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This has been six months in the making. Finally, it's done.
Title: Of Strange Princes
Fandom: Original
Warnings: slash
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~20K
A strange Prince, a rough soldier, and a meddling King: can a murder assignment not evolve, against all odds, into bloodshed?
Tarq stared at his drink mulishly, fingers scratching the stained wood of the bar. The pub was dark, smelling of stale beer and vomit and matching his mood perfectly. Gods, this was so messed up.
Tarq scowled at his empty glass and slammed it on the suspiciously soiled counter. “Another!” Drinking would surely not erase the day’s events, but it certainly would make them bearable for a few more hours. He could push them away and think about them only in the morning.
Because signing up for the Knights Forces… He certainly hadn’t signed up for this. Eleven years in training before his ten-year stint as a Knight and at his Majesty’s every bidding and whim did not prepare him to have a conscience.
Which is why he was currently trying to drown it with alcohol.
It is true he had never seen the King’s appeal, Tarq mused. While his father had insisted on giving him the best of his knowledge in regards to fights and swords and fighting with swords, he was but a lone scholar. A lone and bright scholar, since he had encouraged Tarq’s sharpness with his mind as much as the sharpness of his blades. His father had continuously defied Tarq’s reasoning, always asking his son why and having him defend his choices, even when he was as young as six and had just taken up fencing.
Tarq supposed his father had enjoyed talking to death. And he had. He had been speared while taken hostage, because he had deemed it possible to negotiate with his captors. They had apparently indulged him at first, but then the arguments had hit a little too close to home. And their blades had not missed his father’s lungs.
A very slow way to die… Befitting of a powerful scholar who questioned the new King’s rulings a little too closely. Tarq had no more illusions: not about his father’s death, nor about his current position. He was strung up high, a sacrificial lamb (he should more likely be labelled as a wolf, what with the kills to his name,) set to die at any stray. Because he was still paying for his father’s impudence, you see, as the young King had made him understand when Tarq had been made to enter the Knights Forces at thirteen. ‘Take a sword and battle in my name to regain your lost honour, boy, or I‘ll see to it you have no respect left. There will be no traitors in our ranks.’
Ha.
Tying his life to that of his father’s debt… The King was cleverly cunning. Tarq’s spirit had been dulled at first, so consumed he was by the shame of his name. He had fought in battles almost to the death, only luckily coming back with all his limbs and drenched in his foes’ blood and entrails. Killing enough of the enemy had to amount to something, didn’t it? It had to make up for whatever mistakes his father had committed, even in his bespectacled and innocent ways-- Tarq had never seen his father wield a physical weapon.
And it had only dawned on him a few years later, when a few of his soldier comrades had dragged agonizing enemies from the battlefield, covered in filth and blood. They had had their way with them, right then and there, desecrating the still warm bodies with lustful cries, mixing blood and semen on small boys.
Tarq was fifteen and the boys looked to be twelve. Their eyes were empty, and if the battle hadn’t broken and killed them, their ordeal had finished them.
The sixteen-year-old soldiers had been laughing, and the Knight supervising the cleanup had just patted them on the head benevolently. While they were thrusting in little boys bleeding to death.
There is no greater weapon than the mind. The Knights Forces had been indoctrinating them, and the memory of his father had come back to Tarq like a slap in the face. Why, tell me why I should let you do this, Tarq. What do I gain by indulging you? Never accept anything uncritically, especially if you haven’t chosen it. Many a time had Tarq challenged his father, and sometimes (rarely, and only if he used proper arguments) did he override an educational decision: learning how to correctly bandage wounds had been so much more helpful than the cookery lessons his father had had scheduled; what had his sire been thinking? Even today, Tarq couldn’t fathom.
Well, he could, on a gut level: were he not living in the castle and at the expense of the King, he would find himself in dire straits indeed.
But he was straying; that was unlike him. Suffice to say he had spent quite a few subsequent gruelling weeks, angry on the training grounds, sweating out the newfound strain on his mind that challenged what his existence had become.
He had been left aghast when the supervising Knight had indicated the Knight Council, presided by the King, was extremely proud with his progress, but channelling the obvious rage in their enemies would be more productive. What he had witnessed should be taken as an example in breaking the other side, and Tarq should strive towards being in touch with his anger so he could convey it in that way. All the Knights had it in them, and he strived to become a full-fledged Knight, didn’t he, and make his Majesty forgive his father’s ignominy.
Truly, there was no greater weapon than the mind and the infinite manners in which it could be played. And Tarq thanked his father every day for the decade they had shared, for it was a game he had learned could be played both ways. He had yet to succumb; ten years had passed since his enlistment and finally he had been knighted officially, with no rapes or torture to his name but twice as many kills as his peers.
It had taken longer but he had not lost his spirit, only misplaced it for a few years before coming back to his senses.
And now the King was threatening the balance again.
“We’re closing. Out with you lot!”
Groggy, Tarq got up and swayed, but only a little. All this musing had only distracted him from getting totally plastered, damn the Gods. Now all he had left was his bed, then the morning.
And in the morning, Asrar.
It wasn’t just another of King Mayyar’s twisted machinations, Tarq was sure of it. This had the unpleasant taste of someone who had been pushed over the edge after too many years flirting alongside it: and while Tarq could somewhat understand the King’s reasoning in that particular matter, it certainly did not mean the behaviour was to be condoned. It was the first step to all rulers’ madness-- the greed for more power, and utter control over that power.
