Alphonse's movements stuttered and he looked up at Perroy, eyes wide. "Oh! Uh, thank— thank you." The Prince wasn't sure if it was actually possible for him to turn a deeper shade of scarlet, but his body seemed determined to try. He quickly lowered his face again, trying to hide behind the shield of his busy hands and mumbled, "That's— that's very nice of you to say."
No one had ever said anything like that to him before. No one had ever complimented him the way Perroy had been doing these past days generally, but there was something about the specificity of this particular comment that made Alphonse's heart skip a beat. It made him feel not just handsome but… beautiful. Pretty, even. And that was a very unfamiliar sensation but not, Alphonse found, an unwelcome one.
In which I am OOC and operating as a raving Balphonse fanboy.
The piece below is about parts 1-5 of On The Eve of Battle, inspired most specifically by the final line of part 5 but encompassing various scenarios along the way. The poem probably won't make much sense outside of its context so hey, maybe click the link and go read the context first, it's just a casual 50K+ medieval fantasy homoerotic proto-novel unspooling itself onto knightblr, no big deal seriously though go feed it through your eyeballs immediately it's amazing.
.
Hardly
.
The first inconvenient whisper of feelings
Is hardly a strain to decline.
But when Prince lacks protector whose fealty is sure,
When shadows of sabotage lurk at the door:
Well, seduction is nothing I've not done before
In the course of my dealings -
It's fine.
.
A poison catastrophe brought within manage
Should hardly deserve such relief.
Far fairer reward in the blow that was smote
On the lip of the negligent; heart in my throat
As bemused royal fingers to injury float
And alight on said damage -
Good grief.
.
When a penchant for teasing turns somewhat obsessive
It's hardly a comforting sign.
Observance of etiquette smartly in breach
From a wandering boot to a marzipan peach
And while Tongue is preoccupied, Heart makes its speech
In a cadence possessive -
All mine.
.
His gaze is as warm as the water, and though I
Can hardly be said to be slow
Confusion is rising, an ominous tide
Beneath waves of delectable rocking astride,
Held at bay for a spell by the thrust and the glide
Of the chase to our union, 'til gently I'm pried
From the ocean, with care, and with nowhere to hide
From his arms and his face and his joy and his pride
A collaboration between @fruityprinceling and @your-evil-adviser
This post will be updated with links as we go so that there's a central navigation point for all of the upcoming chapters. For the moment we will be posting two chapters per day up until the point where we reach new content; after that, new chapters will be posted once they're done!
Content warnings (to be updated as we go): explicit sexual content; violence, gore and combat; mentions of torture.
We (@knightly-observer & myself) are so grateful for your patience as our collab has ballooned far beyond the typical Tumblr rp. In the interest of cleaning up your dashes and restoring scrollability to our blogs, we've decided to take a brief break to reformat/restructure and will soon be re-releasing the story thus far and all future updates in Chapters!
While this does mean there will be longer gaps between updates as we write behind-the-scenes, we hope that this change will make it easier for those of you who've been following along (we love you so so much) to catch up without having to pick your way through reblog after reblog.
We'll be creating a centralized MasterPost with links to all chapters as they're released, so look out for that soon. We will also be creating a standardized tag [#balphonse ] for ease of searching or blocking (for those who are tired of our nonsense) all future related posts.
Thank you so much to those of you who have left comments or likes on the story as we've written it to this point. Your enthusiasm and support means so much to us, and we hope you'll continue to enjoy where it leads next. <3
[masterpost | a collaboration with @your-evil-adviser]
The Prince gazed at himself in the mirror as his servant secured the straps of his gambeson, face carefully neutral. The servant turned, reaching for the maile that lay ready beside —
"Wait."
The servant paused, "My Lord?"
"I wish to pray for victory. Leave me to my solitude. I shall summon you when I am ready to resume."
"Of course, your Highness."
The servant dipped a quick bow before exiting the tent, the heavy canvas parting and allowing the cacophonous sounds of the camp's preparations to penetrate within. The fabric fell back into place and, once more, all was muffled. Wrapped in this temporary cocoon, the Prince released a sigh and allowed himself to sit on the edge of his cot, head in his hands.
