was saying and their secret works
would be revealed.
Secret works?
You shall see.
They wanted to stop him, but they could not tell him to stop for he was
stubborn and would become ever more determined. So they sent in a
partner..."
He talked long into the night, telling of bright lights and mosquito bites,
until the torches had been extinguished and the grey light of dawn was
filtering through the windows. King Fox never once took his eyes from the
animated face of the man who had killed his father.
... and the man took the small piece of metal and placed it in a large store
with many other things of the same type, things that most people would never
believe existed."
"Why was he hiding it?" There was a flash of interest within the prince that
had been missing for a long time.
"That is for later in the story. You would not have me give away the ending
now, would you?"
"Then tell me the rest!"
"It is late, majesty. Perhaps we should continue another night?"
"Very well." He rang the bell beside his bed, and told the servant to take
Alex to quarters not far from his own. It would be a long day tomorrow; many
important people would be arriving to pay their respects to his father. The
rest of the story could wait for tomorrow night.
Part III
The day dawned fine, and to the new king it seemed almost sacrilegious that
the sun should shine on such a day. But what reason would the Gods have to
mourn his father? He had ignored his sacred duties for so long that it was
no wonder that a drought had stricken the land.
Many local dignitaries and noblemen had assembled to pay their allegiance to
the new king, and he looked upon this duty as one of the least favourable he
must perform. The old men had openly disagreed with his father, having
little regard for his orders. Although they would bow to him and agree with
him and pay him pretty compliments there was not one amongst them that he
felt he could trust. Even among his father's advisors there were none he
liked. His father, as he had let the kingdom slide, had allowed one man in
particular more power than was wise.
Spender was old now, but he had control over affairs of state; and many of
the servants showed more allegiance to him than to their new king. The
previous day, as Fox had tried to learn more about the running of the
kingdom, he had frequently been told that he needn't worry about it. It was
under control. When he had asked a clerk to fetch him some documents, he had
seen the clerk turn his eyes towards Spender and the barely noticeable nod
the man had received in return. Spender was a problem that must be dealt
with, but for the moment he was a familiar face that reassured the people.
When he had been king for longer and the people were more used to his
authority, then he could begin to make changes.
The old man was waiting for him outside his chambers. As they walked
together to meet with the visitors, Spender informed the king of the order
in which the noblemen would greet him, the gifts he would be given, and the
appropriate response for each. And Fox carried out his instructions to the
letter, not wanting to rock the boat... until the last man approached him.
Although he was relatively the least important of the men before him, Fox
smiled genuinely at him. Akbar had been very close to his father, had taught
him when he was a young man. He had taught Fox in his turn, and the young
prince had always thought him the wisest man in the world. Akbar took an
interest in everything, and encouraged the same in his pupils. Fox had often
sneaked out of the palace to spend time with the old man, and his
granddaughter Dana had been his closest friend.
As the old man moved to kneel down, Fox hurried forward, taking his arm.
"There is no need for that. You may stand before me." A terrified expression
crossed his teacher's face, and he continued trying to sink to his knees.
Spender leaned toward the king.
"The penalty for not genuflecting to the king is death, Lord. Although we
may wish to make exceptions for the old or infirm, we are unable to do so."
Fox stepped backward, and watched unhappily as the old man sank painfully to
his knees and had to be helped back to his feet. He turned and whispered
harshly into his advisor's ear.
"Now that I am king there will be some changes, starting with that
ridiculous law." Spender didn't look away from the man in front of Fox, but
his eyes flickered.
"Yes, Majesty." And Fox could tell from his tone that he would not allow
these changes without a fight.
The day's activities passed without further incident. There were
entertainments planned for the evening—singers and dancers and minstrels
and poets, but Fox found himself wishing he could get away. He was tired of
thinking everything through before he spoke, tired of having to be polite,
and most especially tired of the obsequious way every single person spoke to
him.
They weren't scared of him. In a way, fear would be better. It would be a
real emotion, rather than the toadying that was inspired by his status. He
could see that they hated paying homage to a king so much younger than
themselves, and wished that they would show it... but they did know fear. He
saw it in the flickering glances toward his advisor, in the way that they
deferred to him. Although technically their positions far excelled
Spender's, they were afraid. What was it that he held over them?