Back when King Mayyar had looked relatively attractive as the young ruler of a rising territory (even if his looks did not match his thirst for land,) he had been wed. The poor wretch had given birth to a son before dying soon after, to her relief, free of her husband’s fists and bouts of fury: the King had already owned her, and as such had simply stated his ownership--he had no need for petty mind games. Her spirit had already belonged to him by the ties of marriage and he had been free to do with her as he pleased.
That must explain Asrar. As soon as the whelp had been born the poor woman had died, from too much blood loss, too many bruises and not enough mended bones.
No one-- well, the King in particular-- had realized there was something wrong with the boy until… Well, Tarq supposed it coincided with the few royal Knights invading his father’s mansion a few days after his eighth birthday. He still remembered the biting tone and the contempt towards his sire, and the waved edict that had earned his father a violent reprimand. Prince Asrar must have been around five.
He was pretty sure one of them Knights had ended up supervising him in the ranks. No wonder they had wanted him to bend. They most likely hated whom his name stood for already.
With a huff, Tarq strode through the gigantic gates and into the dark stone castle. It was pitch black but the past seven years had well acquainted him with the maze of the place. If King Mayyar was anything at this point in his reign, it was increasingly paranoid: having a simpleton for a son complicated matters when one tried to assess absolute power over one’s kingdom. People were more likely to criticize an unsuitable heir, even if the penalty was a great a many whiplashes for questioning the King’s ability to father healthy children.
Asrar was all his dead wife’s fault. The child had undeniably been his, with black hair and a mouth to match, but the resemblance stopped there. The boy had none of his father’s Machiavellian trickery nor his greedy eyes: in fact, his face was so open it hurt. Tarq was reminded of the one instance he had seen Asrar ever being allowed out of his quarters-- it was to attend the annual festivities King Mayyar insisted upon throwing. Those weren’t just for the satisfaction of seeing the neighbouring rulers cower before him, but mostly to show off the spoils acquired during the year. Spoils that included enslaved nomadic tribes with singing women, heaps of food no one else could afford… and a son paraded like an exhibit.
It had only been once, but it had been once too many. Tarq remembered the way the lips had been set in an obvious tight line, messy black hair falling in the wide, dark eyes. The fact that Prince Asrar had not paid any attention to the melodious songs or the beautiful women, but had been entranced by the drums; that he had not been made to greet or salute, but had been led to his seat like a sheep to the slaughterhouse, collared and restrained. During the evening, the court jester had tripped, making the crowd cackle. And Asrar had brayed, a rumble in his chest that finished high-pitched and ugly, jerking the room into stillness. Enraging the King. The prince’s Keeper had tugged the collar roughly, choking Asrar into silence.
To Tarq, that display had made it obvious Asrar was a halfwit. He was weak, in mind and in body. His father ruled over him with an iron fist, keeping his sorry excuse of a son collared and manacled when in his presence.
And yet, in the end, Tarq still had to kill him.
*~*~*
Sun was barely tickling Tarq’s skin that he was already on his way, armoured and armed: bronze plates on his chest and black tunic and breeches underneath, sword at his side. It was a reconnaissance mission; Tarq wasn’t yet familiar with the layout of the prince’s quarters nor the wing he was being kept in. Striding briskly, Tarq frowned at the multitude of dark corridors and hallways, grey stone and black stone and dampness without sunlight. Not a single opening to let air or warmth in, everything dark and stuffy and Gods, where the six hells did this hallway end?
“Sir Knight--”
The man had a sword to the throat before he even finished drawing his breath. Blood trickled on the edge of the blade as Tarq took in the castle’s Head Librarian. The man probably couldn’t afford to lose much blood now, as old and wrinkled as he was.
Too bad; Tarq pressed harder.
“Head Librarian. I suppose these quarters are yours to roam?” he said, sarcastic.
To his credit, the man didn’t cower. Blood was dripping on the cold stones, staining the blade and Tarq’s sleeve, but the Head Librarian’s hands just came up, palms open, in a gesture of surrender.
“I only wanted to greet you with the respect you deserve, Sir Knight, for your willingness to protect Prince Asrar till the fateful day of his marriage. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to him.”
Both men quietly made their way along the dark corridors to a small wooden door, Tarq a bit rueful at having forgotten the King’s briefing had included the Head Librarian as the only other being permitted next to the Prince at all times. Him and the Keeper, chosen by the King to supposedly protect the simpleton from any and all harm. But really, Tarq was just going to be the hand of the King in the quarters of his halfwitted boy--
-- Who wasn’t a boy any longer. Tarq had brought up the only image of the Prince he had had when King Mayyar had summoned him, his memory of a slim boy of fourteen tethered, in shackles, who sounded only like an animal. And Tarq had forgotten he had just been seventeen at the sickening sight… Because the man sitting in the corner of the dank room would probably be as tall as he were he standing, but certainly not as wide. Even from the door Tarq could see chafed skin, read and angry on the slender wrists and neck, free of the restraints he had witnessed Asrar wear. The pallid face over the dark tunic and breeches was blank, full lips and tousled hair and dark eyes delineated by the morning light spilling from the small window.
No wonder the King had stopped parading him off-- the Prince was a beautiful man, even in his thinness.
And he wasn’t broken. Asrar assessed him, eyes roaming over the armour and counting his engraved tally marks, taking in the short blond hair (just a bit longer than it should be,) the obvious scars. The sword, collar and manacles dangling from Tarq’s waist.