His shoulders slumped and he blew out a long slow breath. Trembling fingers along his scalp, before he raised his face upward towards the canopy above him, wishing he could gaze upon the serenity of the stars instead.
There were mere hours 'till dawn and then… war.
It would not be the first time the Prince led his men against opposing forces, but the prospect never seemed to get easier. Beyond consulting with his generals and tacticians to ensure they were prepared and could hopefully spare the lives of as many in their number as possible, the Prince had another task: to show no fear. His purpose, above all else, was to project an air of such complete and controlled confidence that it would inspire his men on to victory and convince them that it was worthy and just to fight in service of The Crown. There could be no cracks, no stutters or stumbles. He must stare unflinchingly into the face of Death and lead these men forward, many of whom would not return.
He thought back to the days of his youth, to the sparring lessons he and his brother — now, the King — had been forced to take, and how often they would try to weasel out of practice with one of myriad excuses. How the Captain of their father's guard would furrow his brow and frown before launching into another lecture about the importance of discipline and how these lessons were to ensure the safety of the kingdom by making sure that the future heirs knew the business end of a sword from the scabbard.
But there had only ever been one Heir in truth, and he now sat upon the throne in the Capital with his Queen and his own heirs. Sometimes the Prince considered that he should be grateful to still draw breath at all; certainly he'd heard of the redundant brothers of other kings meeting with sudden and unfortunate accidents after their elder's ascension or finding themselves executed for conspiracy against the Crown. He knew all to well how easy it would be for the King's advisors to see him as redundant. An impediment to the nation's stability.
It was difficult to feel terribly grateful though when he'd spent the better part of his brother's marriage and nearly the whole of his nephew's lives on the battlefield. It felt as though, rather than directly eliminate the competition to the young Crown Prince's seat, the Council of Ministers would just as soon allow their enemies to solve the problem for them. And yet… the Prince still lived. Though it had been a close thing on a number of occasions, the Prince somehow managed to claw his way through to a new dawn again and again.
He was careful not to inspire too much loyalty with the men, to allow himself to be seen as some manner of hero to rival the throne. Likewise, he carefully avoided becoming too familiar with the nobles in the scant times he returned to Court, lest it be said that he was attempting to win supporters in an imagined play for power. No, he instead had spent these past years teetering on the knife's edge: delicately balancing every moment, every interaction, every expression. He was diligent and thorough in his reports. He took no lovers amongst the women of the camp, or towns the army marched through, nor any lovers at all in truth.
He did not carouse with his men, taking most meals in the privacy of his quarters or else during tactical discussions with the generals. He was precise and calculated in his meting out of praise, careful to never appear to favor any one of his soldiers over the others, while still rewarding those who performed their duties admirably and encouraging overall morale. He must always be separate, always apart. He must allow no space for suspicion or doubt to take root.
Only in these quiet stolen moments could he ease the white knuckled grip he kept on his meticulously constructed mask. Only here, alone, could he be himself. Not The Prince, but merely a man, frightened and weary before the break of a dawn which could be his last.
—
The prince's moment of peace was fleeting.
The flap of the tent opened, the hubbub of the world outside creeping once more into his fragile oasis. The figure which paused in the opening was not the servant who had left, but someone taller, dressed in unarmoured dusty black which seemed out of place here, with war so close on the horizon.
The man was one of his brother's advisers: the most recent appointee on the Council of Ministers. His eyes were sharp, but their path unhurried as he took in the Prince's posture.
In his hands, he held a sword by the scabbard. The mark of the Crown glinted just under his fingers, identifying it as part of the royal arms - the Prince's own sword.
The man's bow in greeting was almost incidental, as if he had half forgotten to make it. "Your Highness," he said, allowing the flap to fall behind him again, once more sealing them inside the relative calm of the tent. "My apologies for the intrusion. I came to deliver an item somewhat vital for the coming day. I had not realised you were still here, or I would have announced myself before I entered."