Finally the last poet (a long-winded man that had compared his love to as
many precious stones as the king owned, at least) had finished. Then the
king stood, watching as the whole room bowed before him, and stalked off to
his chambers. He stopped briefly to speak to Skinner, then slammed the door
behind him. He didn't see the bodyguard stop to talk to an old man in the
shadows, nor did he see the considering look in Spender's eyes as the other
man left.
The king looked up as the door to his chambers opened. Skinner stood there,
frowning as ever. He nodded to the older man, and watched as Alex was led
into his presence. He watched in silence as the prisoner's chains were
removed, then nodded to Skinner who promptly left.
If possible, Alex was even more beautiful than he had been the night before.
Where he had been groomed and guarded, now he looked as though he had been
woken from a deep sleep. His hair was messy and fell in front of his face,
and his green eyes looked open and defenceless. He rubbed the sleep out of
them, and yawned, stretching sensuously in a way that sent a bolt of desire
to Fox's groin and a flutter of something else entirely in his stomach.
The king lowered his eyes, frowning. What did it mean? He couldn't be
feeling tender toward the assassin. It wasn't unreasonable that he would
feel lustful; the other man was beautiful and was most likely desired by the
majority of those he met. Besides, lusts did not have to be acted upon. Any
other emotion he had felt must be the result of the sentimental poetry he
had just heard, combined with too many sweetmeats.
This time it was Alex that sat among the cushions on the floor, with the
king curled up on the bed, watching him. And the prisoner told a story of a
military station, of a mysterious man that brought information, of lights in
the sky... and of a memory stolen.
When he had finished, he stood quietly, meaning to leave. As he reached the
door, the king's voice startled him.
"Did you kill him?"
There was no anger in the tone, and he turned to find hazel eyes focussed on
him. And he silently cursed the beauty of the peaceful face, a beauty that
had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
"Would you believe me if I told you no, Majesty?"
And he slipped silently from the room before the king could formulate a
reply.
It was a long time before the king could fall asleep, the grey light of dawn
shining on his troubled face.
Part IV
He was shaken awake barely half an hour later. Rough hands grasped his
shoulders, and he shook his head and opened his eyes. The pressure instantly
ceased, and he saw Skinner kneeling by the side of the bed, his head resting
on the floor.
"Forgive me majesty!" Although his voice was under tight control, Fox could
tell he was scared.
"What is it?" He tried to keep his voice as even as he could, but the little
sleep he'd managed to have had been riddled with bad dreams. The other man
cringed a little at the impatience in the king's voice, but he raised his
head and stared at the king.
"Lord, I thought you should know that Spender has taken your prisoner to be
executed. I thought perhaps you would wish to be there."
//So this is diplomacy.//
And then the full import of the man's words hit him. The panic he felt froze
him in place for an instant, then he leapt out of his bed and sprinted from
the room.
The rising sun echoed in hue the blood red of the prisoner's clothes. He was
led to his place by two men dressed all in black, hoods protecting their
anonymity. And even though he knew that in a few minutes he would be dead,
his head was held high.
He was forced to kneel, and his head was laid upon the block. The man
standing to his left tied his head in place, while the other unsheathed a
sword that reflected the light so that it looked like it was already stained
with blood. And the man in the shadows smiled thinly, enjoying the power he
held.
The sword was raised.
The kneeling man closed his eyes.
"Stop!"
The king stalked toward his advisor, his intense anger forming an almost
visible cloak around him as the other man watched his approach.
"You have taken too much upon yourself this time, Spender. I did not give
the order for this man to be executed, nor did I wish it so. How dare you
presume to make that decision on my behalf?"
The old man's tone was humble as he replied, almost cringing. "My most
heartfelt apologies, Majesty. Your father never wished to be bothered with
such..."
"My father is no longer ruling this kingdom, Spender." His eyes slid to Alex
as he said this, but he was surprised that there was no accompanying flash
of anger. "You would do well to remember that."
