[Original] Rudrall

[duckiesandlemons]

Title:  Rudrall
Rating:  T
Summary:  A knight and his prince swear an oath.
Warning(s):  None

“Rudrall, you are to look only at me,” his prince says.  “There is nothing else in this room more important than I--to look at anything else but me is treason.”  His prince’s tone is haughty, regal and selfish all at once.  There is no refined ruler sitting before him, Rudrall thinks, but he bends his knee to the young man anyways.  “Good,” his prince continues.  “Now, lift your head.”

Rudrall obeys.  He lifts his head, storm flecked eyes meeting the burning embers of his prince, and holds his stare.  Rudrall says nothing, he does nothing, but he keeps his knee bent and his hand over his heart.  Purposefully, slowly, his prince holds out his hand.  The gold of his rings shines in the dim light of the audience chamber torches, the rubies that adorn his hand gleaming in mischievous light.  It takes everything in Rudrall’s power not to sneer--it takes years of training, years of learning to keep his head bowed, years of learning the very code he is to honor now.

Around them, everyone watches with bated breath.  A few court nobles murmur to themselves, while others stare in unabashed glee.  Here, after all, is the proud Knight Rudrall, brought to his knees before a fledgling prince not yet a king.  Rudrall knows this spectacle for what it is.  He knows what is to be expected of him, what this means.  The Mad Lion of Erfstol, tamed by a brat yet to taste blood from the battlefield.

How disgraceful.

How unbecoming.

How demeaning.

“Now, come, kiss my hand,” the prince’s words are an order.  “From here, you are loyal to me, and only me.”  Rudrall says nothing.  He keeps his gaze locked with the prince’s, his hand finally moving forward to gently grasp the prince’s.

His head rings.  The gasps from the court are nothing but a dull roar in his ears, and the pain he can barely feel.  It is nothing compared to the sharp thrust of a sword or the crushing blow of an ax, but Rudrall feels his pride crumble bit by bit underneath this precocious prince.  The slap is just a final nail in the cross--it is the last cut needed to strip him of his mane.

“You have forgotten what is most important,” his prince says.

“I apologize, Your Highness.”

“What is it that you, Knight Rudrall of Erfstol, are to do?”

“I am to swear an oath to you, Your Highness,” Rudrall swallows down the bile that stings at his throat.  He has yet to turn his head, cheek still throbbing from the feel of gem studded rings digging into his skin, but he can hear the smug tone that has settled in his prince’s voice.

A purr, “Yes, that you are.  So where is that oath, Rudrall?”  The court has broken out into loud whispers, the hum of their voices buzzing in Rudrall’s ears.  Rudrall slowly turns his head to look his prince in the eyes once more, anger boiling in his blood.  He grips his prince’s hand tightly, guiding it to his lips, and he speaks--he speaks loud, so that all can hear.  So that the roar of his pride echoes in the audience chamber and so that all can hear that though the Mad Lion of Erfstol may be chained he will not simply roll over.  

“I, Rudrall Ystran, proud knight of beloved Erfstol, declare five promises to be made today, to Erfstol’s dear prince Erised,” he keeps his eyes locked to his prince’s as he presses his lips to the knuckle of his thumb.  “One--I will be vigilant in making sure that my prince is to forever be protected.”

A kiss to the ring sitting daintily on his prince’s pinky.

“Two--that my liege will not know distress and that I will be at his beck and call.”

Another kiss on the simple metal band on the index finger.

“Three--to slay all enemies that dare try and harm or ruin my liege.”

The kiss that is placed upon the ruby ring adorning his prince’s middle finger lingers.

“Four--to sacrifice my life if it means that my liege is to remain safe.”

Rudrall moves his lips over his prince’s ring finger--unadorned despite the rings his prince wears.  The court is watching, his prince is watching, and Rudrall opens his mouth.  

The prince hisses, trying to jerk his hand away.  Rudrall’s grip is too strong, his teeth harsh.  When he pulls away his lips are dusted red, the prince’s finger wounded.

“Five--to swear my body and soul to my liege, so that my worth is noted only by my duty to my liege.”

Rudrall lets go of his prince’s hand and watches, with smug satisfaction, as the prince cradles it close.  Yes, though he may be shackled, the Mad Lion will not expose his belly so easily.  The court has gone silent, the ceremony done.  They have witness the cutting of his mane, the clamping of his collar--what else is there to witness of this spectacle?  The silence hangs heavy, the court waiting for their dismissal.

All it takes is a flourish of his prince’s hand, and the people leave.

“Stay,” his prince commands.

Rudrall keeps his knee bent.  It is when the room is empty and the heavy doors closed, the only people the guards outside, that the prince moves from his too big throne.  The hand Rudrall bit fists his hair, the prince tugging hard on it to force Rudrall’s head up.  The look on his face is anger--pure, unmasked anger that has Rudrall’s lips curling up into a vicious smile.  “You disgrace of a knight,” his prince spits out.  “The Mad Lion of Erfstol--just a rabid animal.  Know that any further impudence won’t be forgiven.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Rudrall keeps his tone clipped, prim and proper, to hide the glee bubbling up in his being.  To see the prince so flustered, to see him so mad, is but one of the simple ways that Rudrall bears his fangs.  Until they put a muzzle on him, he will bite.  

“Your sincerity does not reach your words,” his prince lets go of him, shoving him hard to the ground. and briskly walks past him.  “Go, you are dismissed until needed.”

“A watch dog is supposed to be by his lord’s side at all times.”

“You are no dog.  Not until I make you one.  Not until you look at me and only me, begging for whatever scrap of food I deem you worthy of.”

Rudrall stays still until the prince leaves.  The doors slam shut, an echoing of the prince’s fury.  Rudrall stands, gingerly getting up until he stands to full height.  His cheek is sore, his scalp aches, and he chases the copper taste of blood on his lips with a flick of his tongue.  It could have been worse, he knows.  There are many things that his prince could have done but had not.  This was just a simple flaunting of power he only thought he could control.  Whatever images the king has shoved into his young son’s head, they are pitiful, pitiful things.  

The world will eat this young prince up.  It will spit him out, mangled and bleating like a dying lamb, exposing itself to the predators that will descend.  When that day comes, Rudrall will relish it.  For now, he is to wait idly until he is needed.  He is to wait, chained until released for whatever whimsy the prince has.  It is frustrating, and his body already screams at him for the thrill of battle, for the exhilaration that shoots through him every time his blade clashes against another.

When Rudrall leaves the audience chamber, the guards cower.  After all, there is nothing more vicious than a lion chained and starved.