He proffered the sword and scabbard, hilt extended towards the Prince. "I believe it was taken for maintenance of some variety. Imagine my surprise when I discovered it had not yet been returned to you. It would not do to have our brave Prince scrambling for weaponry at the sound of the approaching army's war horns."
—
Prince Alphonse rose from his seat, his face resuming its habitual mask of polite neutrality. He stepped forward to accept the weapon, the weight of it devastatingly familiar in his hands.
He inclined his head in greeting to his visitor. "Chancellor Perroy, what an unexpected pleasure. I wouldn't think someone of your noble stature would demean himself to play errand boy, even for a Prince, but I thank you for your generosity and thoughtfulness."
He pulled the sword free from its sheath, examining it in the lamplight. As usual, the armorers had done excellent work and the blade shone with brilliant and deadly beauty. The cutting edges were finely honed and free of chips or notches, ready to slice cleanly through soft flesh and tendon alike. It seemed almost a shame that something so artful and lovely would be put to such violent and bloody work.
He caught sight of his reflection in the flat of his blade, the polished surface showing him the glimmer of regret in his eyes. He returned the sword to its scabbard before he could glimpse more, and redirected his attention onto his guest.
"All appears as it should. Forgive me, Chancellor, I was not expecting guests or I would have prepared to show you proper hospitality. In truth, I am surprised to see you so far from my brother's Council chambers. Is there some message you bear from the King? Is all well in Court?"
—
"All is well, Your Highness, no need for concern." Perroy inclined his head, taking a polite step backwards and linking his hands behind his back. "I can hardly fault you for being ill-prepared for guests when you are hours away from battle. As for playing errand boy..." A measured smile lifted the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained unchanged. "I am a servant of the Crown in all ways, including this. I would fulfil my role poorly if I was to allow personal pride to get in the way of doing my duty. I would not like to have seen the circumstance in which you rode into battle with an unfamiliar weapon at your side."
At any other time, this would likely have been the polite moment to say his goodbyes and leave. Instead, the Chancellor made no such move. He stood where he was, still studying the Prince.
"Forgive me for asking, Your Highness. But you do not appear entirely well-rested. Much as I assume it to be a redundant question, considering your circumstances... are you well?"
—
Alphonse froze, momentarily taken aback. Had he been so transparent that this man, a relative stranger, saw through his careful facade? No, the Chancellor simply happened to walk in at an inopportune time, no more.
Recovering, the Prince chuckled dryly. "Rare is the man who can get a full-night's rest with combat on the horizon. All the same, I thank you for your concern; I am quite well. There are simply many preparations to be made before I am to lead His Majesty's forces against our enemies and my time has been well occupied."
It was not lost on the Prince how artfully Perroy sidestepped the question of his presence in the camp, and he was unsure if the question was worth pursuing with so little time left before dawn. Perhaps it was of little consequence. Either he would not live to see the Chancellor again — in which case the point was moot — or he would survive the day and have an opportunity to ask him more about his business later.
He paused a moment, more fully taking in the man who stood before him. His eyes traced the fine, somber robes of office Perroy wore, absently noting the way they would provide meager protection on the battlefield.
"I trust you will remain here in camp where it is safe while we ride out? My brother would, I think, be most displeased with me were I to allow his newest minister to meet with harm so soon after your appointment. Your skill and service to the Crown are too valuable to risk losing to some boorish foreign soldier."
—
Perroy's laugh in response was more of a brief expulsion of air from his lungs than anything else. "I have no intention of straying from the safety of the camp, Your Highness. I am not a man designed for combat." He motioned downwards at his slim, wiry form. "I shall leave the heroism to you and your men."
He paused then, as if considering saying more, but appeared to reconsider. Instead he bowed gracefully. "As you say, you have preparations to make, so I will take my leave. May your sword strike true, Your Highness, and your shield arm remain steady. I will let the Council, and His Majesty, know that you and your men are in fine spirits. Should they enquire, of course."