"Yes Majesty." The old man bowed deeply before him, and he turned away in
contempt, ordering Spender's men to release the prisoner—so he didn't see
the look of intense hatred that was focussed on his back before the advisor
returned to the shadows he had emerged from.
Alex knelt before him, and he gestured to Spender's men that they were to
leave him alone with the prisoner.
He felt weak with relief—he had barely been able to stop from shaking with
reaction as he had confronted Spender. If he had been too slow... if Skinner
hadn't woken him...
This was more than lust. He had felt lust before—he was the prince, and had
frequently acted upon it, bedding those of either sex that caught his fancy.
But never before had he felt so intensely about anyone—not even Dana, and
for years he had been convinced that he had loved her. This was so much more
than the brotherly warmth that he felt toward her, more than the heat in his
stomach and groin that had been ignited by beautiful men and women that
never refused him.
This felt like it would kill him, so intense was the feeling. Every time
green eyes met his, his heart twisted in his chest and he couldn't catch his
breath. And the thought that he had almost lost him...
"Thank you, my Lord."
The husky voice sent shivers down his spine. And he shook his head in denial
of what he was feeling—this man was an assassin. A hired killer. The beauty
in his face as he told stories was irrelevant. He had taken away the only
family that the king had had.
"Make no mistake—I saved you only so you might finish the story. When it is
done you will be executed." His voice was like ice. And he spun on his heel
and walked quickly away, ignoring the pain in his heart, the stinging in his
eyes.
He left the palace that morning, hiding his face beneath the hood of an old
brown cloak that was too hot for the weather but would serve its purpose. He
could have gone with a retinue, trumpets blaring, and spoken uneasily under
the eye of his bodyguards, but he missed the way she spoke to him.
She always told him exactly what she thought of him. That was one of her
most attractive features. And she laughed at his jokes, the genuine laugh of
a friend; not a laugh that was forced, one eye on a man in the shadows,
making sure it was appropriate. And if she didn't think it was funny she
would say so.
He had missed her very much. It had only been a little more than a week
since he had seen her, but with everything that had happened it felt like
years. He needed to talk to someone he knew wouldn't report back to Spender.
He needed someone else to tell him that what he was feeling wasn't love,
that that was ridiculous. He needed to back up the voice inside that he was
having more and more trouble believing.
There was genuine joy on Dana's face as she opened the door to him, and Fox
almost wept. She beckoned him in and shut the door behind him, grabbing him
into a huge embrace as soon as it had clicked closed.
"I'd bow, but it's my knees..."
"Don't even joke about it. I hate that everyone bows to me." Something must
have been audible in his voice, because suddenly her face stilled, became
serious.
"What was it you wanted to talk about, Fox?"
"Not here."
He led her up the stairs and out onto the flat roof, a place they had spent
many happy hours in their childhood, the then teenaged Skinner often
watching over them. Fox remembered that he had always seemed old before his
time—he had been trained by his father from a very early age, and had had
to grow up fast when the older man was killed protecting the king. He had
usually been staid and solemn, watching them from a distance, but sometimes
Dana had taken pity on him, encouraging him to join in their play. And when
he loosened up he could be great fun.
They sat in the shade of the wall circling the roof, and for a while there
was silence. That was another good thing about his friend—she knew when to
give him space. But before he had even become to assemble his thoughts into
some kind of order he was pouring out his heart to her, trying desperately
to hold in the tears that were threatening to fall.
"Well there goes my chance of marrying royalty." Her mouth smiled, but her
eyes reflected the pain he was feeling. "Oh Fox. You really know how to pick
them." And the tears were running down his cheeks and she leaned over and
held him, just like when they were five and he had scraped his knee. And she
stroked his hair, loving the man who was still half the boy he had been, and
wishing she could spare him from himself.
Part V
He returned to the palace drained, and no easier in his mind than when he
had left. But even though nothing had changed, even though there was no
resolution to the war that raged inside him, he felt a little better. Dana's
calming influence was like a draught from the court physicians—the pain had
not entirely gone, but it had faded for a time.
