A Royal Itch

OOC: This is a long-ish narration, spanning a few decades of Wyld's past. It'll likely be in a few parts, so check back for updates if you're interested.



"Why do you cry so, Mother?" The little Prince might have been just seven years old, but nobody could say he was ill-mannered, despite the seeming best efforts of his father. He spoke to her in her own tongue, the rythmic language of her birthland, the tongue that had blessed him with his impossible name. The sound of it made the weeping woman smile through her veil of tears.

"You would not understand, Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen." That made him grin in spite of his concern for her; so few called him anything but Little Prince, or Prince Wyld. Whenever she spoke his name he felt taller than the tree-folk of the East. "Your father did...a very bad thing, that hurt me." She sobbed again and drew him into her arms, blessing his forehead with wet, tearstained kisses.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen did not understand, truly. How could the King hurt his own mother so? "But...why?" He mumbled, his voice muffled through the fabric at her breast. All he got in reply were more sobs, and rocking. Tears bloomed at the corners of his own eyes, and fear welled in his heart, for his father had warned him never to cry. Women cried, maidens and washers, not Princes of the Realm. If the King caught him weeping with his mother, he was in for another lesson with brambles for certain. His arse still tingled from the last time the King's maid had switched him.

Still he clung to Blodeuwedd, his mother, the Queen of Nharati. She clung right back even while she crumbled beneath the weight of her husband's unnamed deceit. Long after, when she finally dismissed him, he promised to never let his father hurt her so again. She cheered him with one of their private smiles. "Don't do that, my love," she sighed in the more common Nharatese spoken throughout the castle. "Tell him nothing of this day. Forget that you wept with me...go and play with your brothers." Blodeuwedd had given her husband three sons. Wyld was the oldest, and the only one to share her tongue, for the other two were taken care of by nursemaids under the more direct tutelage of their father.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen nodded, wiping the last of his own tears from the corner of his eye. "Yes, Mother...please don't cry anymore." Only when she made him that promise did he run along, to find his younger siblings.



The laughter from the corridor spilled over into Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen's sleeping chambers, stirring him from his fitful slumber. Some ball or another roared in the floors below, but apparently a few partygoers had decided to take the celebrations upstairs. At twelve, the Crown Prince had attended more royal celebrations than he had birthdays; the majesty and mystique hadn't enthralled him for years now, so he had retired early, once wine and ale began flowing freely. No one seemed to miss him much, at first, which was quite a relief.

His hopes for a peaceful night were dashed when a gloved fist pounded on the door. His two brothers had to share a bed, but, being the son and heir of Frederick the Third, King of all Nharati, Wyld could enjoy the privacy of his own quarters...except when a higher-ranking noble wished to disturb him, such as now. "What do you want?" He barked, his voice already tending toward gruffness, though his chin remained baby-soft and he hadn't yet hit his full growth. "I've said I'm not to be disturbed, Rory!"

The reply that met him made him sit stock-still and straight. "That's no way to greet your father," he heard, muffled by the oaken door. "Let me in, son!" High-pitched giggles accompanied the demand. Gulping, Wyld moved to obey, dressed only in a dirty nightshirt that hadn't fit over his knees for a solid year.

Light flooded the chamber when the door came open. The Prince had to step out of the way, lest his half-drunk father bowl him over in his eagerness. "Wyld," he said by way of greeting. "I've a surprise for you...but you ran out on me before I could give it to you!"

Wyld blinked back the brightness from the braziers in the hall, rubbing the half-formed sleep dust from his eyes. "A surprise?" He sounded skeptical; the great Frederick didn't often dote on his children, even his firstborn. The boy didn't notice the older girl hovering at the door, waiting to be bid enter by one of the noblemen. "What kind of surprise?"

This brought about a hearty laugh from the King, who drowned it with a flagon of wine and nearly choked, which made him laugh all the harder. "If I told you what kind of surprise it be, where lay the surprise, boy?" Wyld felt his face going red as his father laughed at him. "Do you want it or not?" The boy hesitated for half a heartbeat...it was obvious the King wanted him to accept, and the King generally got what he wanted. Wyld nodded, and then staggered under the weight of Frederick's palm landing on the back of his shoulder. "There's my boy! Hulda, come along."

