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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 12 hours ago

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Chipped Crown

I’m not sure if you are still doing requests for Sanders Sides, but if you are I have an idea. Imagine that Virgil is the crown prince of a warring kingdom, except he actually isn’t. He is a servant chosen to be the prince’s body double. The real crown prince fled with Virgil acting as the decoy to let him escape. The true prince was evil and probably murdered the king and queen to ascend the throne. Now Virgil is left with the invading army at the castle steps, and full expects to die in place of the Prince. The invading army belongs to another side of your choice, or maybe all of them are part of the invading kingdom? And are only attacking because the evil prince violated the treaty the king had made before he died. Virgil doesn’t want any more blood shed and pleads with whichever side is leading the army storming the castle to spare the servants and the knights who follow his order to lay down their arms. The side starts catching on that this isn’t the prince because he cares for the servants and does unprincely things. Again Virgil thinks he’s gonna die when he gets caught but the side assure him he’ll be safe. That’s all I have, so feel free to do whatever with it. – anon

Read on Ao3

Pairings: prinxiety

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3317

Chin up, he hears in his ears, the phantom voice blowing the piece of hair just a little further toward his eye, chin up or the crown slips, and I would never be caught dead with my crown askew. Well, Virgil thinks somewhat hysterically, I'm about to become one of those things in your name, what's the harm in allowing the other if it gives me some respite? *** The war is over. Prince Roman of Everfell has finally conquered the cruel kingdom of Evkin, all that's left to do is interrogate and execute Prince Chester Daghenheart, the one whose brutal treachery started the conflict years ago. The only problem is the real prince fled before the gates fell, leaving Virgil, a perfect body double, in his place. The crown mustn't slip.

There is a single piece of hair stuck to his forehead.

It hangs just low enough that it catches on his eyelashes each time he blinks. No gust of air he could blow from his mouth could dislodge it, not when it has found a way to lodge itself in between the hairs of his eyebrow, not when the sweat that refuses to truly bead and roll down flushed skin has seen fit to adhere it in place. Every so often, his fingers twitch as if to move it, only for the clink of the shackles to remind him of the ache in his arms and shoulders.

Chin up, he hears in his ears, the phantom voice blowing the piece of hair just a little further toward his eye, chin up or the crown slips, and I would never be caught dead with my crown askew.

Well, Virgil thinks somewhat hysterically, I'm about to become one of those things in your name, what's the harm in allowing the other if it gives me some respite?

But that is not how it works; only in the privacy of his own mind can he attempt to negotiate with Chester Daghenheart, and even then, it takes only the memory of the prince's cruel expression for him to sit up straight once more.

The real Chester Daghenheart would be crowing about his revenge, would be shouting the halls apart, would be plotting and planning furiously for every second the shackles remained in place, but the real Chester Daghenheart did not face down dozens of expertly wielded swords that had slaughtered the kingdom of Evkin's finest knights, was not forced against the back of his own throne with a sword at his neck until he surrendered, was not forced to kneel and swear fealty to Prince Roman of Everfell when it was clear the war was more than over. The real Chester Daghenheart had long since fled, leaving nothing but a servant slathered in creams and powders in his place.

It was not his fault, Virgil decides, that he happened to be placed in the prince's service all those years ago. No, some clever tactician in the prince's employ had noticed that a mild-mannered serving boy had similar enough bone structure to the prince that he could be used as a decoy if and when it suited him. It was not chance that he started to fall in line with those in the prince's personal staff, that he began to learn routines, practices, mannerisms, not when he was subtly coached to be the perfect distraction if—and when—the real prince needed to make himself scarce.

He did not realize the true brilliance of the plan, however, until he'd been sat upon the throne with one of the prince's loyal guards posted at his side.

Insurance, the prince had purred as he grabbed Virgil's jaw, still very much the prince even in plainclothes to Virgil's fraudulent finery, if you dare leave this throne before you have to surrender to that pretender in red, the black powder will be lit and everyone in this insipid little village will die.

So Virgil had sat, waiting for the metaphorical blade at his throat to be joined by ones of steel, and surrendered. Now he had to rely on the mercy of another prince, and he was…less than optimistic.

Footsteps.

He allows himself one more moment of clarity, taking a deep breath in and out, before he dons the facade of Chester Daghenheart and glares at the door.