Unwilling to enter the palace, to take up his duties once more, he found
himself walking in the garden. Specifically, his feet led him to the
beautiful flower gardens that had been his mother's pride and joy. They were
tended now by the gardeners, and although the servants were hardworking and
diligent, theirs was not a labour of love. It showed. The flowers were still
beautiful, but lacked the radiance they had held when she had been alive.
Even though the rest of the kingdom had almost forgotten, the flowers were
still in mourning.
There was a low bench in this garden, almost hidden by the bushes
surrounding it. Sometimes she had brought him here and told him stories, and
as he sat there he remembered the light that had come into her face as she
took him to a world inside her head, peopled with faeries and djinns and
flying carpets.
After a time, without opening his eyes, he sensed a presence.
"Skinner."
A quick indrawn breath, and then silence.
"Come, Skinner."
He opened his eyes to see the man standing before him. Then the other man
blinked, as if remembering, and started to kneel.
"Please don't. I've known you long enough that we needn't stand on ceremony.
If Dana can stand before me, there is no reason you can't." The king watched
with interest as his friend's name brought a slight flush to the older man's
cheeks, but chose not to mention it. Skinner would not thank him for drawing
attention to his embarrassment.
"I wanted to thank you. Spender has too much power for anyone's good, and I
must enforce to him that he is to consult with me over such things. I
appreciate your intervention."
"That is not why I woke you." The voice was quiet, but the brown eyes
focussed on the king showed determination and even anger.
"It wasn't?" Intrigued, he gestured that Skinner should sit beside him, and
the older man grudgingly did so. The king turned to face him. "Then why...?"
"I cannot speak of it here." Now his voice was barely a whisper. He spoke
fast, hardly moving his lips, and the king had to strain to hear him. His
mind raced, trying to fathom what could possibly have scared the bodyguard,
and only one person seemed to fit the bill. But what had Spender done?
"I will be visiting Dana tomorrow, Skinner. I wish you to accompany me
there. That is all." The bodyguard nodded, understanding in his eyes, and
left as silently as he had approached. Once he had disappeared, the king
rose too... and sensed rather than saw a flash of movement to his left. He
turned his head, but there was nothing to be seen.
The king was very tired, having slept little the night before, but his mind
was racing. He would not be able to sleep, so he sent for Alex. A story
would calm him. That was the only reason for his request.
Alex was brought in and looked much as he had the first night—perhaps a
little paler, a little more still... he resembled more than ever the
beautiful, emotionless statues that decorated the palace. And he sat as
usual and started his story, telling this time of a man that could stretch
his body and fit into small spaces.
The king walked around the chambers as Alex wove the story, the eyes of the
younger man not focussed on the monarch this time but on the hands clasped
before him. Eventually Fox calmed enough to sit on his bed once more, and
the stillness attracted his prisoner's attention as his movement had not.
Faltering in his story, he looked up to meet hazel eyes that were focussed
on his face and stopped entirely.
And the moment stretched, lasted forever, but was over too soon. For Fox,
nothing existed but pools of beautiful green that seemed wise beyond their
years. He felt that Alex knew him better than anyone else ever could, saw
all his secrets; and he felt himself falling into bottomless green... but the
spell was broken as Alex blinked, turned his eyes away. The younger man
cleared his throat.
"I...I'm sorry. Where was I?"
"Tooms was climbing the wall of a house."
Alex continued with his story, but the king was distracted by the memory of
one moment that had felt like home.
Once the story was finished, Alex rose to leave.
"That is not the end of the story?"
"No, Lord. But dawn is approaching, and the rest can be told another night."
He turned again, but faltered at the door. "Shall I send a servant to you,
to make you ready for bed?"
"It is late now. I can look after myself."
"I could... could brush out your hair for you?" The query was softly voiced,
and the king looked at the other man to find him apparently occupied with
the sleeve of his tunic. And he wanted to refuse, wished with all his might
that he could resist the beautiful man, but...
"Thank you, Alex."
It was torture. The soft strokes always soothed him when it was one of the
servants, but when it was Alex... the soft touch of the brush was hell, and
when the younger man's hand brushed his neck... he was more aroused than he
had ever been in his life. And he wished that the petting, the languorous
strokes could last forever, and at the same time he wished the other man far
away from him. Wished they had never met. But that didn't stop the sigh of
regret that left his lips as the task was finished.