Tarq bowed perfunctorily. “Prince. I am Tarq d’El Sol. As your Keeper, you’ll be safe.” Glancing upward, he could see a small frown mar Asrar’s face. Veiled eyes shifted between the restraints and the man behind Tarq, as if Asrar couldn’t understand the words. And those had been chosen for their simplicity.
He must really be a simpleton, then, even though his features were sharp and nothing like most halfwits that had crossed Tarq’s way in his twenty-five years; the eyes were anything but dull. Carefully setting the iron restraints on the only desk in the bare room, he tried not to start at the mound of books the swollen wood strained upon. Treaties, histories of the neighbouring kingdoms, geography… “I won’t ask you to wear them, Prince. Your skin looks worse for wear, and it’s only the King who requested them.” Although he could understand Boerg. The Prince’s previous Keeper had obviously kept Asrar in the collar and manacles every second, if his skin was any indication, and everyone knew about Boerg’s predilections: every lay of the man turned up bloody and broken from Boerg’s trysts in the dungeon. And while Tarq was sure Asrar hadn’t been touched, Boerg had obviously indulged in some twisted fantasy of his, always keeping the beautiful Prince bound.
It was obvious Asrar couldn’t understand; Tarq had never been more thankful Boerg had been called away to claim his dead father’s estate, although the state of the estate’s servants would probably degrade. But at least they could understand some people were worse than others. The Prince, on the other hand… He looked confused as to what was happening, even right now.
What threat could he possibly be?
Exiting with a bow, Tarq left to stand guard and learn about his charge’s schedule. Finding his way to the kitchens, he learned there were no planned meals for the Prince, although the Head Librarian often begged for a hot platter to bring to Asrar. But of course, no one but the Keeper could get food to the Prince, so obviously the kitchens didn’t indulge the doddering old fool who spent his time with the castle imbecile.
Tarq’s knuckles were white and fisted as he asked for three regular meals a day and a few snacks. It didn’t matter the Prince’s days were counted, it didn’t matter Asrar had not been gifted with logic, this treatment was just unfair--
Damn the Gods. Tarq halted his thoughts alarmingly. He had seen Asrar once, had barely spoken to the man. After King Mayyar found a suitable wench to bear his son’s seed, Tarq was to see Asrar could not claim the throne. Ever. This was why the King had chosen him, the Knight with the most tally marks and the most to lose were the mission to fail.
He simply could not get attached. Not when he would most likely be slaying his charge a year or so from now, when Asrar reached majority and married into a pretence of a union.
He would not get attached. Not to a beautiful man who was, in all likelihood, little more than an uncomprehending child.
*~*~*
Asrar’s eyes were only for the restraints, and it was driving Tarq mad. And it was all because of badly needed food.
The first time Tarq had brought sustenance, the knight had knocked and entered swiftly, muttering a few words and setting the platter on the nearest available horizontal surface. It had happened to be the narrow bed, since the overflowing desk was placed as close to the small window as possible, no doubt to make the most of sunlight. The Prince had been bent at his desk, back rounded and right hand scribbling furiously. He hadn’t turned around and Tarq had left, miffed, leaving the warm meal behind.
For a simpleton, the Prince was still a complete snob.
Which was why, six hours later and a new meal in hand, Tarq had been dismayed at the sight of the untouched first tray. The dishes were cold, the soup runny. And Asrar had been lying limply on his papers, chest rising and falling steadily, asleep under the square starlight.
“Get up. Get up! Are you doing this on purpose?”
Tarq had thought he had been pretty nice, freeing Asrar from wearing the iron collar and manacles every day, arranging for food regularly, undemanding of the Prince’s activities so long as he could guard him properly. But just… Disregarding all his efforts! He was not going to let himself be bullied by a charge, oh no sir. Not even by the Prince.
Manhandling a sleeping Asrar to his feet, completely bypassing the way the dark eyes had widened at being awoken so suddenly, the way the Prince’s head had whipped around to try and take in as much of the situation as possible. Ignoring the tremors raking the slender frame, Tarq had grabbed his set of restraints still on the desk and shoved them in Asrar’s face. “Do you want to wear them? Do you? If not, you better start listening, Prince Asrar,” Tarq had spat in dilated pupils that were so close he could see dark green swirl in the haunted eyes. The man had dropped everything, his paper, the quill he still had been clutching. Quivers raked his frame, and Tarq saw red pearl at Asrar’s lips.
Tarq had then carefully avoided thinking about the loopholes in his logic, tried not hearing his father tsk right in his ear. ‘Tarq, my boy. You always rush, rush, rush! It means you’ll make more and more mistakes if you don’t try and think actions through first.’ Right, actions and reactions-- He was gripping the Prince’s wrists in one hand and the restraints in the other, waving them in Asrar’s face. Asrar was so scared he had just bit his lip till it bled. He had been asleep. He obviously hadn’t heard Tarq come in and put the tray on the bed a few hours prior.
Right. This brutishness was most likely uncalled for. Grumbling as he let Asrar go, Tarq had attached the heavy iron to his waist again. He was almost certain the Prince wouldn’t be sorry to see them go from his sanctuary. Room. Whatever. Which Tarq could invade when he pleased. “Prince. Please eat,” he had said, head bowed.
Tarq had exited to Asrar’s suspiciously shiny cheeks.
