The Brat Prince

Bruised and blistered feet stumbling on the stony path, and sleek hair plastered flat to her scalp, the lady shivers and pulls her torn cloak tighter about her body.

She's a wisp of a thing, and looks like the strong gusts of wind will blow her right back down the mountainside. She looks up, trying to gauge how far she still has to go.

The rain is driving almost sideways, so that it's difficult to see anything. The freezing needle-drops sting her eyes. She peers through them, and manages to make out (just about) the castle rising up out of trees. Its tallest, spikiest tower looks almost like a triumphant fist, especially with the moonlight behind it, and no shortage of mist to wraith the ancient, crumbling stone.

She puts her head down and soldiers on. Soon. Soon she will be safe, and warm, and dry. Soon, her beloved Adam will welcome her graciously into his halls. It must be soon.

She pulls out the Device. Raindrops spatter the glowing screen. It's still not working. Too remote here, apparently. Sighing, she stows it back in her cloak.

Shadows people the trees on both sides of the track, which is getting skimpier by the yard. It is as if the surrounding thickets are chomping at the path. Patches of even blacker darkness flit in the corner of her vision. They have the unnerving habit of making too much noise, or not enough.

The amulet bites into her hand, and she forces herself to loosen her grip.

I'm being jumpy, she tells herself. There's nothing there. Nobody-

wait.

Was that a pair of eyes?

She can't draw on any more magic tonight. Not now, cold and drained as she is, and her amulet almost spent. She's already been accosted once; it's how she lost the horse.

"Stupid beast," she mutters, and presses on.

****

A fire crackles. It is gently toasting a taut, and expensively-clad pair of buttocks. Your nan might, after one too many sherries, remark that this backside looks like two hard boiled eggs in a hanky.

Let's not objectify the young man. We will ignore his shapely calves (easy, he's wearing boots) and travel upward, (no, further than that,) to his face.

It would be a handsome one, with that jawline and fine straight nose, if only his brow wasn't marred by a scowl. His eyes would be pretty, being so blue, if only they weren't so empty and cold.

His hair is thick and pale, and it falls in shiny waves past his shoulders. Father had never liked it, and after mother died he was always threatening to cut it all off, saying, "It makes you look like a girl!" There was no greater sin, in Father's book. Except possibly acting like one.

Father never liked girls. He always said he had no time for a daughter. "Girls are for the mountain," he'd say with a harrumph that ruffled his enormous moustache.

Speaking of girls...

She's late.

He is not accustomed to being kept waiting. It's a new experience, and he doesn't like it. You can tell, because his full lower lip is jutting out, as if he is a young brat who has yet learned not to soil himself, and has been told No by a mother normally averse to uttering the syllable.

Does she not realise who he is? Does she not respect his time?

He could have Entertained tonight, but no. He set aside the evening to spend with her. Undoubtedly another stupid, feckless woman.

He could reasonably retire to bed, that's how late it is. Then, if she does turn up after all, he can leave word with one of the servants that she is to be sent away. It will serve her right.

A thin wail reaches him from the rooms above, and his frown deepens.

He whirls, and the nearest servant cringes under his glare as if it were a whip.

"I told you to keep him QUIET!" he screeches, cheeks red and spittle flying. "Why is he not medicated?"

The servant stammers that His Majesty has had as much as the doctor will allow.

"Then get a new doctor!" the brat prince snarls. He really does snarl, lip curling and eyes flashing. His voice tears out of his throat in a growi and his clow is high. "We employ enough of them! Surely at least one has the wit to do as he is told?"

He stamps from the room, boots ringing on the marble floor. "Have him moved!" he bellows. "Further away. To the West Wing."

"Sire, in his condition, he really shouldn't..."

"I don't care!" The prince's voice is a petulant wail. "He's not going to get better either way is he? So do as you are told, and move him!"

****

Her form is slender at the best of times. Now, she looks almost ghostlike. An aspect only enhanced by many layers of exhaustion, a battering from the elements, and a cloak that shrouds her from head to toe.

She has eased, wraith-like, through the gate and now she is at the front door. It is an imposing one. Oak, several inches thick. We are on tenterhooks, aren't we, watching her? When she raises her slim fist, we wonder if, when she brings it down to knock, it will pass right through.

The door deserves a good booming knock, not this tired whisper, lost in the storm.

****

"Sire," the servant twists his hands together, hoping it isn't his turn to attract the prince's ire, but knowing he probably will. "You have a guest,"

His Royal Highness looks almost apopleptic now.

"Do I look like I want a gue-" he stops abruptly, because his visitor has entered the room.

She is skinny and pale, her hair lank and wet. Her cheeks look sunken, and there are dark rings under her eyes.

"Who are you?" he says, uncaring that his manner is rude.

"Don't you know me?" she asks, lowering her hood.

"No," he says rudely, and makes to leave.

"It's me," she says. "We had an appointment."

His gaze is cold. After a moment, he shrugs. "You don't look like your picture." He turns away. "See her out," he adds to the servant, malice lacing his words.

She prattles, as he could have expected, begging his forgiveness for how late she is, explaining the problems she has had on the road. It sounds like she is hinting that the roads are not maintained and are more dangerous now that his father isn't in charge. His temper rises.

"There is no other dwelling for miles, she adds, "and it is getting colder by the hour. If you will deny me the hospitality of your father and your House -"

He sneers; what does she know?

"...then at least give me a warm cloak and perhaps a horse, or-"

His laughter bounces off the high ceiling. It sounded for a moment like there were half a dozen arrogant young men condescending at her.

"You think I give horses to beggar women?"

"No," she says, after a thoughtful pause, "I don't think you do." Her tone conveys what she thinks of comfortable men who have no care for people less fortunate.

His patience has run out. He strides to the girl, not knowing or caring what he will do when he reaches her, but... He never reaches her.

****

The hall is filled with unbearably bright white-golden light . We have a special viewpoint here, you and I. Of everyone in the room, it is only the two of us who can see her hand gripping the amulet. This is where all that light is pouring from.

She seems to tower over them all in that moment. Maybe, in her anger, the spell went wrong. Magic can be tricky at the best of times, and hard to control. A spell often behaves differently than you expect. Perhaps Spite is catching. Maybe that's why the enchantment covered the castle, the grounds, and everyone living there, and not just the young man who insulted her.

Whatever the case, she tells him in no uncertain terms that the spell wouldn't be broken until he learned to love someone other than himself, and (this was the real kicker) they had to love him back.

The light gradually fades and deepens to a rich, ruby red. At last, the holographic image of a rose hovered in the middle of the room.

Then she pulled out the Device (working! at last!) and ordered an Uber.

Warm and comfortable at last in the back seat, she regrets making him so hairy. It has almost certainly improved his appearance. With a temper like that, though, he doesn't have a hope of anyone loving him. Not anyone with a brain at least.