And for a moment the brush was replaced with Alex's hand, stroking over the
surface of his hair... and then the unmistakable soft brush of lips.
Fox spun in his seat, staring up at the man behind him. And their faces were
so close, green eyes staring directly into his, that he closed his eyes,
waiting for a kiss that never came. Instead he was left with the slam of the
door to his chambers and a state of painful arousal. It was a long time
before he slept.
Part VI
He dreamed that night of a craft that took him to the stars. At first he was
amazed by the beauty of the things he could see from the window. There were more
stars than he had ever imagined, and each one was as beautiful as the last.
There were star men in the craft with him, but they let him be, more interested
in their own activities than in his presence. And it was so refreshing not to be
the centre of attention, but he was intrigued as to what could draw them away
from the beautiful sight that so captivated him. He walked over to where they
stood, towering over the largest of them, and when he saw what it was that held
their attention he froze.
Alex knelt on the ground in a pit. And although they were in a craft far above
his home, it was as if Alex was in the courtyard outside the palace. His clothes
were red, but not this time from expensive dyes. Skinner was standing over him,
holding a bloodstained dagger, and Fox could see that the prisoner's clothes
were cut through in several places. And Skinner looked sickened by what he had
done... but he hadn't stopped. Until he was told.
He backed away, sorrow in his eyes, but not regret. He felt that he was right.
And he would always do what he had to, no matter how much it hurt. That was who
he had been trained to be.
This time it was Spender that held the sword. And as he brought it up over his
head, as it reflected a million stars, he looked into Fox's eyes and smiled.
Alex sat in his quarters, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth. The
second he started to hope he'd be...
The second he had started to hope he'd been lost. And it was tearing something
inside, something that hadn't been allowed to feel in years and was suddenly set
on fire. He almost wished that Fox hadn't intervened, and that he'd been allowed
to die.
This wasn't part of the deal. He'd been told to take the blame, and that when
they tried to execute him they'd find he'd mysteriously disappeared. He'd been
told that he'd get enough money to pay off his father's debts. He'd been told
that his mother would have all the medicine she'd need. He'd been told they
could start a new life.
He hadn't been told about stories. He hadn't been told about being led out at
dawn, and kneeling in the dust, and not being able to say goodbye. He hadn't
been told...
He'd known that the king was beautiful. And he'd seen for himself, from the
safety of the passages that ran through the palace, undetected. Even with
bruises and cuts he was beautiful. And every time Alex saw him there was
something new he noticed, some new expression that changed his perception of the
man. And then he'd appeared, like an avenging angel, flames in his hazel eyes.
And for an instant he'd thought that the anger was aimed at Spender because of
him, and he'd felt on top of the world.
And an instant later his insides had twisted and he'd wanted to die as the king
revealed precisely how worthless Alex was to him. And the worst of it was that
he'd known. All his life he'd known it. It was the hope that killed... one
single instant of hope that could destroy what it had taken a lifetime to learn.
This wasn't part of the deal. Nothing was supposed to change.
The harsh call of a bird made him jump almost out of his skin, and Skinner
laughed loudly. Outside the palace, he was returning to the person Fox
remembered he had once been—not endlessly thinking of his duty, or what was the
most diplomatic thing to do, the mostappropriate, but doing what he chose. It
wasn't an immediate change—he stopped laughing quickly, flushing and looking at
Fox from the corner of his eye—but Fox liked him better already. He grinned
widely at the older man and Skinner couldn't prevent a smile in return.
They moved quickly through the back streets, the few people that they met
falling to their knees and making Fox wish he had worn the cloak, after all. He
made a mental note to talk to Spender about revising that law.
Even as he thought this, a woman caught his eye. She was fading now, but she had
handsome features and would have been beautiful in her youth. Her hair and eyes
were midnight black, and she gave him the coldest look he had ever received. She
did not fall to her knees before him, but merely stood, staring, as he and
Skinner walked past. He turned to his companion, confused.
