Author's Note: Let's be honest with ourselves: this story is bad. It's so clichéd it's practically a parody. It was begun years ago and it shows. My hearty recommendation is to skip this one and move onto something more worth your time. If you really want to read a better example of my writing, try one of my other stories—even my other humor stories are better than this one.
If you still choose to subject yourself to the terror that is this story, please keep these things in mind: A) this is a story and thus should not be taken too seriously, and B) this is a humor story and thus should be taken even less seriously—in fact, don't take it seriously at all. It's just for fun.
Overall Warnings: homosexuality, heterosexuality, bisexuality, asexuality, swearing, cross-dressing, random humor, verbal abuse of (evil) chickens, clichés, slow plot development, typos/grammatical incorrectness/bad writing.
Fire and Ice
I do not have violent tendencies!
At least, this was my argument as my nursemaid—ahem, male nurse, excuse me—paced in front of me, a glower set on his face. That's right, frown all you want, but you can't deny that I decked that jackass good!
"Prince Edan, this is not appropriate behavior for one of the royal house, especially towards another of the royal house!"
Prince. Yup. Sadly, I'm the youngest son of King Iavano, the ruler of a very small, very un-respected, and very un-influential country. Yay me.
"The only thing royal about Gavrin is his knack for being a royal pain in the ass," I muttered, placing my chin in my palms as I lounged on the sill of my window.
"Edanalvo of Niall, you are speaking of the Crown Prince. Show proper respect," scolded the nurse. I cringed—he used the full name, that was a low blow.
Damar continued with his nagging, and I, obligingly, continued to ignore him. The female nurse that raised me from when I was born had recently suffered a number of unfortunate occurrences and had begged my father for a different assignment, so I was left with the blonde-haired guy who was only a few years older than I. It was worth the sacrifice, though—the old hag had had too much blackmail on me, so she had to go.
I rolled my eyes as I gazed out the window, watching the landscape below with feigned interest. Rolling meadows of green grass dotted with houses spanned out below, breaking off into an endless expanse of forest. Stupid brother. He deserved it. What right did he have to call me girly? He's the one who couldn't block a punch.
… Muahaha, and what a punch that was! It felt so great to plant my fist right in his arrogant, taunting face. Now, the blood was another matter entirely—it made me feel kind of queasy and it had ruined my clothes, but it had all been worth it just to see the look of shock on that bastard's face.
Sighing, Damar laid a hand on my shoulder, and I turned a little to watch him out of the corner of my eye. "Why do you have to be so difficult?" he asked quietly, and my only reply was a shrug.
Now that we've established that I do not have violent tendencies, I would also like to add that I am not acting difficult. I am merely prone to mood swings.
I dared a full-fledged glance at my ward, and my vision was filled with big, shiny, big, sorrowful … big … yeah, blue eyes. Oh gods. The puppy dog look. Not the … gah, I felt the guilt wash over me already.
"He deserved it?" I whimpered, hoping it would pacify him. I was wrong, and the boy only continued to stare me down with his Puppy Dog Eyes of Doom.
Damn you, Damar, and your ability to generate endless, overwhelming guilt!
… Fine, be that way.
With a strangled sob, I threw myself at the decidedly surprised boy, wrapping my arms about his neck and crying apologies into his shoulder. Looking embarrassed, Damar gave me a hesitant pat on the back while desperately trying to pry me off him. Oh, don't try to deny it, I know you loooooove me!
This … sucks. It's so, so, so not fair! Just because I punched my jackass older brother (I have six of them, you know, so maiming only one of them should hardly matter), I was grounded. Surprisingly enough, it was not my father who sentenced me, but my mother, the queen, who is a very, very scary person indeed. Firstly, she is tall compared to most people, and a downright fricken' giant to me. I'm not short, really, just a little stunted in growth—five feet or so at age sixteen isn't that bad, is it?
… Shut up.
Anyway, so my mother is scary. She's a giant, her dresses seem to be made of two or three miles of fabric, her voice tends to have this echo effect following it, and, worst of all, she makes me call her Mommy. Don't laugh, it's not funny! If I ever dared to call her anything other than Mommy or didn't go into cuteness overdrive around her, I know that I would die a horrible, horrible death.