"Who's Hul..." Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen began, only to have his question answered by the giggling girl, wrapped in foxfur and apparently nothing else, by the look of the gaps in the rug. "I am, Prince Wyld," she said through wine-soaked giggles. Wyld's green eyes deceived him, drinking up the curves that spilled from the small rug, and suddenly the Prince became aware of just how deficient his nightshirt had become.

Cheeks flaring, he glanced accusingly at his father, who only beamed through his beard. "Surprise, son." He took another slug of wine from his flagon. "Now don't give me that, m'boy. You're at your twelfth summer, it's past time you started putting that pecker to some use. My maids tell me the've been getting crusted sheets for nigh on a year now." Wyld thought his face might combust; his hands flew to his middle to cover himself, but no matter how his mouth worked, he couldn't muster up any objections. His mother had taught him that Princes and Kings only did that with their wives, to produce legitimate heirs. He hadn't understood half of what she'd told him, but he kept asking, and now he had a firm idea. He wanted to say that he wasn't a common pig and wouldn't rut around with trash from his father's table, but by the time he found his voice, his father was gone and Hulda was stepping out of her fur.

She must have seen sixteen summers already, Wyld thought. "I..I don't.." He was trying to gather the strength to send her away, but his wits fled him when she stepped into the shaft of moonlight from his high window. He saw carrot-orange hair atop her head and between her legs, and he was having trouble keeping his growing arousal hidden.

"It's alright, Prince Wyld," she cooed, her velvet fingers drawing his wrist away from the lower hem of his nightshirt and up to one of her full breasts. His mother's words of love and duty fled his mind, then, and he fell onto the straw mattress of his bed when the girl pushed him down. She was wet and ready for him, and when pushed him inside her, he forgot a great deal more.

The Kingdom lay in mourning, as it had for a week. The Queen, Blodeuwedd, had died in childbirth, producing a grotesquery of a girl who still lived...for how long, no one could say. It was all too common for such children to die, sometimes naturally, sometimes not. Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen was hit harder than most in the Nharati Court, for even at fifteen years old he had been closer to his mother than Frederick himself. He remembered how she'd raged when she found out about his newfound nocturnal activities, but she'd never said an unkind word to him; her storminess was reserved for the King, who by turns laughed at her or dismissed her objections as irrelevent. Wyld was torn between them, love for his mother warring with his passions, which seemed to grow by the day.

Hulda had been the first, but most certainly not the last for the Crown Prince. Ever after, his father lectured him on his 'duty to the Kingdom,' making the act seem almost more burdensome than pleasurable. As the years passed and Wyld grew, his discussions with King Frederick became more frank, ranging from how to deal with jealous husbands tactfully to how to properly dispose of bastards. Wyld had a lot to learn yet, but that didn't keep him from studying dilligently.

Even so, the joy he'd felt at gaining a sibling turned to ash when his mother died in her childbed. He wore black, instead of his usual dark blues, and was prone to marching away from courtiers and courtesans alike. The funeral itself had been a spectacle, with priests from three opposing sects in attendance; one from Nharati's ancestral faith, one from the new zeal--some called it a scourge--lighting a fire throughout the land, and one from Blodeuwedd's homeland. All three spoke in different tongues and said different rites over her still-warm grave, and all three nearly came to blows as to the precedence and propriety of their order of speaking.

Frederick had settled the matter once and for all, and when he was through with them after the ceremony all three felt lucky to leave with their heads in tact. The King himself mourned more out of propriety than real loss...Wyld suspected he had no true feelings for his wife, regardless of what they said. That morning, he played at eating his porridge, his appetite as withered as his desire. Rory, his old personal guard, puffed up to the end of the long table in the deserted room.

"What do you want, old man?" Asked the Crown Prince sullenly. The greybearded knight took the familiar insult in his stride, having grown used to the boy's snarks. He took them for a sign of friendship, for Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen was never so haughty around less well-known gentry. "A message, Highness, from His Majesty the King."