If this last addition was at all curious, the Chancellor did not wait for Prince Alphonse to press. Rather than waiting for the royal's dismissal, he turned to part the fabric of the tent and stepped once more out into the camp's noisy preparations for battle. The flap swished closed behind him. The tent was even quieter for his departure - an odd, expectant stillness.
—
Alphonse stood in the tent, staring at the tent flap as though Chancellor Perroy would re-emerge at any moment. Several heartbeats passed in silent stillness before the Prince shook himself free of the strange sensation left in the minister's wake. He closed his eyes, steeling himself for what was to come. There was no time left for delay.
He opened the flap himself and called out to the guards stationed beyond, "Send for my servant. Tell him I'm ready now."
[ previous | masterpost | a collaboration with @fruityprinceling ]
The sounds of battle filled the air, along with the smell of fresh blood, sweat, and tilled earth. Prince Alphonse sat atop his horse, thighs gripping the heaving sides of the war-beast as he swung his sword, slicing through the cloth armor of an enemy soldier and slinging blood across his nearby ally's face. In an attempt to avenge his mortally wounded friend, the man — more a boy in truth, likely conscripted straight from his father's fields — swung out with his weapon, a modified farming tool Alphonse could not identify.
The Prince's horse reared back, striking out with steel shod hooves and braining the would-be warrior with a single blow. The boy collapsed in a heap, never to rise again. Atop the beast, Alphonse flexed his muscles to remain upright as the horse sent her weight backwards. Years of training let his body take over the task, leaving his mind free to survey the nearby—
Something was wrong. He felt the shift as the strap of his saddle snapped and came loose, the sound of the leather breaking lost amid the screams and cries of man and beast alike. He fell through the air, sent flying by the momentum of his steed, and crashed to the earth. His body struck the ground with such force that for a time the chaos of the field was drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in his head.
He staggered to his feet, grateful to discover he'd managed to keep his grip on his sword at least. He was given the barest moment to take in the scene around him — his war horse continuing to buck and strike out at the men around her, the press of bodies on all sides locked in mortal struggle — before he saw the blade bearing down on him.
His reflexes responded to the threat before his mind could finish processing it, parrying the blow and delivering a counter attack. The sound of his heart pounding thundered in his ears. He swung with his gauntled off-hand fist, striking his opponent across the jaw while they were focused on his sword arm. They fell, and with a cry ripped from deep within his soul, Alphonse dealt the killing blow.
———//———
"Aaaugh!"
Prince Alphonse screamed, throwing the clay goblet to smash against the hard ground, wine splattering like so much spilled blood. "I don't want any sodding wine! I want someone to tell me who is responsible for the fact my tack was so ill-maintained that I was nearly trampled by my own BLOODY HORSE!"
The camp steward cowered in front of the furious royal, bowing and beating a hasty withdrawal out of the Prince's tent. "Yes, your Highness. Of course, your Highness! R-right away, your Highness." He slipped out through the flap, the servant who served as the Prince's squire likewise electing to vacate in his wake.
The Prince stood alone in the tent, still wearing his mud and blood spattered armor, chest heaving with fury, and adrenaline…. and fear. He felt the tell tale warning prickles of tears threatening to spill and instead he roared again, grasping a nearby chair and hurling it at the tent flap after the retreating figures. He heard the wood clatter across the ground outside.
He turned away and with shaking fingers, began attempting to undo the straps holding his gauntlets on. He needed to get this damn armor off so he could wash away the grime and filth that stained his skin beneath.
—
Outside the tent, Perroy paused as the chair clattered across the ground in front of him, one of the legs now slightly askew. He looked down at it for a moment, frowning, and then looked up at the tent. He'd observed the hurried exodus of both steward and squire; he suspected most in earshot had noted the Prince's current state of temper.
To the Chancellor's knowledge, the Prince was not a man who shouted. Not like this, at least. There were plenty of those with royal blood who were known for their tantrums, whether that be when they were deep in their cups or when they were denied something they felt was rightfully deserved. Plenty more simply enjoyed the opportunity to strike fear into those who could not fight back for fear of the consequences.
