One
“You’ve really got no idea how this works, you know.”
“This?”
“This. My life. Being a prince. You’ve got no idea. The rules and the steps and the expectations. You don’t get it.”
A grin, self-assured in a way that really should be annoying but somehow isn’t, slices through his face. “Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because. You keep suggesting things that go against everything I’m supposed to do.”
He cackles. “You’re really fucking dense, Your Highness.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t let yourself live. They’re only rules because people keep following them. If you stop? Someone else will. And then it all unravels. And there are no more stupid, stuffy rules. I’ve got a high-up, pressuring parent. And look at me.”
“I am looking at you. You don’t practice what you preach.”
“Don’t I?”
“No. Because you wouldn’t be here, you wouldn’t be a knight, if you stopped following rules.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then, “Yeah.” And neither of them talk again for a bit.
“Maybe we both need to learn to break free a little bit.”
And there, much to the prince’s pride, is that chaotic mess of a laugh again. It’s all raw, all real. Nothing like the cold voice he uses when he’s working. “Maybe we do.”
Then they split, and go to bed, and they go about the next day as normal. But neither forgets the conversation.
*
The throne room is chokingly beautiful.
It’s walled and floored by a wet-tone gray stone, each brick choppy and silky like ocean waves. From floor to ceiling, on the two side walls, hang these ornate, gorgeous tapestries, strung with gold and black and navy. All done in deep, chilly shades, each piece illustrating a crowned and armoured silhouette of shining thread; raising a sword, twirling a quill, addressing a crowd. There’s a layered, gold chandelier with curling candelabras and dangling tears of glittering blue goldstone that seems to be dripping from the centre of the ceiling. The door is boards of dark stained wood, and when they’re open there are twin guards standing stock still to hold them that way. The handles are carved to be identical lion heads, facing each other when the doors sit closed. And then, on the far wall, your eyes are pulled to the focal point of the room. There’s a semi-circle stack of stone steps, leading to this higher platform. Slits of coloured light are cut through the room by ceiling-high stained glass windows that illustrate similar images of an imposing, powerful figure in the same colours as the tapestries. And perched in its glowing gold glory, carved with swirly, vine-like designs and imagery, there’s a throne. It’s tall and shining and there, there, there. Everything about the room is glorious, in its own right. Beautiful. It’s the kind of room you could do anything in; write, paint, talk, marry, live, die; and have it feel sacred. It’s cool as waterside breeze and jewel-toned, and it feels like the most present thing in the world. It’s an almost religious experience, being in that room. Like it’s an altar. Like it’s a god. A beautiful, beautiful room.
And crown prince Evan Rosier hates it, in a way that burns and bites and scratches. He hates it. Hates it. Hates it.
He thinks it’s because of the voice that rings around it.
“I’m going to need you to try harder at this, Evan.”
It moves like a wind through a storm. Leading, harsh, cold. With a sharp and powerful tone to it that settles like ice water in your lungs. The Queen. Mom.
“I’m sorry, Maman.”
“Tell me. Tell me, my son, what is stopping you right now? What is stopping you from adding to the legacy your family holds? Because I’m here, spending my time, trying to listen to what the problem is. Trying to fix you. What, exactly, has gone so wrong?”
He feels sick.
I am, he thinks.
I am so wrong.
She doesn’t like the time it’s taking him to scrounge around for an answer. She scoffs. “A king will need to be quicker with his words, Evan.”
He chokes.
Queen Rosier is a chilly woman. Evan loves her, he does, but sometimes when she talks, he feels the chill of her voice, her expressions, of her, and he feels it frost and freeze at his blood. She’s tall, regal, stone-faced. Her skin is a bronzey-brown, and her light curls are bleached the signature Rosier blond. She wears clothes in the blue and gold and grays that she has colouring her throne room. She sits tall in her throne, with her husband and daughter beside her. Evan’s father is a distant man. He’s very hard to read. Very hard to stir. And his sister, Pandora, is lovely, But she scares easy and scares silent. So both of them stand at the Queen’s sides, looking like statues with pity in their eyes. His mother is mad. She’s mad in that freezing way that makes her eyes seem icey and her back straight and rigid. She’s mad.
In her defense, it’s his fault.
There’s been a proposal. To him. By the house Meadowes. A family with money, and influence, and sway.
The proposal happened earlier that day, at brunch. They were meant to talk about a business deal, where the Rosier’s would buy up some of the land that the Meadoweses owned. Boring, annoying. Nothing special.
But the father, Lord Meadowes, stood up, and gestured to his daughter. Her face was done in glittering makeup with silver sparkles, and her dress was layered, deep green satin. Long, dark hair, falling down her back and in front of her shoulders in locs, framed her face beautifully. Because she was. She was beautiful.
Which makes Evan a very stupid man.
Lord Meadowes’s speech was lengthy and useless. Ass-kissing, for lack of a more princely term. Yada yada, you’re a fine royal family, yada yada, we’re honoured to know you on this level, yada yada, we respect and honour you, yada yada. We want to offer your son our daughter’s hand in marriage. Yada yada.
The Rosiers are not in a good place right now. They’re losing the respect of the people. They’ve lost it, pretty much. Monarchy is crumbling. And the Meadowes? Everyone of value works with them. They basically control who ends up with what land. This proposal? Between a lovely, rich, well-respected lady and himself?
It’s everything that his family needs.
And the second that Dorcas Meadowes, his almost fiancée, looked at him, with her pearly white teeth in a small smile, Evan snapped.