Wyld took the roll of parchment, broke the silver-wax seal and unfurled it. His eyes raced across it, line by line. It appeared to be a Royal Proclamation, written in the scrivener's florid hand, from the mouth of the King instead of his father. Wyld's lips moved as he read, an old habit that his tutors hadn't been able to beat out of him by the time he was big enough to beat them back. His brow drew down as he read, irritation fighting a war with astonishment for his features. By the time he reached the end of the document the fourth time, he stood from his breakfast.

"What's Father playing at?" He asked at last, raising an eyebrow to Rory. "An official mission to Lord von Pith, to settle a dispute over scuttage and crown duty?" When the old guardian merely shrugged and raised his eyebrows, WYld laughed and stuffed the parchment into his pocket. That he did not have a choice in the matter kept him from bitterness, as he had tended toward since his mother's death.

The preparations had already been made by the time he emerged from the castle, a horse and carriage waiting for him. He made sure to pack an extra flagon of wine...his thirst for the stuff had only grown with the passing months, it seemed. A more experienced diplomat was of course along for the ride, for the issue was of great importance to Nharati, as a city and as a Kingdom. Scuttage involved shipments of food and other supplies to one's liege-lord, while crown duty involved direct transfers of money to the treasury. Frederick had increased his demand for both, with a war brewing between Nharati and the Eastern Kingdom of Srylabat. Von Pith wasn't the only lesser noble complaining under the strain of the new taxes.

"We musn't offend the Lord, Your Highness," schooled the chubby diplomat. Wyld thought he was called Karl, or Haskarl, or Haskel. He could never remember, so he never addressed the man by name. "A decrease in payment is infinitely better than an increase in bloodshed, after all."

Wyld fairly bridled under the man's condescending tone. The letter in his pocket made his father's intentions clear: No diminishing payment, and even more if he could manage it. If that led to a rebellion, so be it. Wyld himself was actually eager to prove his worth at Srylabat, such was the fire of his youth. If he had to cut his teeth at Pith, more was the better.

Such thoughts occupied him on the five-day journey. Normally it took less time, but Haskel (if thati ndeed was his name) complained of stomach pains from the ride and called a halt before sundown each day. The column of guards were uneasy, as this part of the Royal Road was known to brigands, but the diplomat was adamant. So he got a secure night's rest, and the guards had a long night's watch.

When at last they pulled up to the estate outside Pith, Wyld had run out of wine. Nevertheless they were greeted with the warmest welcomes of Lord von Pith and his young bride, Emersyn. The man himself was of middling age, middling height, and middling demeanor. After three minutes of conversation Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen was as bored as he got during Saturday prayers.

"Such an honor," the man gushed. "Had I known the Crown Prince would be party to our discussions, I'd have had much more than pheasant and peach-pie. Come in, come in...you must be wretched from the journey." The lord kept babbling all the way to the dining hall of his estate, Wyld replying in kind, Haskel flittering around like a cockatoo. This was a man prepared to take up swords against his sworn lord, Wyld thought, and here he was complimenting Wyld and Frederick with every second breath.

At table, talk eventually went from the coming war to the matter at hand: Pith's lack of compliance with the new taxes to fund the venture. "It is of utmost importance," twittered the diplomat. "All the other counties are giving all they can, many more than the new levels."

"They are so lucky to have such excess," replied von Pith through a mouthful of bird. Wyld noted that the diplomat hadn't touched the pheasant; perhaps he was averse to eating his own kin? "Pith can hardly manage our burden as it stands."

"Is it truly so burdensome to have the protection of my father's arms, and the trade of my father's allies?" Wyld phrased the question as mildly as he could, but he couldn't help the smile that flickered over his face, His forest-green eyes glanced to Emersyn, and the smile bloomed more fully on his lips. The woman caught his interest in a way few had since the Queen had died. She had yet to say a word, though, which troubled him somewhat.

That took the older man aback. He swallowed his food and took a swallow of cider. "I meant no disrespect, Highness. It is only that the last three harvests have been poor, and all that trade His Majesty's allies bring seems to pass us by. We aren't a major capital, like Aelinporth, nor at the crossing of a large river, like Hrvesgott. Any caravans must brave the roads and the weeks."

"This is most understandable," interjected Haskarl. "King Frederick is quite gracious, and frugal with what he receives."