It makes me shiver just to think about it.
So, when my mother found out that her little boy had assaulted her eldest son (note the difference in titles, hmph) while escorting two (bimbo) daughters of a duke to their carriage, the blame immediately fell to me. Just because I have this tendency to cause the occasional disaster, if anything happens, everyone always assumes it was me that did it! Gavrin provoked me, I tell you! He told me I looked like a girl, then proceeded to point out every attribute about me that he thought was girly.
My height was first and foremost, then came my weight. I'm skinny, I admit it, and I stay that way no matter how much I work with the weapon-master or eat—mm, food. I love food. Then came the cuteness factor, and that is one thing that annoys me more than anything else. I. Am. Not. Fucking. Cute. Got it? Good.
The last straw was my hair, my beautiful, beautiful hair. As if I didn't stand out enough from my brothers, who all sport varying degrees of brown locks, I was born with a head full of shock-red hair dashed with pretty yellow and orange streaks. I haven't bothered to cut it … or brush it, for that matter, for quite a while, and the result has been a wild style that resembles flame.
Which reminds me … fire. If I were to characterize myself with something, I would say that I am most like fire. Changing, unpredictable, graceful, dangerous, beautiful, attention catching … er, yeah, and modest, too.
Hehe. It was too bad the castle was made of stone, so there really was no use in me stealing more striking flints.
It was midday when the knock came on my door, and I pulled my lips into a pout before calling out in my most wounded tone of voice, "Go away…"
The door opened, and my eyebrow twitched in annoyance. Blip.
As a way of ignoring whoever had entered, I turned to study my room. I was lying on my plush bed, cuddled amidst the masses of colorful pillows, while my (gorgeous, ahem) golden eyes darted about. My window, where I had spent many an afternoon watching the villagers go about their daily tasks, was set into the stone wall opposite my bed. The sash had been drawn open, allowing the sun to shine cheerfully through the glass. A beam of light fell directly on my face, and I smiled in return. Hello sun, my name is Edan. How are you today? Really? The clouds are trying to block you out? So that's why you kick the shi… excuse me, can't you see I'm trying to have a conversation here? Shoo.
A dresser carved of the wood my country was (un) known for stood up against the left wall, right next to my rather large closet, which was filled with an array of clothing.
Clothes, psh, what's the point of wearing the proper ones? All you do is wear them, get them dirty, throw them on the floor, get yelled at for being messy, and then they magically appear in the closet, washed and ready to wear again. I will never understand the many wonders of this world.
My gaze fell next on the large mirror that stood taller than I did, located next to my door. A boy stared back at me from the mirror, his button nose and gold eyes set into a heart-shaped face making him look undeniably innocent. He was dressed in loosely fitting khaki trousers that hung off his narrow hips and an equally baggy formal tunic. And bare feet. Oo, watch the toes. Wiggle. Wiggle wiggle.
"Prince Edan. Stop drooling over yourself," Damar said in a monotone voice as he leaned against the door frame.
"But … the wiggle … " I tried to explain, but he was simply too ignorant to understand the importance of the wiggle.
The blonde rolled his eyes—must you always do that, Dama?—and quietly shut the door behind him, one hand self-consciously brushing the imaginary wrinkles out of his uniform. Nurse ... uniform … I tried not to giggle, shoving a fist in my mouth, which made my guardian stare at me strangely.
"Are you still pouting, or will you come down and eat?" Damar asked, clearly not amused, though he did look as if he would have a panic attack if I insulted his outfit.
How … how dare he! "Still pouting," I replied (duh), grabbing an emerald colored pillow from next to me and covering my face with it.
Damar sighed, and I heard him approach before the bed drooped a little under his added weight. I felt a hand bury itself in my hair, and I smiled a little into the pillow as my body grew relaxed under his touch. Good ol' Damar, he always knew how to make me feel better.
Just then, the fingers tightened, gripping my hair tightly and tugging it up. I meeped, and he pulled my head away from the pillow by just his hold on my precious locks. Ow. Owee. Pain. Ow.
"Stop being such a brat," he commanded, then let me go and slipped off the bed.
With a quick glance over his shoulder at me, he exited the room and locked the door behind him.