"Skinner, did you see that..." he pointed, but she had gone.
He remained silent for the rest of the journey, only smiling vaguely whenever
Skinner spoke to him. He took no notice of his surroundings, and was startled
when Skinner knocked on the door in front of them.
Dana answered, making elaborate shushing gestures.
"My grandfather is not feeling well, and I think it would be best for him to
sleep for a while." Fox expressed his concern, and Dana smiled warmly at him.
"I'm sure it is nothing more than the eggs he ate last night. As he gets older,
his stomach becomes more delicate. He will be fine, Fox."
They spoke in low voices, and she beckoned them up to their old accustomed place
on the roof, Skinner standing uneasily at first, but soon joining them to sit on
the bundles of old sacking that had served their purpose for many years.
When they had been young, they had spoken of important things. New toys and
games, the new dress Dana's grandfather had bought her... they had spoken of how
they would be friends forever, how Fox would marry Dana and they would all live
together in the palace. Now they enquired after health and then fell silent,
uneasy in the presence of the ones they had once shared everything with.
It was here that Dana had given them each their first kiss, Fox screwing up his
face and poking out his tongue immediately after, and Skinner blushing to the
roots of the hair he'd once had.
Here they had shared stories of their first loves, Fox and Dana giggling like
the children they still were while Skinner even then became distanced, his duty
forcing him into a man's role before they were ready to stop their play.
Here now they sat silently, unsure of their new roles. Fox and Dana had always
remained close, but the presence of Skinner was stilling their tongues; Fox was
unsure how his status should affect his speech and actions now that he was in
the presence of someone that could report him to Spender and would not hesitate
to do so.
Part VII
Spender watched as Skinner accompanied the "king" through the palace gates. The
damn fool was so trusting, willing to put his life in the hands of one of the
old man's many associates, purely because they'd been friends once upon a time.
As if that had any bearing. Once upon a time, Spender had been friends with
Fox's father.
He waited a while after they had left, wanting to be sure that the coast was
clear before he left. The young king had been showing too much of an interest in
his activities of late, and knew that he was not on any official business that
required him to visit the town today. So he waited in one of the flower gardens
until he judged sufficient time had passed. He stroked soft petals absently. She
had always loved it here.
He was wary as he made his way through the streets, but it was too early in the
morning to see many people. Those that did see him dismissed him as unimportant
due to the dull clothes he wore, so distanced from his usual finery that he had
had trouble recognising himself in the glass. He walked past familiar houses,
wondering how many times he had made this journey over the past twelve and a
half years. Too many for his liking. He would have done much worse to ensure the
position of power he had worked so hard to earn, the trust the old king had
allowed him, but concealing past indiscretions for an ungrateful monarch was
distasteful. This one in particular, though... he smiled thinly. It would prove
advantageous.
He looked around quickly, with jerky, birdlike motions, before knocking on the
well-known door. It opened before him, and a handsome woman—with midnight eyes
as black as her hair—stepping back to allow him entry.
"To what do I owe this visit then, gentlemen?" Dana's tone was slightly mocking,
but openly curious. She looked from one man to the other, her eyes lingering a
little longer, perhaps, on Skinner's frowning face. Fox glanced at the older man
inquiringly. The guard avoided both their glances, looking down and pinching the
bridge of his nose.
"I swore to protect the king with my life. As part of that, I feel that it is
part of my duty to warn the king should any threats to his person or rule
emerge." The other two both frowned at him, confused. He fixed them with an
intent gaze from under lowered brows. "I have received intelligence from an
anonymous source that there is dissent among the noblemen of the kingdom."
"I was already aware of that, Skinner." Fox interrupted. "I don't see that I had
to be brought here to be told something that is quite obvious to anyone who
hears them speak to me." He smiled a little bitterly.
"With all due respect, sire, I think you underestimate my position in the chain
of command. I am in receipt of information that may be considered too sensitive
to become common knowledge, and I fear that you are too dismissive of a very
real possibility of mutiny." The quiet intensity of the man's words scared Fox a
little, and he bit his lower lip. "There has been much talk about the fact that
you are young to rule, that your experience is limited."