"What he receives is insufficient," said the Crown Prince. "At least not from Pith." He was rather enjoying his new job as an envoy...he got to see grown men sweat. "Do you not remember the aid he lent you on the Junt?" The mention of Hrvesgott had him remembering the town's acquisition, only a few years before his birth. Lord von Pith had taken an arrow to the leg, and the flank of the Nharat lines near the river were in danger of being turned by the small city-state's fierce defense; Frederick had rescued the man personally. Regardless of the hissing curses his wife had for him, no one could call the King a coward.

Such a reminder shocked the lord, coming from someone so young. It was that anecdote that saved the negotiations...from there, it was all a matter of hammering out the formalities and ensuring guarantees of continued payment. This Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen left up to Karl, once the twittering man couldn't talk down the agreement. Lord von Pith retired to bed soon after, having invited Wyld and his men to remain as long as they liked. Haskel took to the lord's library, muttering about some old documents, while the guards flanking the room settled into their own conversations. That left Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen and the as-yet silent Emersyn practically alone. Standing, the Prince proclaimed his desire to stretch his legs, and his intention to walk about the gardens and the grounds.

Scant moments after he took to the outdoors, he was joined by none other than the Lady of the House herself. He suppressed his pleasure, containing it in a smile that his sprouting whiskers could not hide. "I knew you would come." When she replied only with her gaze, he chuckled. "I've not heard you speak more than a word since my arrival."

"My lord husband speaks enough for the both of us, Your Highness," she answered in a low smooth voice, hands clasped at her waist. She came up alongside him as he strode to a shallow pond, the reflection of the moon high above rippling over the surface of the water. The Prince's eyes ranged from his own reflection to hers, catching on the odd darkness of her skin. Though she looked nothing like his mother, her silent strength brough back memories...some fond, others not so.

"I miss her," he admitted to his own reflection, wondering just when it came to resemble his father so much. Even if Frederick's infidelity was the stuff of rumor and legend, Blodeuwedd had been unquestionably faithful. As Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen grew, there could be no question as to his paternity. "We didn't speak very much, near the end." He nearly flinched when he felt her fingers close so boldly over his shoulder, but he did not draw away, his forest-green eyes roaming down her arm to her dark face. "We all mourn the loss of our Queen, but you mourn your mother. It is a very different pain, my Prince."

Blinking against a rustle of wind, Wyld pulled his short locks from his eyes and examined her features, a flicker of pain and fear leeching into his expression...perhaps by design, or perhaps because he had not yet mastered the mask of courtesy most nobles adopted. He visibly brightened, though, her more personal title bringing a smile to his face. "For such a silent woman, you seem to know far too much of mens' minds." A hand gripped her wrist, slipping his arm from her grasp, and he bent to brush his lips over her knuckles. Against protocol, he allowed his mouth to touch her flesh, the small kiss lingering before he let her arm fall away.

Emersyn seemed to soften when she caught sight of his pain, and she did not pull away from his attentions. A faint laugh filled his ears. "Men tend to fill perfectly good silences with meaningless words, my Prince. If I spoke more, I would know less." She rubbed her wrist softly, as if cherishing the contact.

The Prince made a thoughtful noise, his eye appraising her more closely, beyond examining her beauty to assessing the weight of her spirit...something he'd only done with other men, before. "From where do you hail, my Lady? Neither the tenor in your voice nor the tone of your flesh bespeak a Nharati heritage."

"I come from Nharati, of course." Wyld did not fail to note the subtle tease in her voice. "My family came here from the south some generations back, from around the Castral Sea." She did not pull away when Wyld's fingers found her hand yet again, and he saw a distinct shiver run over her form that caused his face to take on a hard, hungry edge. "Walk with me," he commanded, and was not disappointed when she obeyed.

They strolled around the lake in one of those silences Emersyn had spoken so highly of, though their eyes danced over one another, saying all that needed to be said. When they reached the comfortable carriage that Wyld and Haskel had rode in on, the young woman hesitated only a moment before climbing up into the dark after him. The guards following them either stopped too short to hear, or they pretended to ignore, the rocking of the carriage and heated cries which soon were ringing out into the dark of night. The next morning, Karl the diplomat found his Prince fast asleep in the carriage, though despite the conspicuous scent lingering in the air, there was no other sign of any female, Lady Emersyn or otherwise.