The following days had seen the Prince’s reddened eyes fixed on his heavy waist: the manacles and collar weighed Tarq down, clicked and rattled at his every movement. Asrar, however, never seemed to be bothered by the ominous sounds. It was their sight that made him freeze and huddle in a corner, as far from Tarq as he could get when the Knight dropped off food three times a day. He didn’t look like a frightened animal though, more like a weary wolf without a pack, sniffing around after a beating.
He was eating, though: the trays were coming back empty, licked clean of the food the Prince seemed to be in dire need of. The small frame was thickening a bit. Not quick enough, in Tarq’s opinion, but at least Asrar no longer looked ghastly pale.
But he still wouldn’t look at Tarq. It annoyed the soldier to no end, yet he was afraid of letting his temper get the better of him again. Especially since it seemed the Head Librarian had prompted the eating with his daily visits that were hours long, either whole mornings or afternoons or evenings. The old man’s white brows had acquainted themselves with his hairline as he witnessed Tarq’s tray ritual one morning: the soldier knocked, came in, dropped the tray on the bed and lightly tapped Asrar on the shoulder, indicating the tray.
That was, of course, when the Prince was so deep in his scribbling he did not realize the time to eat had come. Usually however, Asrar was already far away in a dark corner. Those times Tarq was sure to try and make eye contact then nod significantly towards the food on the bed.
After his first outburst, Tarq hadn’t yet met the dark eyes. But the Head Librarian had met his, staring at Tarq for what seemed like hours. Tarq was sure the Prince eating had come from the old man’s approval. And it unsettled the soldier: to see that someone had a way of making the Prince understand a concept, any concept… Both Asrar and the Head Librarian always stopped gesturing when Tarq came in, Asrar staring down and he Head Librarian trying to stare Tarq down.
Of course, it wasn’t working. But he was growing curious of all the gesticulating going around. What was it with all those random precise flutters that were always cut off as he entered? Curiosity nibbled at Tarq, since his employment days had only seen three weak attempts at poisoning in all the time he had spent guarding the Prince already. And it had been months! Apart from spending an exaggerated amount of time on the training fields in his spare hours (which Tarq was already doing, thank you very much), there was not much the Knight could do. The King hadn’t yet summoned him for a report, but his ruler had made it clear what Tarq’s role should consist of: “Don’t let anything happen to him until a broad bears his tyke. Then he disappears.”
Although the King should at least think the whole process through, Tarq thought wryly. The hunt for a wife obviously wasn’t going as planned, and how on Earth did King Mayyar expect the child to be anything less than deficient, with a simpleton father. Although Asrar seemed to be peculiarly good at chess: Tarq had walked in on the Head Librarian (a famed player of the strategy game), being thoroughly stomped on before both men had learned the meals schedule that invariably brought Tarq in five times a day.
Tarq was more and more confused; the Prince, who for all intents and purposes should be an imbecile, was proving to be an even better strategist than the previously undefeated Head Librarian. Communication was undeniable between the two, and Tarq wanted in, for the Gods’ sakes, even if Asrar didn’t hear him come in or notice anything not within his sight. There was something flawed with the Prince, that was a given. But it was quite evident the man did not lack a brain. It seemed unreal the King’s scheme was actually going through, it seemed impossible the King hadn’t yet noticed his son was an able-thinking person--
A sound. He could hear heavy steps echoing in the corridor adjacent to the one he was guarding. Probably a page to summon him; the kitchen girls always puttered around with little giggles and he could hear them three hallways over when they brought food. And it wasn’t even time for the Prince’s supper yet.
“Keeper. The King asks for his simpleton son in the Great Hall. Immediately.”
Tarq’s eyes were inscrutable when he knocked and entered, interrupting the Head Librarian and the Prince, heads bent over the desk. “Head Librarian. You need to leave, the Prince is summoned.” Tarq carefully unwound the restraints from his waist, setting the heavy iron noisily on the bed, keeping an eye on Asrar. He was still watching the floor, seemingly oblivious before the Head Librarian tilted the Prince’s chin up, motioning to the bed.
Asrar’s eyes turned so cold Tarq was stupefied. The shadowed depths were biting as the Prince smoothed out his features. It was as if he was setting his face in marble, all sharp and cold and perfect. Tarq had thought Asrar couldn’t stand him after the food showdown, but he found himself revising his conclusions.
Because this was true loathing on Asrar’s face.
The Prince slowly got up, walked towards Tarq and the bed. Standing beside it, right in front of his Keeper, he held unnaturally still as Tarq fastened the heavy collar to the delicate neck. And Asrar’s skin had healed and all… Now he would have to wait a few weeks for the bruising and chafing to go away again. Tarq couldn’t meet Asrar’s eyes as he slowly slid his palms down the Prince’s arms, warming the still thin elbows and coming to rest on the fine wrists. Gently tugging them towards him, Tarq felt Asrar’s gaze, intent, heavy on his bent skull as he snapped the manacles shut as carefully as possible. Picking up the heavy chain that had attached the restraints to his waist, Tarq looped it through the small ring on the collar then through the shackles. The collar fit snugly, a bit too tight on Asrar’s neck; the skin was starting to redden already. Gods know Tarq shouldn’t have listened to the damnable blacksmith and used Boerg’s measurements for his restraints.