"I have been legally old enough to rule since I was thirteen, Skinner."
"And perhaps they would have preferred your father to die then!" The loud
exclamation caught their attention as nothing else had. "You are young enough to
be impulsive, to feel it worthwhile to make changes, to not put the importance
on tradition that an older man would. And yet you are still too old to be easily
controlled, to obey without question the choices of your advisors."
"What am I to do, then? Is there any intelligence on who these dissenters are,
or what they plan to do?"
"As yet, majesty, the information is limited. I am looking into it, but the best
advice I can give you at the moment is to be on your guard at all times. Keep
Spender close, as he is someone they all respect and are willing to deal with.
But...trust no one, sire." With that, the large man bowed briefly to Dana and Fox,
then turned and left. Fox stared after him for a moment, then turned to his
friend who was still staring after the bodyguard.
"What did you make of that?"
"Hmmm?" She glanced at him, then seemed to focus. "I don't know, Fox. He seems
genuinely concerned for your welfare. His advice is sound, but there's
something... strange about what he said. Why did he tell you to trust Spender,
then changed his mind in his next breath?"
"Perhaps he meant not to trust anyone outside the palace." Unbidden, an image
with dark hair and emerald eyes rose in his mind. "There are likely those within
that can't be trusted, either," he said softly.
Skinner returned to the palace, and it was no real surprise to him when he
entered his quarters to find Spender waiting for him.
There was an undefinable aura about the old man. He had an air of complete
confidence, so much so that even if you found him uninvited in your private
rooms, going through your belongings, it was you that felt out of place. You
would probably apologise to him and back out, before you even realised that he
shouldn't be there.
This time he was only sitting in one of Skinner's chairs; but the younger man
knew that the only reason Spender was not reading through his correspondences
was because he already knew their contents. Skinner knew better than anyone how
many "associates" the old man had, how high in status some of them were. They
included servants from the kitchens, gardens, bedchambers, the majority of the
king's advisors and clerks... the king's personal bodyguard.
"What do you want?" He almost growled, not bothering to hide the intense dislike
in his tone. He gave the chair a wide berth and made his way towards the large
chest that stood at the end of his bed.
"Merely to congratulate you on a job well done, Mister Skinner. I trust that the
king will now have difficulty trusting anyone who may misguidedly choose to
offer him assistance, despite my instructions to them. Anyone who mistakenly
believes that one man can be more important than the kingdom."
"Yes, sir." He almost spat, hating the control the other man had.
"And the prisoner?"
He turned, staring at the old man incredulously. "What does he have to do with
anything?"
"Alex has certain... talents... that I would be unwilling to lose. I trust that you
are treating him well, and that the king continues to make use of his services?"
"Yes."
The old man smiled. "Good. I'm sure that Alex can work his way into the king's
affections, and it's always useful to have a man on the inside, as it were." And
he rose and left, but Skinner felt like he had left a stench behind him, an
intangible reminder of his control.
Part VIII
Fox froze, feeling like someone had poured cold water down his spine. Even
as he backed away, concealed himself behind a pillar, he realised how
ridiculous his actions were. This was his palace, and he could go wherever
he chose to. But as he saw Spender exit Skinner's chambers, saw him walk
hurriedly away—something felt wrong. There was nothing so very strange
about his advisor seeking out his bodyguard, but...
He didn't trust Spender. Although it was wise to keep him close, to use his
expertise, Fox thought it wise to remain guarded around him and those that
worked for him. Apparently that now included Skinner.
It hadn't been until he had been making his own solitary way back to the
palace that he had realised that Skinner that he had realised that the man
had never even answered his question, the reason they had gone to visit Dana
in the first place. Why had he woken Fox the morning
before? He had thought it was an honest mistake—he'd forgotten about it
himself—but now it seemed there was a motive. There was nothing to suggest
that, but Fox trusted his instincts. He vowed to be more careful around
Skinner in future.
