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Miklan rubs the sleep from his eyes, stumbling footsteps echoing through the vaulted ceilings of Castle Fhirdiad’s immense hallways as his father drags him along by the wrist. The man keeps a brisk pace, yanking hard on the boy’s arm every time he staggers behind, at times almost pulling him like a doll in the hands of a careless child. His face is harsh where it’s haloed in the amber glow of the torches they pass, the flames dancing through his dark auburn hair.
His face is always harsh when he regards his eldest son.
“Where’re we going, Dad?” the boy murmurs. He’d been so rudely woken in what he can only guess is the dead of night, literally dragged out of his bed, dragged from the warmth of his firelit room still in his night clothes. The flagstone is cold under his bare feet, the Faerghus night air not much warmer. Though, not quite as frigid in Fhirdiad as it would be in Gautier this time of year, the last dregs of summer far behind them. “I wanna go back to bed.”
“Hush,” his father snaps. Miklan stills his tongue.
They walk long enough that Miklan starts to wake some more, the cold and the mystery of their unexplained outing seeping through him and pushing away the last of the drowsiness. He doesn’t recognize the hallways his father leads him down. Usually, this wing is off limits to him, the part of the castle where the royal family’s suites lie.
His father seems to know where he’s going, at least, leading his son with purpose though a veritable maze of corridors, past sconces and tapestries and thick wooden doors that meld and blur together in the boy’s mind.
He stops at a particularly regal looking door and knocks, three sharp raps. Miklan shifts anxiously, unsure who to expect on the other side.
Of all the people in the castle, he certainly doesn’t expect the Grand Duke of Itha, Prince Rufus Blaiddyd, to open the door a moment later. The prince is dressed in a lush housecoat, a state of undress Miklan has seen few but his family in before, not looking in the slightest like he’d been woken by their arrival. The man smiles down at him, warm, but off-putting for reasons Miklan doesn’t understand. He shuffles a step behind his father.
Prince Rufus eyes Miklan’s father, a coy smile playing on his lips. “You’re sure about going through with our… little arrangement, then?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
The prince eyes him again, appraising. A shudder crawls down Miklan’s spine. “And he won’t go running his mouth in the morning?”
His father glares down at him, as if realizing for the first time that the boy’s all but cowering behind him. He shoves him forward, planting a heavy, calloused hand on the back of his neck, squeezing just enough to suggest pain if he tries to squirm away. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
Seeming pleased, Rufus’ hand disappears in the pocket of his housecoat, reappearing a moment later with a thick leather coin purse. Miklan can hear the weighty jingling of the gold inside as his father accepts it, stowing it in his own pocket.
The hand on the back of his neck clamps down tighter as his father bends down toward him. “Behave, now, Miklan,” he drawls softly in his ear, the faux warmth of his tone enough to curdle the boy’s stomach. He’s heard that tone enough times to know nothing good ever comes after. “You will do whatever His Grace asks of you.” There’s no room for argument. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, Father,” he breathes.
He’s shoved forward, stumbling into Prince Rufus, who simply chuckles and ruffles his hair. By the time he recovers himself, there are already footsteps retreating down the hall, and he turns to see his father walking back the way they’d come.
All the while, he wonders what it is His Grace is going to ask him to do. The man guides him by the shoulder into the room, the door shutting behind them. His touch is gentle, so different from his father’s. His eyes wander the unfamiliar sitting room as he’s led through, taking in the ornate décor and impressive library of thick, leather-bound tomes.
They don’t linger in the sitting room, though, as His Grace takes him through a door set into the back wall into his bedchamber. The man gestures for him to take a seat on the bed, and Miklan does so, confused. The mattress is soft and luxurious under him, the silken sheets soft under his fingers. Prince Rufus takes a seat next to him.
“Um, Your Grace?” Miklan mutters. The man hums, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, smoothing small circles with his thumb. “What am I doing here?”
He can feel the man’s gaze on him for a moment, even as he looms just behind him. “Your father told you nothing?”
“No, sir.”
“You poor thing.” He can feel the heat of the prince’s chest as it presses against his back, his other hand running up and down his arm. “I knew your father was a callous man,” he laughs, “but I hadn’t realized the depths of his cruelty.” Part of Miklan wants to argue that his father isn’t cruel, but that part is quickly silenced by the part that agrees. “I mean, what kind of man sells his own son’s body for a pittance?”
The blood in Miklan’s body runs cold, and he shrinks away from the man’s touch, only to be pulled back firmly against his chest. Lips ghost against his neck, soft and warm.