Alphonse was not one of them. In fact, for a man of his station his reputation was curiously restrained. In Perroy's experience there were always rumours, and the higher up a person was in the kingdom's social hierarchy, the more likely the rumours were to be wild, lascivious and entirely unbelievable - though not always untrue. And yet Prince Alphonse - brother to the king and the man who lead his armies into battle - had a reputation which was, frankly, boring.
Perroy found that fascinating.
He lifted the flap of the tent and stepped inside. "Your Highness," he greeted him calmly, as if he hadn't just heard the tent's previous two visitors being shouted out of it. "I'm glad to see you survived the battle intact."
—
It took every ounce of the Prince's remaining willpower not to whirl around and face Perroy with his teeth bared. His nerves still sang with the song of war and everything felt like a new and imminent threat. He needed to get a grip and contain himself. He'd spent too many years working too hard not to rock the proverbial boat to allow himself spin out of control like this.
He closed his eyes, taking a quiet but intentional breath. In... Out... He stood straighter , purposefully lowering his shoulders and assuming his usual upright posture. There was little he could do about the tremors in his hands.
He turned. "Chancellor." His greeting and tone were polite, though there was still an undercurrent of strain. He cleared his throat. "Hm-hm. Yes, I am fortunate indeed to be able to speak with you again. I apologize for receiving you in such a state." He glanced down at his soiled armor. "…My squire appears to be busy attending to other tasks."
—
Perroy's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he didn't interrupt the Prince in clawing back his composure. Rather, he watched him - as if this act in itself was something to be analysed. This was more like the Prince of rumours, but at the same time, a man so tightly controlled was certainly not boring. This - for that mere second before he'd drawn himself back in - was a wildfire of a man, reeking of death, with flashing eyes and the demeanour of a cornered wolf.
"Yes, I heard," he said of the squire. "As did most of the camp in a certain radius of your tent. I believe you may have broken your chair. I shall have another one fetched to replace it." Glancing down at the Prince's shaking hands, he wisely did not comment. Instead he stepped forward, motioning for the Prince to hold out his arms for Perroy to undo the straps of his gauntlets.
—
Alphonse flinched internally and felt his cheeks grow hot at the... well, if not quite a rebuke, the acknowledgement of his gross breech of decorum. He hesitated as the Chancellor drew near, muscles still coiled and braced for danger, but he forced himself not to take a step back. Instead, he offered his forearms as directed, feeling not entirely unlike a chastised child.
He cleared his throat again as he watched the lithe fingers of the man before him nimbly work the tight straps loose with a grace that had eluded the Prince mere moments before. "This is very kind of you. I-" His voiced faltered as he fought to restore his usual self possession.
"It was... unbecoming of me to lose my temper like that. I know that my behavior was unfit for a Prince and besmirches the good name of the King. I will not sully my honor further by asking you not to report my lapse in judgement, though I hope I have not lowered myself too much in your esteem for having to witness such... petulance."
—
Drawing one of the gauntlets off and placing it on the closest surface, Perroy simply hummed. "You have had a stressful day, Your Highness," he said. "I am not here to tell tales of your conduct." He moved onto the other gauntlet, sliding that free as well. With a curious lack of concern at the contact he caught Alphonse's hand between his fingers, turning it gently to check for injury. "Will you tell me what happened on the field? I have heard camp gossip of you being unmounted, and I heard you mention your tack. The girth snapped?"
His tone of voice was calm - the kind of manner one would use in speaking to a nervous animal. His focus was not on the Prince's face but his hands, as if all of this was entirely normal.
"Regardless, I will speak with the stables and ascertain who was responsible for the upkeep on your tack. It's a privileged position, and one which should not be taken lightly. This misstep could have cost you your life, after all."
This time, his eyes flickered up to meet the Prince's. They were dark, flecked with gold; the lashes surprisingly long. They were also entirely unreadable, a studied blankness which rivaled the Prince's own mask.