He hadn't intended to send for Alex that night, had thought that distance
was best. If he ignored the other man for long enough he could find someone
to drive thoughts of sable hair and emerald eyes from his thoughts, could
hear the rest of the story in a peaceful state of
mind. But the sun had barely moved from directly overhead when he found
himself calling one of the servants to him.
"Fetch the prisoner to me." The servant girl didn't move, her eyes downcast
to the floor she was kneeling on. "Did you hear me?"
"Sire, at this hour Mister Spender visits the prisoner. He gave orders that
they were never to be disturbed." She looked up then, and seeing the furious
expression on the king's face she cringed.
"Take me to him." She shivered at the cold, dead words, and stood; almost
running in her hurry to leave the king's presence. As soon as they reached
the door to Alex's room she scampered away, leaving him staring at the plain
wood.
It was nothing like the inlaid doors that opened to his quarters, with their
beautiful designs. He had rarely been to this part of the palace, as it
lacked in the beauty that decorated the rest. Few of the servants ever came
down here, and the libraries were the other side of the large
central courtyard—so his narrow life had never required his presence here.
The first thing he heard when he pushed open the door was Alex's voice. It
was almost unrecognisable to him. He had heard him animated when telling
stories, husky with nerves, full of loathing... but this was different
entirely. His voice was silky, almost seductive, but
underlying it was a hatred so intense that it made the hairs on the back of
his neck stand on end.
For the first time, Fox actually believed this man capable of killing. He
hadn't even realised that he hadn't accepted the reality of it, but now he
knew that this man could have murdered his father.
The voice was not coming from the room in which he now stood, but rather
from the chamber beyond. The interconnecting door was ajar, and Fox could
hear every word.
"I've done what you asked me. You didn't tell me about this. You said that
you'd let me go."
"And I fully intend to do so, Alex." That was unmistakably Spender. He
sounded as he always did—coldly amused and faintly patronising—you
entertain me, so I won't crush you just yet. "However, the king seems to
have taken a liking to you. It is an... interesting development, and we would
be fools not to exploit that...
Unless. Perhaps you would rather we moved our plans forward? There are still
six months until we can officially carry out the necessary arrangements, but
I'm sure the noblemen would be willing to argue amongst themselves until
that time..."
"No!" Alex's voice cracked out like a whip. Fox could almost hear him try to
collect himself, and when he spoke again his voice was calmer. "I'll stay."
"So protective, Alex?" The old man's voice was mocking, but there was an
undertone of satisfaction in his voice that Fox didn't like. "Very well
then. We will go forward as planned." His voice approached the door that
separated them, and Fox silently started to back out of the room. "Oh, and
Alex? Your mother sends her love." As Spender came through the door and
locked it behind him, Fox left the room and hurried down the corridor;
barely hearing the muffled thud of Alex's fists connecting heavily with the
door he was imprisoned behind.
He sent for Alex as soon as soon as the sun had disappeared behind the
horizon. He had refused entry to the servants that had come to light the
torches, so when Alex curled up on the cushions he could barely see the
beautiful face that haunted his thoughts. But hearing the husky voice coming
out of the deepening darkness just seemed to heighten the sense of unreality
that had presided all day.
It was so hard to believe that there was a conspiracy within his own home.
He wasn't even sure what it was that he'd heard. Even when he thought he was
alone, Spender spoke in cautious terms—the eternal diplomat, committing to
nothing that could damage him in any way.
As he thought, he suddenly registered that there had been an ending to the
story he had barely listened to.
"That is not the end?"
"No, sire."
"But I must wait for another night to hear the rest?"
"Am I becoming so predictable?" He could hear the smile behind the words,
and was glad that he couldn't see it, that the other man couldn't see the
effect he had on the king, the power he held.
He heard the rustle of the cushions as Alex stood, but heard not a sound
until a beam of light fell across his face from the corridor behind the open
door.
"Alex?" The silhouette halted, its hand on the door.
"Yes, sire?" Soft, barely heard.
"You will come to me in the afternoon tomorrow, as soon as my advisor has
left you. The servants will know where I am."
The prisoner's head bowed, and he left closing the door behind him and
leaving the king alone in the darkness.
To be continued...
Teach Me To Sleepwalk
by Beth
Part I