It was nightfall, and my family was down in the grand hall eating supper. Damn them. Damn them all. My stomach rumbled, seconding my thoughts, and I flopped face down on my bed. Because I had refused the midday meal, my mother and father had decided that I would miss dinner as well.
I could hear the clinking of glasses, the music, and the polite chatter that all resulted from the evening meal, and I wrinkled my nose in annoyance. My parents were always nervous when I ate with them, ever since that one incident with the roast boar. Honestly, I had no idea that pigs were so aerodynamically designed.
I could just imagine how they looked, down there stuffing their faces. Father, all done up in his fur-trimmed cape with his showy dress attire on, and mother in one of those three mile long dresses that must have wiped out the entire population of squirrels on the planet—eh … maybe it's not made of squirrels, but I swear I saw those familiar beady eyes glaring at me from among the folds once—just to make it.
With my parents at the head of the table, my six brothers would sit on either side, divided into two groups. Gavrin, with all of his stupid, pompous, Crown-Prince-ness, always sat on my father's side, dressed in similar attire to the King. Of all of my brothers, Gavrin was the worst—though it was some consolation to know that he must have one hell of a black-eye and a sore nose. He always made fun of me, constantly got me in trouble, and embarrassed the hell out of me every chance he got—it's not my gods damn fault that most girls scare me! My other brothers, aside from Brelen, the second oldest, acted as Gavrin's lackeys. Brelen and Damar, the latter having worked at our estate long before he became my nurse, were the only friends I had growing up.
People tell me that that's why I'm so messed up, but I disagree—I mean, surely other things messed me up more?
"Meh," I muttered as I rolled onto my back, pressing a pillow to each ear in an attempt to block out the sounds of merriment. The blinds were pulled to cover my window, and I stared up at the gray-speckled stone ceiling, humming some random tune to myself. The noises from downstairs began to grow louder as I tried to drown them out with my pillows, humming, and thoughts, and I could have sworn I heard someone yell.
Abruptly, the door slammed open, the wind from the motion immediately dousing the flame of the candle I had balanced on my tummy. So, left in utter darkness with an unknown person lurking in my room, I did what any normal teenage boy would do: I screamed.
My cry was cut off when a hand abruptly clamped over my mouth, pressing firmly. Another arm wrapped about my small waist, dragging me off the bed in a hurry.
… AH! RAPE! RAPE!
I struggled as though my life depended on it, flailing my limbs in a very nonproductive way, though I think I managed to score at least once on my attacker.
"Will you be quiet and stop moving?" a male voice hissed into my ear, and my eyes widened until I thought they would pop out of my head.
Without thinking, I sunk my teeth into the hand that was covering my mouth, and immediately froze at the man's yelp. Tastes like … Damar?
I immediately stopped my thrashing and mumbled his name as a query into his hand. I could feel him nod slightly behind me as he released me, and I turned to look questioningly at him, though he was unable to see me in the dark.
"We have to go, Edan," his voice was hushed, and I noted absently that he didn't add 'Prince' before my name like he always did.
"Why?" I whispered back, as confused as could be.
In response, he shoved a bag into my arms. I looked down, feeling at the coarse material and realized that it was already half-filled. "Go pack. Bring only what you need. Go!"
Damar sounded more than a little worried now, and I felt the uneasy stirrings of fear begin in my stomach, and a small chill running up my spine. Instead of asking more questions as I wished to do, I darted around him, nearly tripping over the latest mess I had generated on the floor, and dove into the closet. Once there, I began to grab random things off the shelves, throwing in clothes, hidden snacks, and other necessities. Pausing, I examined my birthing ring, which was given to each member of my royal family on the day they received their name.
Tracing my hand over the silver ring, I could feel the pattern of my family crest adorning the top, and the inscription bearing my name, birthing day, and other vital statistics that was indented into the bottom. Damar whispered for me to hurry, so I shoved the ring in the bag as well, then bolted out of the closet only to run into a warm body. My nurse gently turned me back around, moving me into the closet once more, and guided me to the very back of it.