“Don’t make this difficult, Miklan,” the man warns against his skin. “Your father told you to behave, told you to do what you’re told. What do you suppose he would do if I were to tell him you disobeyed him while he was gone?” Miklan shudders at the thought. “It doesn’t have to come to that. Just be a good boy for me, and I’ll have no reason to tell your father otherwise.”
“Why are you doing this?”
The man chuckles, scooting back to lounge against the pillows piled in front of the headboard. Miklan yelps in surprise as he’s yanked back with ease onto Prince Rufus’ lap. A bulge in the man’s housecoat prods against his hip.
“The tradition of Faerghus’ nobility having… peculiar tastes dates back as far as the kingdom itself. Sort of an open secret.” His hands wander Miklan’s body as he speaks, stroking and squeezing in a way that makes the boy squirm. He holds himself rigid, eyes shut tight, praying to a goddess who’s never seemed to listen to him before that this would end soon. “They say, for example, that King Loog had a penchant for little girls. A penchant my dear little brother shares, actually.”
His hands slip under Miklan’s night shirt. A gasp escapes the boy’s lips as long, deft fingers twist at his nipples. He squirms in the man’s lap, and notices the way the his hips rock against him. “You know, we’re quite a lot alike, now that I think about it. Elder sons passed over simply for lacking the luxury of being born with a Crest. Having to watch our baby brothers grow up to get everything that had once belonged to us.”
“I don’t-” Prince Rufus pinches particularly hard, dragging another shuddering gasp from the boy. “I don’t understand.” What did Sylvain have to do with anything? He was still just a baby, born only five moons before. Sure, he had a Crest, but really, nothing much had changed in Miklan’s life since then.
“You don’t?” he muses, and Miklan is too numb to protest his shirt being pulled swiftly over his head and tossed away. “You don’t see any correlation between your Crest-born brother’s birth and you suddenly being sold for the use of a wealthy lech?” The boy doesn’t have time to respond, even if he could think of something to say, before the man is flipping them over. Miklan’s head hits the pillows, and the blond man above him smiles, running a hand through the boy’s hair. “Without a Crest, your worth to your father is measured in the gold you stand to earn him.”
There are tears beading in Miklan’s eyes as he stares up at the canopy of the bed, numbly aware of the way Prince Rufus sets about tugging his trousers down his hips. He doesn’t even bother praying anymore, the notion that the goddess might actually care to listen to his pleas bordering on laughable at this point. His pants and smalls join his shirt on the floor. The man hums thoughtfully as he runs a finger through the sparse, downy hair between Miklan’s legs. Miklan shivers despite the pleasant warmth of the room.
“Spread your legs.” Miklan does as he’s told, watching through bleary eyes as the man reaches for something on the night stand. A small vial that glistens in the firelight from the hearth. He uncorks it and dabs a finger into the liquid inside.
His hand dips between Miklan’s legs and the boy recoils at the first prodding touch to his hole. Fear claws at his chest like a beast, his heart beating so furiously it feels like it might tear free of his chest. He scrabbles back against the headboard, nowhere to go, trapped by the looming man who smiles patiently at him.
“Relax,” Rufus softly, his voice taking a tone that’s eerily similar to the pretend warmth of his father’s. “I promise, I won’t hurt you. But you have to behave and relax for me.”
Miklan swallows hard, shaking his head petulantly. “I don’t want to…”
The man sighs, his patient mask slipping as the corners of his lips tug down in displeasure. “I paid quite the premium to be the first to have you, Miklan,” he says matter-of-factly, the bluntness of it making the boy’s stomach drop. The first. Implying there would be more after, that there were others he'd been offered to. The first of his tears finally breaks free, rolling down his cheeks. A sob tears though his chest. “Your father would be very unhappy to hear that you’re being difficult. That’s not what you want, is it?”
The all-too-familiar image of his father’s sneer floats before Miklan’s eyes, a face that precedes pain. He sniffles, shaking his head slowly.
“So you’ll be good, won’t you?”
He nods.
Rufus grabs a pillow, placing it down between them. “Why don’t you roll over on your stomach?” Miklan obliges, letting the man position him with his hips propped up on the pillow. He buries his face in the pile that still rests along the headboard.
A soft hand smooths over his rear, almost reverently, and a moment later, the slick finger rubs lightly against his hole. “Take a deep breath,” the man instructs, rubbing his back soothingly. “Try to stay relaxed. It will hurt if you tense up.”
He tries to do as he’s instructed, the deep breath shuddering through his chest as the finger pushes its way through the tight ring of muscle. The feeling is bizarre and unpleasant, all-encompassing. The man’s stream of soft words are distant, as if he’s hearing them through water. All he can do is focus on letting his lungs fill, empty, fill again. One breath at a time as he adjusts to the intrusion.