Tarq’s crest shone in the dim afternoon light, intricate engravings carved on the polished iron. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it all, Tarq couldn’t look at this, couldn’t look at Asrar. This was-- Asrar's face was expressionless, his eyes dull. Not even his fingers twitched, and it was wrong. This was wrong; wrong on so many levels Tarq didn’t even need his stomach clenching and the sour taste flooding his mouth to know he was not going to sleep tonight. Reining his anger in, he raised his eyes from the chain to Asrar’s blank face, his void eyes. For once, he actually caught Asrar’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Tarq had whispered the words, mouthed them really. It would do no good, he knew, for the Prince might have some affinity with the Head Librarian but he certainly seemed not to understand Tarq. The Knight was about glance down and tighten the chain, finally binding Asrar’s wrists together, when a shackled hand shot up to the corner of Asrar’s mouth before extending towards Tarq, chain rattling on the sudden movement.
“The Prince thanks you for your concern, Sir Knight,” the Head Librarian said in a tired voice as he exited the dank room.
Tarq’s eyes were wide as he led Asrar to the Great Hall. It was as if he were walking through cotton; he wasn’t registering anything beyond the heaviness of the warmed metal chain in his palm, the steady paces of the bound man beside him, the rhythmic chafing of the collar against a pale collarbone. He hoped there would be no bleeding, even though the collar must be tighter now that Asrar had put on some much needed weight--
This haze was not going to be in his favour in the Great Hall. Steeling his mind and concentrating only on the matter at hand, namely King Mayyar, Tarq expunged thoughts of communication with Asrar (it was possible, by the Gods, it was,) to try to get a feel for the King’s next move in this odious machination.
“Keeper. How do you fare?”
The King was dashing as always. Regal in a sumptuous leather garb undoubtedly pilfered during the High Knights’ last raid on the neighbouring province, black hair slicked back to reveal greedy eyes bulging out of their orbits, the King was every inch a political chessmaster, and of course Mayyar knew it. He was smirking at them, a farce of a smile on his wolfish face as Tarq bowed low to answer.
“All is well, my Lord. Your eyes are my witness.”
Mayyar scrutinized them both. “Yes, I can see It hasn’t disgraced Itself further by throwing a fit like the last time It was in here. On our matter-- I may have found a suitable female for It. I hope this pleases you,” he continued, suddenly switching his beady eyes to openly pin Asrar’s dulled stare. “You certainly couldn’t ever have managed by yourself, you disgrace.” Utterly disregarding his son once more and going back to staring at Tarq’s bowed head, the King finished. “Keeper, the marriage won’t be until a few months in the least, the girl’s parents are tenacious. This gives you a good window; make sure It can perform accordingly when the time comes.”
Tarq’s head rose sharply. What the--
“And make sure you control It better next time. It seems to have forgotten the manners Boerg instilled in It. They were good manners, and I appreciated them, so make sure It remembers them. Dismissed.”
In a horrified daze, Tarq led an unwavering Asrar back to his quarters. He distantly noted the skin under the collar was bleeding and Asrar hadn’t glanced down once.
*~*~*
Asrar was shivering by the time they reached his chambers. He flinched as Tarq led him through the doors and sat him on the bed, and it seemed his legs had given away. Slowly removing the chain linking Asrar’s wrists and his neck, Tarq took out the small key and quickly unsnapped the manacles to reveal brutally red skin.
Gods. And the collar had Asrar bleeding.
Carefully running his fingers over the sensitized skin, he took out the small ointment he always carried with him and rubbed a bit of the oily salve on the fragile wrists. Asrar hissed, drawing away, but Tarq encased the Prince’s bent legs between his own, pulling the younger man closer.
“Don’t move. This’ll make it hurt less, even though it stings now. Please let me.”
Tarq’s whisper was answered by a tiny frown before Asrar nodded, staring hard into Tarq’s eyes then relaxing his muscles, abused wrists growing slack in Tarq’s grip. When the salve was absorbed, Tarq’s palms snaked up to the heavy collar, lightly caressing the smooth collarbone, the sharp shoulders, tainting his fingertips with blood.
“Relax. Relax…” Tarq shushed comfortingly, warming up the soft skin under his hands, slowly edging closer to the lock on the side of the collar. He snapped it open as soon as he felt Asrar’s shoulders sag a bit in relief and Asrar cried out, a harsh sob as the curved iron tore pieces of skin that had been peeling off under the chafing. Blood gushed as Tarq quickly reached for a small pile of clean linen he had asked for before they left for the Great Hall and gently applied a white cloth to Asrar’s bleeding neck, pressing firmly, staunching the red flow.
Asrar was whimpering, muscles tense, shaking as Tarq bent even closer to the wounds, looking at them critically. Their breaths mingled, Asrar’s harsh puffs tasting of mint as Tarq started to sweat as well. They were so close, Tarq’s knees pressing into soft thighs, his hands on a warm neck, the sharp scent of Asrar mixed with the metallic smell of blood and the fragrance of clean sheets. Asrar grew limp beneath him, resting more and more in between Tarq’s palms, in between his strong arms; stark shoulders dug into Tarq’s forearms as he carefully laid Asrar down the bed, removing the soiled cloth to expose the abused neck.
The skin was raw, and Tarq had to go to the corner of the room and wash his hands in the water basin. Soaking a clean cloth in it, he went back and applied it to Asrar’s neck again, allowing a few minutes for the skin to soften. Laid across the bed, Asrar’s eyes were closed and he breathed small, shallow breaths as Tarq’s fingers ghosted over his skin, gently removing the torn skin incrusted in the ridges, cleaning and bandaging Asrar’s throat tightly.