—
A frisson flickered its way across Alphonse's arm and down his spine at the brush of the Chancellor's skin against his. It had been so long since he'd felt any human touch which wasn't either the perfunctory hands of servants or the clashing violence of combat. He was unsettled to be treated with such... gentleness. Maybe even, care.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. When he found his voice again, it was quiet, as though he was afraid that if he spoke too loudly it would shatter this glittering moment. "Y-yes. Thank you. I don't know what happened exactly, but one moment I was on my horse, the next I was on the ground. I felt the saddle come loose beneath me. Then-"
He cut himself off. He didn't want to relive the rest of the fighting, not when the screams of dying men still rang in his ears. He continued, "Afterwards, when the battle was won, I found my horse still alive but without her saddle. I took her to the grooms to be cared for, then came here and sent for the steward. Then... well, I'm afraid you were witness to at least part of that conversation."
He'd been staring into the middle distance as he recounted the events of the battle, only bringing his sight and focus back to the present to find the minister's eyes meeting his. He felt gooseflesh erupt across his body. Though there was no flirtation or impropriety in the Chancellor's gaze, Alphonse felt his blood quicken in his veins.
This.... this was simply an after effect of the heightened emotions of battle! Never mind how good it felt to stand this close to someone. Never mind the surprising beauty in those eyes that held Alphonse fast, the way those soft, slender fingers felt on his bruised, calloused hands. These feelings were nothing more than a momentary delusion brought on by a brush with Death! He could not allow his earlier lapse to begin his descent into a madness that would surely only end with his execution or exile.
—
As if sensing the threat of temporary madness, Perroy's eyes sharpened momentarily before dropping once more to the Prince's knuckles. He brushed his thumb lightly over the bruises there, not pressing hard enough to cause pain - just testing.
"I see. So the saddle is lost to the post-battle morass." A convenient state of affairs, to be sure; there was no way of checking to see if the saddle had been badly maintained or deliberately cut. "Are you injured from the fall, Your Highness? Has anyone had a chance to check, or did you scare away the physician, too?" He arched an eyebrow questioningly.
It did rather interest him that the Prince's first instinct was to cry ill maintenance rather than a deliberate attempt to harm. There was a refreshing but concerning lack of paranoia in it - at least, if he was being genuine in that response. Perroy would certainly have lied, in his shoes.
—
Alphonse felt his ears flush to match his cheeks. What was happening to him?! He was a master of self-control. It had been the only thing keeping him alive these past years since the birth of the new Crown Prince. Who was this man that he seemed to slip beneath Alphonse's guard as smoothly as a dagger between unarmored ribs?
The thrum of his heartbeat obscured any pain he might've felt from the press of the other man's fingers, but not the way that same touch brushed against his skin like silken sheets. He nearly missed the Chancellor's question, his focus not wanting to shift from that shared point of contact.
"The physician? What- Oh. No, I... I did not send for him. I do not have any obvious wounds and there are men who need far more urgent tending. I would not call him away from those he might save simply because I had a fall."
At the thought of those who now lay dead or dying in the aid tents, he felt his blood chill, the color leaving his face. He felt shame. Shame for throwing a tantrum worthy of a child while there were men he'd led into battle still fighting for their lives. So what if a tired stable hand had forgotten to double check his saddle's girth? At least he was fortunate enough to still draw breath and not be screaming in agony under the surgeon's knife, begging for the release of oblivion. He should have waited until the morning to seek answers from the Steward. He should've known better than to fly off the handle while his fear and anger ran unchecked.
—
"And you did not hit your head when you fell?" Perroy persisted. On the one hand, the Prince would likely have been either dead or far more addled, if he had. On the other, his being addled would certainly explain a few things. "You're right - the physicians will be busy with more pressing cases. But you would not be the first man to die unexpectedly after a blow to the head."
And what a convenient excuse that would be, especially if the physician had not checked him. It added an element of plausible deniability - the proud Prince, refusing medical treatment and limping onwards only to pass quietly in the night. There were ways to make a death like that look natural, even if it was the kind of death suited to a much older man, not one in his prime.