One finger. Then two. Then the prince is brushing against a spot inside of Miklan that makes pleasure bloom bright over the discomfort. He bites hard on the pillow in an attempt keep a whining, keening sound from escaping. His hips rut against the pillow beneath them of their own volition. Though Miklan can’t focus on the words coming out of the man’s lips, the tone is pleased.
He keeps stroking that spot, cooing praise over the boy as a third finger breaches him. Snippets cut through the haze, things like, “doing so well,” and, “such a good boy.” Miklan doesn’t feel like he’s doing well at all, doesn’t feel like he’s being good.
Mostly, he feels dirty.
Eventually, the fingers retreat, leaving the boy stretched and clenching around nothing. He’s not naive enough to think it’s over. So he waits, breathless, frozen in place, not even willing to move his face from the damp spot his tears have made on the pillow.
A slick sound behind him makes his stomach curl.
Then Rufus’ hands are on his hips, firm, large, warm. He pulls against the skin of his rear, spreading the boy wide. The head of his cock prods against him, and Miklan swallows down the bile that rises in his throat, clamps down on his tongue to keep the wave of fear from bubbling past his lips.
The head breaches him. Miklan sobs.
Rufus moves slowly, more hollow placatives falling from his lips as he buries himself inch by inch. Miklan struggles to breathe through his sobs, tears streaming anew at the horrible stretch of being filled so full.
Only once he’s fully seated inside does the man still, draping himself over the boy as he gives him time to adjust. His lips work at the back of Miklan’s neck idly, alternating between warm, wet kisses and sharp, stinging nips and long, lewd-sounding suckling.
As if on some unknowable cue, the man pushes himself up once more, hands bracketing Miklan’s shoulders. He rolls his hips, pulling out just bit, and gently pushing back in. Slowly, gradually, he builds his pace, never going too fast as to hurt the boy, never going so slow as to allow him a moment’s reprieve.
Miklan’s sobs quiet, his chest no longer heaving as the rhythm of being rocked as he’s fucked lulls him into a sort of numbness. He drifts in and out of awareness. One moment, aware of only the beating of his heart and the darkness behind his eyelids. Another moment, aware of the heady groans above him, of the sound of skin striking skin, of the embers of pleasure that aren’t quite enough to demand his full attention.
And then he’s aware of a sticky warmth inside of him as Rufus’ hips stutter to a stop, breath hitched. He stays there a moment, peppering the boy’s shoulders with soft kisses that he’s not sure he even feels at this point. And finally, mercifully, he pulls out. The stick warmth trickles out after him, rolling down his thighs.
Miklan is boneless. He is numb. He is adrift is a sea, and he doesn’t want to be pulled out. Because once he’s pulled out, he has to think. And he doesn’t want to think. Maybe not ever again.
He only kind of notices Rufus running a cool, damp rag over his flushed, sweaty skin, taking extra care as he swipes it between Miklan’s legs. His hole is tender to the touch, over-sensitive, and Miklan flinches away.
Once he’s deemed clean enough, Rufus slides into the bed next to him, tossing the soiled pillows onto the floor without care and drawing the clean ones that remained toward them. Miklan lets himself be moved, be tucked in like a doll, be pulled against the man’s broad, bare chest. “You did beautifully,” he sighs.
Miklan says nothing.
“Your father will return for you at dawn. You must be tired. You should sleep.”
Somehow, Miklan sleeps.
He wakes Miklan at dawn’s first light, dragging the sleepy boy out of bed and helping him dress when Miklan proves too dazed to do so himself. The prince chuckles as he buttons Miklan’s night shirt, clearly unaffected by his actions, unaffected by the dull look in the boy’s eyes. He ruffles his hair fondly.
And returns him to his father.
The man stands stiff outside the prince’s room, casting wary glances over his shoulder as if he’s afraid someone will come down the hall any second. The maids would be up soon, after all, starting their chores. The men exchange words that sound like gibberish in Miklan’s ears, and then his father is retreating down the hall again without waiting to see if his son is following.
Miklan has nowhere else to go, so he follows. He doesn’t remember the walk back at all, doesn’t even register the cold flagstone under his feet that had been so unpleasant before.
When they return to their suite, Miklan’s mother is already awake in the sitting room. She sits in a rocking chair by the fire, baby Sylvain cradled in her arms, nursing. Miklan looks over at her, hopeful that she might, somehow, do something, say something. She stares through him for a moment, disinterested. Her attention falls on Sylvain, stoking his head softly. Smiling.
She never smiles at Miklan like that.
Without a Crest, your worth to your father is measured in the gold you stand to earn him. If not for Sylvain….
Resentment curdles in Miklan’s stomach as he retreats into his bedchamber.