There. Tarq gently tugged a soft black strand repeatedly to get Asrar’s attention.
“Prince. All done. I’m sorry--”
Big black eyes were staring back at him as trembling hands came up and it looked complicated, like fluttering birds when Asrar approximately pointed to his chest then folded both his hands in front of him, right palm twisting. His face was scrunched up, eyes flickering then he froze, as if realizing he was lying down across his bed, gesticulating to a man sitting beside him that he was supposed to hate for what he stood for. The room was heavy and it was starting to get awkward and Asrar was turning very red.
This was definitely not good, to have more blood rushing towards Asrar’s head when his neck was bleeding. Tarq carefully put his hand on Asrar’s tense forearm and mouthed slowly, “Again. Please?”
Steadily Asrar made the signs again. He trembled all over, eyes running from Tarq’s and then--
Of course. The problem was clear, how could he have been so blind?
“You mean you’re all right?” Tarq whispered. “I know you feel all right, Prince. I’m still sorry for the restraints, this never should have happened. You should rest.” Tarq made an effort to speak slowly, articulating the words clearly. It seemed his sentences were too long though, and Asrar was frowning again, looking puzzled. “All right.” Tarq held his hands in front of him, “Wait.”
Pushing himself off the bed he went to the desk, locating a stray piece of paper and some ink. Quickly writing what he had just said he took it back to the prone Prince and watched the dark eyes light up as Asrar tried to nod but winced, the wounds still fresh.
“Rest!” Laughing a little, Tarq pushed and pulled Asrar to make him lie properly on the bed then smoothed the sheets over an already drowsy Prince, leaving quietly.
It was time to have a little conversation with the Head Librarian.
*~*~*
“He’s deaf.”
The Head Librarian sighed. “So you’ve finally figured it out? I wondered how long it would take the new Keeper this time… You seem to awfully care about him. Back when Boerg realized it he just enjoyed his sick little games more. To know Prince Asrar was actually capable of fully understanding what was happening to him, of his actions-- He realized binding Prince Asrar’s hands was tantamount to gagging him. The Prince couldn’t ask for food, for water, sometimes the shackles left him unable to go relieve himself on his own. You cannot even begin to imagine, Keeper, what a solace it was to see him go. But then--”
“Then I came?” Tarq interrupted heatedly. “I hate-- I just can’t stand aside when-- Head Librarian.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I am aware my concern may seem questionable to you, but I’ve found these past few months that I care. I feel responsible towards Prince Asrar, it isn’t fair the way--” The words caught in Tarq’s throat. Just remembering the wounds he bandaged, the dulled eyes Asrar had while in the Great Hall, the humiliation it must be to be treated as an animal and to realize you were worth nothing more than what was in the castle’s slaughterhouses. “He can think. He beat you at chess when you’re the King’s renowned strategist. He--”
“Yes, he beat me at chess. He would, his minds is as sharp as any blade you carry. The reason King Mayyar allows me full reign of Prince Asrar’s education is because the King fundamentally thinks his son is worth nothing and that I’m wasting my time. And I would have left a long time ago, if it weren’t for this poor child lost in his disability. But it has gotten so much better than it was…”
“So you do have a way of communicating with him.”
“Of course I do,” sneered the Head Librarian. “Do you think the books he has in front of him are just for show? He most likely reads and writes better, faster than you, he can interpret and set up potential treaties with neighbouring kingdoms, he guesses people’s intentions like no one else--”
“So teach me.” Tarq simply said.
The Head Librarian tossed him the book he had been leafing through when Tarq had first caught him.
“Teach yourself.”
*~*~*
This was disgustingly difficult. Tarq rolled his eyes in front of the mirror and let his arms fall limply to his sides. So many signs… The old man’s book was ancient, written before even the reign of Mayyar’s great-grandfather, back when lands were rarely divided and there had been talks of carriages rolling on their own with the help of burning wood. Or was it coal? It had been a time where books were abound, every day more leather required to bind all of the knowledge they had to contain.
Few tomes were left from that era; Mayyar’s ancestors had come to power through sheer and bloody force, burning most of the written wisdom to the ground, establishing their power with brutal slaughtering. Most, if not all, had been lost; now flipping through the worn pages, Tarq could see how far below they’d fallen. Too deep, down to exhibiting people as if they were beasts, beating them and baiting them about food, laughing at their distress and at their pain. Then and now… Such a very big difference in the way Asrar could have been treated, which is why Tarq had to try and right some of his wrongs, he just had to.
Which meant more practice. He could now fluently fingerspell all the letters in the alphabet, could easily say ‘Good morning,’ ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you,’ could ask how Asrar felt and if he was hungry-- This required so much attention to details, so many things to remember: his facial expressions, his hand movements, his posture… It made him feel so silly, gesticulating on his own in front of his room’s mirror but he’d rather feel silly on his own than deficient at the times Asrar tried to communicate.
Because now that Asrar’s secret was out, both the Head Librarian and the Prince had stopped bothering to interrupt their conversations when Tarq came in with food; the soldier was now always greeted by a curt sign from the Head Librarian and a shy smile from the Prince while both continued being engrossed in whatever Asrar was studying at the moment: politics, geography, historical relations… Hands and arms were flying, flowing fluently, surely, conveying a precise meaning. Tarq could understand sometimes, recognize a few gestures here and there, but oh was he far from being able to ever hold anything resembling a conversation with the deaf Prince.