The thought occurred to him suddenly that it would be safest for the Prince not to spend the night alone. Whether or not the possibly of sabotage had occurred to Alphonse, it had certainly occurred to Perroy, and he did not know who was responsible for it. That meant that anyone and everyone was a potential culprit.
—
Prince Alphonse frowned, considering Perroy's words. It was true that he'd known men who seemed fine after combat only to succumb to unseen wounds within hours or days later. He knew he should heed the man's council.
"You are wise indeed, Chancellor. I see that my brother chose well when he appointed you to number amongst his ministers. Perhaps it is best to be thorough; I concede to your better judgement. It seems the heat of my blood has hindered my prudence."
He bowed his head to Perroy. Then, with more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge, gently extricated his hands from the Chancellor's grasp. "Excuse me a moment."
He moved past the man and made his way to the tent flap, pulling it aside to lean out and speak to his guards. To their credit, they did not flinch or otherwise startle when he emerged. Alphonse saw that someone must have removed the ill-fated chair during the course of his conversation with the minister.
His voice was its usual calm timbre as he spoke, "Send someone to fetch a physician. Do not interrupt those tending to the grievously wounded, it is a small matter."
The guard he directed his words towards gave a sharp bow and a crisp "Sir!" before flagging down a nearby page. Prince Alphonse withdrew into his tent and let the flap fall shut behind him.
He took a couple steps over to the large map table Chancellor Perroy had lain his discarded gauntlets upon and set about the work of dislodging those straps on the remainder of his armor he could reach himself. He did not look at the Chancellor as he worked for fear the strange spell which overtook him before would once again seize him in its grip.
"There now; a physician has been sent for and will arrive in due course, I'm sure. I am grateful for the boon of your council and your... grace about my unseemly outburst. I am fortunate to receive either, much less both."
—
"Not at all, Your Highness," Perroy said, inclining his head politely. He took a step back, clasping his hands once more behind him. "Think nothing of it. I am, of course, your humble servant."
Though the Prince's back was turned, he watched what little he could see of his face with clinical curiosity. His earlier flush had not escaped him, and it had struck Perroy once more as strange. After all, the Prince was not a man known for his dalliances - yet another factor in his oddly nondescript reputation. And yet a simple touch of the hands, albeit at a moment of vulnerability, had reduced him to blushes and verbal stumbling.
How had a man like that not already been thoroughly seduced? Perroy, not even looking for it, had scented weakness like blood in the water. Granted, the Prince's influence lay largely in the military realm, but royalty was royalty. One did not turn one's nose up at having a Prince on side.
Perroy had been correct. This man was fascinating.
And regretfully, someone was trying to kill him.
Which meant that the Prince's clear weakness in this area presented a particular challenge. When sabotaging his gear before battle did not work, no doubt whoever was targeting would move onto other methods. If Perroy had been the one responsible, his first move would have been to send an assassin in the night to make it appear as though the Prince had succumbed to hidden injuries.
His second, when the first failed, would be to send a pretty, attentive man with a vial of poison up his sleeve.
So for his own protection, the Prince needed to be both accompanied at night - and his romantic attentions occupied enough that he would not be easily seduced by some eyelash-fluttering wasp, poison sting hidden.
"Wise of Your Highness to attend to his health," he murmured, realising he had been lost in thought for a good moment, his eyes still fixed on the side of Alphonse's head. "It would be a great loss for you to fall in your prime, Your Highness. Some men can be so eager to discard good advice. I am pleased to discover you are not one of them."
—
The Prince made a sort of grunting noise of assent, focusing his attentions on stretching and reaching for the remaining anchor points of his plate which seemed to lie just beyond his reach. This really wasn't a task easily done by the person wearing the armor. Where was his squire?
Alphonse knew the physician would need to be able to lay hands on him in order to do a proper evaluation, and that would be rather difficult when he was not unlike a turtle in its shell. What he really wanted was to wash, the sweat and filth of combat coarse and itchy where it lay beneath the layers of his clothing. A part of him was surprised that the Chancellor did not recoil from his presence — surely the stink off him must fill the tent.
