958 words | The black prince [WT] (after The tutors)
Content | Anxiety, touch of fantasy racism
Notes | Little timeskip because... hm. I'll write about the language lessons eventually probably
Orafin and Elgar have arrived at House Borrim, the countryside estate they'll recover at. They're too busy to angst much :( Better luck next episode hopefully >:)
As much as the crown had promised the estate would be »quiet«, the prince was receiving guests every day: nobles and other rich or important people, Elgar didn’t know, all wishing to see the prince, make sure he was alright, and that he knew they were all thinking of him.
Sometimes they came »alone«, which was what the prince called it when one of them arrived with only their attendants of lesser status, regardless if there was suddenly a dozen people more in the house. Sometimes they visited by twos and threes, and once a group of five dropped in all at once. The prince had a stern word with the secretary—or whatever his position might have been called—in charge of managing the visits after, and it didn’t happen again.
Even so, it was exhausting.
Technically, Elgar hadn’t been required to stay with the prince during these visits. But he didn’t know what else to do — the thought of running into a visitor, servant or not, on his own somewhere was terrifying, and sometimes even being alone, away from the prince’s protection, made him nervous. And then, more and more, as the prince started to sign at least his greetings and such, he found himself translating for him.
It simply happened, at first. It was too awkward to bear to see the prince sign a warm welcome at another noble and be met with confused looks.
Maybe these people should learn to understand sign. Maybe they would have to. But there were always new ones, so it seemed like it would never end.
And if he was honest… he was glad to be helping the prince out, even in such a little, insignificant way. It felt like he was doing something to earn what he was getting.
»Your Highness! Permit me-«
Today’s visitor was a young man who, compared to the people who had dropped by so far, looked downright bedraggled. Fancy, still, but a bit disorderly, his hair in disarray and his clothes in creases.
But the prince had leapt to his feet when the doorman had announced one Baron Lifan Irozaen, and once he saw him, skipped past any words and threw his arms around him.
»I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,« the visitor mumbled into his shoulder, holding him tight, and sounded like he meant it. »I was on the road, down south managing shipments, I came as fast as I could — oh, my Prince, I’m so glad you’re alive.«
The prince patted the baron’s back, and when they parted, there were tears in his eyes. But then, he quickly turned and gestured at Elgar, smiling.
They had agreed on this procedure. The prince couldn’t introduce Elgar, so he had to do it himself.
»I am… Elgar, your, uh… Baron. His Highness and I… escaped together. It is an honour to meet you.«
The baron, exchanging a quick glance with the prince, crossed the distance between them in two long strides, and clasped Elgar’s hands in his own.
»I didn’t think I’d be saying this to a Teeradian, but thank you,« he said. »His Highness has written to me about… your services. Your great courage.«
Words failed Elgar; he had no idea what to do with the nobleman suddenly holding his hands almost like an equal. He threw a desperate glance at the prince, who smiled and nodded at him, but then, sensing his distress, moved in and laid a hand on the baron’s shoulder.
The baron furrowed his brow in confusion, but chased it off with a smile as he let go of Elgar, and followed the prince to a couch.
There they sat, exchanging tales scrawled hastily on the prince’s slate, or caught between the baron’s rapid speech and exuberant gestures.
They were too fast for Elgar to follow, but he didn’t remember ever seeing the prince smile so much.
*
Another day had passed, and it was time to sup and retire. Orafin was starting to get used to it, again. At first, resuming his duties in welcoming guests had felt stressful, but it came more naturally every day.
A few of them Orafin considered genuine friends, and every one had been wonderful to see again when he had almost thought he never would. But hugging Lifan again was on a whole different level. His heart felt warm and alive.
»Who was that?« Elgar asked. He was getting more comfortable just talking to him, Orafin felt — asking questions and even making requests sometimes. The other day after dinner he had, very quietly, entrusted to Orafin that he disliked artichokes, and would prefer not to be served them again. It was such a silly little thing, but Orafin had stifled his laughter. This all had been hard for Elgar, and he didn’t want to ruin the progress he was making towards being as comfortable as he deserved to be.
»My friend,« was all he could sign yet in response, but that didn’t begin to cover it. He wrote on his slate, carefully printing each letter — Elgar was making great progress with his reading, but he didn’t need to make it harder for him. My best friend in the whole world.
Elgar read, his brows knitted together in concentration. Then, he smiled — his smiles kept coming easier, too, although there was a glint of concern in his eyes; Orafin didn’t know what for. »Ah. You must be… I mean, obviously you were very glad to see him again.«
Orafin simply nodded, smiling himself. He’d see Lifan a lot, at least for a while, and that was wonderful. The baron loved to keep busy, but Orafin had no doubt he’d make time for him.
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