It was depressing, really. He badly needed practice, and not with his mirror, to actually get better. It seemed he was doomed at being mediocre. Strapping his sword to his side, more aware than ever of his every movement, Tarq left his quarters for the Prince’s. And he still had a very embarrassing conversation to get through… He absolutely had to learn how much Asrar knew in the ways of, well, sex. It was self-preservation: if the King called upon him again and questioned him about it, what was he to say? ‘I realized your son was deaf, my Lord, and you a despicable human being, if even that. I don’t even know how to go on about making him understand what I should be talking to him about.’ Oh how well that would go, Tarq snorted softly. And who knew how the King would decide to test Asrar upon his knowledge... Tarq shivered at the implications.
His next bout of shudders had nothing to do with the weather either. How the Gods was he meant to accomplish the mission now? Now wait a moment-- Had he just thought of the King’s assassination assignment as ‘the’ mission and not ‘his’ mission?
…Was he even still loyal to King Mayyar?
Oh, this was so definitely not the time to be asking himself that. As if the King and the Knight Council weren’t suspicious enough. Tarq had caught a many green Knights lurking in the castle’s nooks and crannies, trying to ambush him supposedly plotting the King’s demise. And while Tarq’s head was still on his shoulders, he had no doubt it was because the King hadn’t taken these greens seriously enough.
However. The King wasn’t losing his touch. The looser restraints Tarq had had the blacksmith melt and mould had earned him a few whiplashes. It was a discreet punishment -- as opposed to what it could have been, Mayyar had always had a flair for the theatrics -- because Tarq had aborted a new attack on the Prince, nipping it in the bud while its instigators had been dead drunk. Alcohol was known for loosening tongues, and Tarq was very grateful. It had been pure luck, to have stumbled upon this party from the East Lands bragging about their next coup.
Gods, so many strands all roped and coiled around Asrar. Why such an undisguised interest? Why hadn’t the King killed him yet, why make Asrar impregnate a wench and not let Mayyar take a new wife who’d bear him another heir?
So many unanswered questions… Tarq sighed as he knocked on the Prince’s doors before entering swiftly to say he had arrived and signing accordingly, but entered to a very heated discussion between Asrar and the Head Librarian. Hands were signing furiously, so fast Tarq could barely make out any words. Both men started at his sight and-- surprise. Asrar blushed a very fetching red, ducking his head low as the Head Librarian just chuckled. Huh.
“Did I miss some important part of something?” Tarq asked. He tried signing at the same time the signs he knew even though Asrar wasn’t looking.
“You’re improving, Sir Knight,” the Head Librarian answered with his voice and hands. “However, more practice wouldn’t hurt.”
“I am aware of that. Now if you could please tell me what was--”
“Spend a few hours with Prince Asrar,” the Head Librarian interrupted airily. “A little bit every day-- I’m sure it would do you both a lot of good. And your syntax would improve.”
“Head Librarian--”
“I’ll be off now,” the old man clamoured, clapping a flushed Asrar on the shoulder. “Do work a little while I’m gone,” he smiled. “And Sir Knight-- you could try calling me Ketyar, it’ll be less annoying when you sign.”
Right. Maybe the old man wanted Tarq’s sword to tickle him again. He was as annoying as Tarq’s father had been when he had had something he had wanted Tarq to figure out on his own. Old men… Tarq scoffed as he sat slowly next to a flustered Prince. Forget the conversation about sex; he couldn’t even sign ‘Hello’ to the beautiful man next to him without his fingers trembling. These were going to be long hours.
*~*~*
Winter was cold this year. Dampness and freeze slipped through uneven stones, making the castle bleaker, darker. While the Knights’ quarters were warmed up, Tarq was dismayed at the state of Prince Asrar’s rooms. The four walls were bare, no tapestries to hold off the chill. There was but a small fireplace it seemed no one ever lit.
“Prince, aren’t you cold?”
Tarq remembered the row he and Ketyar had had regarding his naming of Asrar. Tarq couldn’t fingerspell ‘Prince Asrar’ at every occasion, and had started using Ketyar’s symbol for Asrar, before realizing it amounted to calling a superior by their first name and literally bypassing their title. Not to mention what Ketyar had chosen for Asrar was a sweet little rub on the nose; he had looked it up. It was very close to the symbol for ‘secret,’ something else he and the Head Librarian most likely had to discuss: Tarq knew, he just knew the old man must know something about Asrar and the undue interest the deaf Prince kept on attracting. Secretive old man…
They almost had a shouting match, Ketyar signing quickly for both of them so Asrar could fully follow the argument before Tarq settled on asking Asrar if the hand sign for ‘Prince’ sat well with him.
It had been the second time Asrar’s eyes had lit up concerning Tarq. The first had been the time Tarq had come in and signed ‘good morning, Asrar.’ And while Tarq was still distancing himself by calling Prince Asrar by his title it was just as nerve-racking to be able to communicate.
Months had passed since, the hours they spent in each other’s company proving fruitful. Asrar had gotten a lot less nervous around Tarq, his hands always sure when he signed about his day, about his studies… Tarq had hated interrupting to ask about many signs; but Asrar had known, had most likely read it in his demeanour although Tarq tried to mask it. And the Prince had stopped, cocking his head as he looked at Tarq, eyebrow raised. Usually, Tarq nodded, guilty, and Asrar fingerspelled with a smile before resuming. It had worked: while Tarq lacked the more technical terms and gestures, he could now carry a conversation decently.