Perhaps if his servant ever did rematerialize, he would see if it was possible to have a proper bath prepared. If not, he would make do with a basin and cloth, but it would be so lovely to really scrub his skin clean — even if there was nothing to be done about the stains on his soul.
The thought of unsullied skin made him recall the feeling of Lord Perroy's hands and brought his attention back to a sharper awareness of the other man's proximity. Why was he here? Both in his tent and in the camp at large. Alphonse assumed the Chancellor was there to check up on him, but to what purpose?
It had been some time since he was last at Court, the most recent occasion being when Perroy was not yet appointed — though of course, the Prince had seen him there, pointed out as a candidate by another noble and briefly introduced. He tried to recall if he'd exhibited any behavior that would have drawn the Council's attention or ire and could think of nothing. He'd been polite but reserved, just as he always was. He'd demurred from attempts to make him recount his exploits on the field — as though the slaughter of men and boys was something to be acclaimed rather than a horror — and been judicious in his drinking, retiring alone to his chambers at an appropriate time before the true carousing began.
Perhaps it was something to do with the army? The current campaign had so far been a success with more wins than losses and a strategically "acceptable" number of casualties according to the generals. Supply lines remained strong and were no more of a strain on the kingdom's stores than previous undertakings of this sort, so far as Alphonse was aware. He was prompt and thorough in his regular reports. What then?
It seemed indiscrete to ask outright. The Chancellor may have shown him an unexpected amount of compassion thus far, but Alphonse was keenly aware that this was the King's man and should be treated as an extension of the Crown's power. Perhaps that was the root of his unusual nervousness since Perroy first visited his tent. Or perhaps the minister was right and between the blow to his head when he'd been unseated and the stress of combat, he was simply having a transient attack of nerves.
—
Perroy seized his chance. "Allow me, Your Highness." He stepped forward once more to aid him with the closure of the plated armour. This was definitely a task better suited to a squire than a man who'd touched more contracts than blades, but he knew the theory well enough - it didn't take an intellectual to see what needed to be done to free the Prince from his prison. And if Perroy took the opportunity to touch him a little more - in passing, of course, nothing obvious enough to comment upon - then that was all the more useful. Just a gentle brush of fingers here and there, incidental to what he was doing.
The physician arrived just as the last of the pieces of armour was removed, and Perroy stepped back smoothly. It was clear that the man was half expecting to receive the same manner of tongue lashing as the squire and the steward, his shoulders squared bravely. But Alphonse had once more regained his composure. Perroy watched him, thoughtful, as he answered questions with his usual politeness and regard. If he hadn't witnessed his behaviour earlier he might not have believed it happened at all.
The Prince was a liar, he realised with interest. A liar in that most fundemental way of almost everyone who'd ever set foot in court already at a disadvantage. The kind of ruse meant for defense.
The Prince's health was deemed acceptable, but before the physician could quite finish delivering his report the Chancellor held up a hand. "Let's not bother His Highness with such details," he murmured, motioning for the physician to step outside. The man blinked, glancing from Perroy to the Prince and back again.
"I-"
"Out. The Prince needs his privacy. You may report to me, and anything pertinent I will report back," Perroy said, crowding him out of the tent in a businesslike manner. Once outside he turned to him, lowering his voice. "I'm concerned about the Prince's state. While you reported he is likely not suffering from direct head trauma, a jolt like that could still have had adverse consequences, correct?"
The physician frowned. "Well, I suppose-"
"His behaviour has been somewhat - erratic," Perroy said, leaning in with the air of someone sharing a secret. "I don't believe it should be lasting, but it would be safer to keep him under observation, don't you agree?"
"We - we don't have the staff to spare for-"
"- not to worry. I will be able to keep watch over him, and then if anything happens overnight I will be able to summon you," Perroy said briskly, no longer whispering. "Your insight is appreciated. A meal, plenty to drink, some rest, and observation. An insightful diagnosis. Please, you may return to your other charges. Thank you for your time." He waved over a page. "Fetch hot water for his Highness, if you please. And if you see his squire, let him know that his services are not required for the evening." He went to step back inside the tent.