“No.”
No.
He said no.
And really, from the bottom of his heart, he’s got no idea why.
His father saved it for him, as he always does. He’s a good talker. Liar, in honesty, but that means the same thing in politics. He means he can’t right now. He’s a family-driven soul, and we’ve got so much happening right now, as a family, that a wedding would be hard to pull off with the joy it deserves. If you would be so kind as to hold your offer, we’d be more than happy to arrange it when the time comes that he’s ready.
When he’s ready. That idea is ringing around in his head.
He said all of this while the queen glared icicle daggers into him. You, her eyes hissed. You’ve failed me.
Evan feels very faint, in the stoney confines of his throne room scolding. Because he knows exactly what this means. What it always means.
This is an infraction. And his mother has a way of dealing with infractions.
And he’s lucky, because she doesn’t hit him, or lock him away. She’s merciful, compared to other monarchs. But she really does know where Evan’s weaknesses are, because every time this happens, he wishes she’d just lash out at him. Every time Evan messes up, she knows how to hurt him with it.
“I can’t deal with you, right now.”
By letting someone else handle him.
“Guards!”
Clink, clink, tink, clang, clink. Evan doesn't have to look to see the sharp, silver shapes of his mother’s guards running up to his sides. They’re posted out in the hall, just behind the corners where the doors start to hide them. They always are, when his mom is around. It makes Evan feel like he’s always being watched. Like he’s always being guided.
When they reach him, his mother tells them to take him to his room. “When he’s packed, bring him out to the entrance. Make sure his knight comes too. I’ll have a carriage ready.”
The guards nod. Clink, goes the armour. That sound really bugs Evan. It scratches his ears as he’s brought out of the throne room, into the hall, and up the thin, spiral staircase that goes to his chambers.
*
“Ugh. I wish they’d tell me, before making us go places.”
Evan quirks a brow, taking nicely folded sweaters and dress pants and button ups and putting them in the big leather trunk he travels with. “And what did I just do?”
Barty tuts, tilting his head to the side, and drumming his fingers impatiently against the sword hilt sticking up from his side. That’s a common nervous tic of his, where he taps his fingers or the toes of his boots on things. He needs movement. Evan thinks it’s part of what makes him such a good knight. “I mean, like, in advance. Then I could actually pack something other than the armour on my back and a pocket-pouch of gold.”
Evan hums, moving on to packing inks and quills. “What would you pack, if you could?”
“Paints,” He says, without hesitation. And Evan knows this about Barty, that he loves art and creating and things like that, but it’s still hard for him to picture. Because it’s a side of him that Evan never gets to see.
The Rosiers have this tradition, about their knights. Many royal families have arranged marriages. From childhood, you know you’re to be wedded with this person your age in some other castle. But not the Rosiers. When you're born a Rosier, your parents scour noble families, and they find one with a child that will be around your age. And they’re raised to be your knight. The knight and the Rosier meet on the royal’s tenth birthday. And Evan’s knight is a boy called Bartemius Crouch. Junior, to be specific, which the boy finds ironic. Second to my dad in my job and in my name, he always says. Evan doesn’t like that he has to share his name. So he’s taken to calling him Barty. Barty seems to like it.
Technically, Barty works for Evan.
Technically.
“You know what we should do?” Evan says, clearly just thinking out loud. He’s looking out Evan’s bedroom window, at nothing in particular, with his dark brown hair swooping into his eyes and his lip pursed in thought.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“We should just, dip.”
“What, like, leave?”
Barty rolls his eyes. Eye rolling, thumb tapping, and laughing make up the triad making Barty himself. “No, like swim. What do you think, princey?”
“Ugh. That’s an awful nickname.”
“I’m glad you know why I use it. You haven't answered.”
“You’re an idiot, Crouch. We can’t just run away.”
“You rejected the marriage offer of a lifetime, Evan. Not to be blunt, but your life is about to suck. Might as well take the opportunity.”
Evan throws a paperback notebook at him. Barty swats it back, and it hits the bed with a pathetic little flmph. They’re both quiet for a second.
He knows Barty isn’t joking.
But neither is he.
Crown prince can’t run away. He wouldn’t do that. Not to his mom. Not to his sister.
Not to himself.
Barty gives in first, with a sigh and a dramatic bat at his gold visor, sliding it down over his eyes. Personal knights wear gold, not silver. “Alright. Fine. Whatever, I’m with you.”
And Evan knows he is. Because yes, Barty works for him. But he’s really his best friend. His person. His Barty. And he’s Barty’s Evan. Which is a better dynamic, Evan thinks. He’d rather have a friend he loves than a knight he doesn’t need. Physical defense isn’t something he’s ever needed. But he has needed a friend. And Barty is really, really good at it.
Barty, much to Evan’s appreciation, stops asking about running away, and breaking the rules. Instead he asks about how they’re going to follow them. “Where are we going? Do we know?”
And Evan’s stomach churns. His mother wants good disciplinarians who believe in their family’s legacy. And the Rosiers have always been close to the noble and most ancient house of Black.
He heard, from a travelling news-boy, that Prince Regulus was to be married.
He’s got an idea where they’re going.
“Evan?” Barty whispers, tilting close to him as they leave his room. He carries the giant trunk of clothes and papers without a change in his breathing. His strength always struck Evan a little. Impressive. “Where are we going?”
He scrunches his face. “Nowhere we’ll like.”