They could finally, finally understand each other. And while the King had only summoned him once since last summer, alone this time, to brief him again concerning wife arrangements that were not going smoothly-- it was probably going to be at least half a year before anything could be concluded. Tarq’s mission remained unchanged, and Tarq mustn’t forget Asrar was going to be well into his majority by the marriage and was to accomplish whatever was needed flawlessly.
Tarq was studiously skirting around the issue. This ‘talk’ or rather, this embarrassing gesticulation that would be impaired by his warm cheeks and moist palms, of that he had no doubt-- well, he was not about to have it with the Prince, no sir Knight he wasn’t. Not only was so very Tarq ill-suited to speak of the matter of the flesh, let alone the heart that should go with it, he also could not believe someone just over twenty-three winters hadn’t yet realized what their bodies were capable off. It was basic self-discovery, Asrar had to be well aware of the happenings when a man and a woman lay together.
If he wasn’t, well… His blushing bride would most surely put him on the right path.
“Tarq, do you feel all right?” Asrar looked worried, and how strange was that? To have one’s Prince worrying about one’s well being. To have one’s Prince call you by your first name as if you were a very trusted friend. Tarq still recalled the way Asrar had chosen his name: it was a foggy variant of a ‘t’ combined to a hand sign he had learned approximated to ‘honourable.’ And Asrar hadn’t hesitated one second as he had created it.
Tarq’s eyes had stung. His stomach still fluttered whenever Asrar signed his name, he still couldn’t get used to Asrar’s face, contorted in joy or sadness or laughter as he communicated. Sign language was so visual, so physical you just couldn’t possibly lie. Tarq didn’t doubt, not one second, that what Asrar deigned tell him was true. Whatever the Prince shared of himself was genuinely real.
This whole situation was getting more and more difficult. Because Tarq had found he couldn’t lie either: what little he had told Asrar when asked about his days, about himself… All of it was real, when he was accustomed to hiding.
“I’m sorry, Prince. Shall I start a fire?”
Asrar threw his head back and laughed soundlessly. “I’m wearing three overshirts. I do not remember anyone making a fire in here, are you sure you would like to try it?”
Tarq just smiled. The twist in his gut was steadfastly ignored, pushed away and silenced as most of his reactions to his Prince were, these days. He was unsure whether Knights usually lusted after their charges, whether Knights were even allowed to nurse impure thoughts pertaining to their rulers or would-be rulers or beautiful, beautiful Princes with messy black hair that looked as soft as silk and expressive eyes that stood out, oh-so-green in the middle of milky skin--
All right, enough.
If he was going to wax poetic sonnets, the least he could do was pay justice to the things that had most likely, in fact, caused his chest to hurt and his stomach to flutter whenever his Prince was nearby.
It was the gentleness with which Asrar picked up a wounded bird on their rare trips outside the dank room, the way he crooned in silence, lips pursed and hands stroking the battered animal with care. It was the way his eyes lit up and his hands moved with grace, fluttering fingers as animated as his reddened cheeks, when he spoke or tried to argue with Tarq about almost anything: the pace at which food was set in front of him, the number of trips he was allowed outside, the fact that Tarq refused to sit alongside him and insisted on taking the small stool when addressing him for long.
Asrar was so sharp, so bright it hurt. Tarq didn’t pity his Prince, never: it was impossible. But it hurt to see him ignored and defiled, not only an unwitting pawn in his father’s games but an abused laughing stock that no one bothered to defend. A laughing stock no one even bothered to understand.
Well, Tarq understood him well enough: it was a good starting point. It didn’t matter why he desired communication with Asrar now, did it? No one had to know-- and this changed nothing. Knowing how the Prince felt about his dreary days, about the stack of books Ketyar kept piling up in front of him, that was just practice. ‘Know your enemy’ and all these dictates, after all. Tarq well knew, at the very back of his mind, that he would most likely need the knowledge to lure Asrar when his mission needed to be completed. Most days, he tried to ignore it and push the information away: he hated that part of him, that part which would not stop being a conscientious soldier. He felt the deed was far, far away, and it seemed even the King had forgotten about his unofficial assignment.
“Tarq? I must say, you’re very distracted today. Would you like us to converse tomorrow to accommodate you?”
Tarq’s chest tightened again, and it was a good thing he wasn’t using his voice, because it would have come out as a croak. “No, I apologise. Would you like to cover anything specific today, Prince?”
“I thought of asking you about swords. I saw you training once,” Asrar blushed ever so slightly, “and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind showing me.”
Well, that was something new. Asrar had never before expressed any interest in more physical arts --well, inasmuch as sword fighting could be considered an art. Tarq supposed fencing could be seen an art… But what he did with his blade? That was merely slashing away with all the technique he could muster to avoid dying. It just happened he was extremely good at it, even when not on the battlefield.
“I have a better idea,” he smiled and signed at the same time. Asrar lacked the build to wield a sword without any prior practice, and while Tarq could most likely teach his Prince, it would require hours and hours of training every day to even reach an acceptable level. But there was an alternative. “What do you think of learning to use small daggers, Prince? Short knives require more agility, which you have in spades, and they’re far lighter. You would be able to defend yourself even up close.”
Asrar smiled and it showed all his teeth. He looked so hopeful Tarq felt wretched, and vowed his Prince would learn to use the daggers so thoroughly even Tarq wouldn’t stand a chance when the time for the King’s mission came to be completed.
*~*~*
Onto Part II