Turning, he pushed aside the outfits that hung there, and then he began to feel along the wall he had exposed. I watched with wide eyes and furrowed brows, wondering just what the hell he was up to, when the blonde suddenly dug his fingers into a barely noticeable crack and tugged open a small door. Blinking, I ducked under his outstretched arm, entering the hidden doorway.
Dude. I have a secret passage … … and I wasn't told about this?!
My friend closed the door behind us both, the clothes falling back into place, and I could swear that I heard angry voices coming from my room as we began to descend a flight of obviously neglected stairs.
I leaned back against Damar as the horse clopped on, wearily snuggling up against him. His arms were somewhat wrapped about me, his hands clutching the horse's reins, while my own arms were cuddling the bag that we had brought along. So I have a cuddle fetish, so what? It usually only applies to objects, though, like the bag, because the prospect of cuddling with Damar just seemed … weird. Then again, this whole situation was weird, and I needed some comfort, so that's probably why I was snuggling.
The horse snorted from beneath me, and I made a point of accidentally pulling on its mane. Devil horse. Horses have never liked me, but this horse, the only one that Damar could sneak out of the stables, seemed to have a vendetta against me. It bit me. Hard.
It was late at night, the moon above us acting as the only light, and I was feeling a little bit sleepy. Devil Spawn, the name I had recently given the black horse, moved in a way that made me feel as though I was being rocked, and I felt all warm and protected sitting in front of Damar. We had fastened muffles, with some difficulty, on to Devil Spawn's horseshoes before we left, so even his heavy, steady steps along the deserted, dirt road didn't seem to generate much noise.
"Prince Edan," Damar said quietly into my ear, and I nearly fell off the horse at the suddenness of his speech.
"Neh?" I replied intelligently, trying to still my racing heart.
"We're far enough away now, I can explain things to you. It … it was your uncle, Edan. We didn't see it coming at all. Your uncle was eating with everyone at dinner when he went to make a toast and, before anyone knew what was happening, guards not of our castle were everywhere. They killed our guards and took the royal family hostage, all by order of your uncle. I was trying to sneak some food from the kitchen to bring to you when it happened, so I was able to escape and flee to your room," the blonde-haired boy recited, and I felt my heart almost stop beating.
No … that wasn't possible. Things like that weren't supposed to happen!
There was a pause, then Damar blurted out worriedly, "Edan … he'll be looking for you. He said he planned to take over the kingdom, and having one of the Princes of Niall free from his grasp would be a weakness."
There was no doubt in my mind that when Damar said 'he,' he meant my prick of an uncle, brother of the King. The question was, would my uncle go so far as to murder the royal family, myself included?
Again, silence, and I clutched the bag to me nervously, as if holding on for dear life. "What are we going to do, Dama?" I choked out finally, cursing myself when my voice cracked on the nickname.
The blonde began hesitantly, "Edan, I have a plan. I know someone in another kingdom, just a few days riding from here, and I think you will be safe there. There's only one thing, though. If a Prince of a foreign realm suddenly shows up on another country's doorstep, news will spread, and it would be easy for your uncle to pinpoint you. So …"
My protector dropped one hand from the reins and his fingers quickly undid the strap to the bag I carried. After a moments searching, he withdrew a bundle of gold fabric, and shoved it into my outstretched hands.
I glanced up at him with wide eyes, but his blue depths were set on the road ahead, his face forcibly emotionless. Blinking, I unfolded the bunched up cloth, my jaw dropping as I realized what it was. A dress. A fucking, full-fledged, gold with silver trimming dress. Oh, hell no.
"Princess," murmured the boy behind me, and it was all I could do not to turn around and throttle him then and there.
Royce sighed as he stripped off his riding gear, draping the garments across a chair while he flopped down on his bed. His father had thrown at least three more girls at him today, hoping that his son would finally pick someone and settle down. While the king was a good man at heart, Royce wasn't sure if he would understand that his son was a little … different from other guys. He hadn't found anyone that had sparked his interest even remotely, and he had known for some time now that he tended to be attracted to those of his own gender rather than of the opposite.
Running a hand through his chin-length silver hair, the boy stretched briefly before resting his head on his pillow and staring blankly ahead. A breeze drifted through his partially open window, and he watched with tired eyes as the moon shone in the night sky.