Prince Roman of Everfell steps into the cell. 'Cell' is perhaps not the right word: this is a small servant's quarters, complete with chairs, a desk, a small side table. The bed has been moved, tucked against the wall with its foot aimed at the door so that any occupant can be seen by the guards outside. Still, a prison is a prison.

"I've been here for some time," Virgil growls, forcing his voice into the prince's low cadence, "your hosting could use some work."

Prince Roman hums, a perfect non-committal noise as he sits. He regards Virgil carefully, but with the idle curiosity one would use to observe a caged animal. "I must say, you were not what I was expecting."

"How so?"

"Well, when rumors about evil princes spread, I assume monologues about power, about foolishness, even insults spewed at my feet every second I dare stand in your presence." His gaze travels quickly up and down. "And yet here you sit, oddly quiet."

Shit. "Perhaps you don't merit the use of my tongue."

"That's not what your missives implied." The prince crosses one ankle over his knee, an infuriatingly casual pose when Virgil is about to fuse with his shackles. "I recall one particularly virulent passage describing how you would pluck my eyes from my skull only after you forced me to understand how unworthy I was to look upon your visage."

Virgil swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, trying to pass it off as a haughty affectation. "Perhaps I've changed my mind."

"Mm. Pity you couldn't have changed your mind five years ago."

Five years ago. The burning of the Carpathe, the merchant ship that had strayed too close to the coast for Chester Daghenheart's liking and been put to the torch, despite its clear bearings of Everfell's crest. Five years since the war began.

"Do you expect me to apologize for something that happened five years ago?"

"I had no expectations of decency, no," the prince says lightly, "but I did have some hope."

The words strike at the few soft parts of Virgil's chest that remain. It shouldn't, it shouldn't affect him in the slightest, other than reassuring him that the prince is still buying his disguise, but still. The thought that Prince Roman of Everfell didn't expect him to be a decent person swells the lump. He blinks and the piece of hair nearly lodges itself in his eye.

Outside the door, he hears the clink of a guard's armor. Dread ices itself down his spine. The prince is not the only one he must continue to fool.

"What did you expect, then," he asks, tossing his head lightly as though it would free the hair, "that you could simply march in and take what you thought was yours? That you could bend these people—my people to your will and have them serve you instead?"

"Is that what you think this is about? Your people?"

Virgil forces himself to scoff. "What else are wars fought over?"

"Land? Trust? The good of the realm?" The prince shifts slightly. "Broken words?"

"Words are meaningless in the face of power," he spits, a bit of his own bitterness seeping over his tongue. "People are nothing but pawns waiting to be played to win, land is nothing but the space in which the fight is won. And 'the good of the realm?' Please."

"Please what?"

"What?"

"Please what?" Prince Roman inclines his head. "You've only just begun to fulfill your promise of monologuing, don't stop now that you've started."

He can't stop his eyes from darting to the door once more. "Perhaps I shouldn't, then, since it's so clearly what you want."

"What would you know of what I want?"

"You're a prince. You want what all princes want."

"And what do all princes want?"

"To win. To see their enemies as nothing but ash beneath their feet. To be the last one standing."

The prince hums again, that perfect nothingness of a noise. He regards Virgil with slightly narrowed eyes, now, hands folded in his lap. "Is that why you think we're talking?"

"Frankly, I haven't the faintest idea why we're talking."

"No? You mentioned that quite specifically in your letters."

Damned letters—if you wanted me to play you so convincingly, why would you not tell me of them? "If your memory is so boastful, then, why don't you remind me, as clearly it was of so little importance that I dismissed it?"

"Conditions of surrender. You lauded the fact that you would be merciful, just this once, when you had me on my knees, that you would allow me one demand. One demand that you would honor should I choose to surrender to you." He gestures to the table. "It seemed only fair that I return the favor."

Virgil's heart leaps. He can't stop himself from glancing at the door again, the guard's shadow lengthening along the floor. The crown presses down into his temples. The shackles squeeze his wrists. The hair sticks to his skin and stays, stays, stays.

"Let the servants and villagers go."

As soon as he speaks the words, he expects the door to burst open, to hear the cacophonous thud of black powder, to hear the roar of flames and rush of screams—he's done it now, he's blown it, they must know, they must—

"That's what you would ask for?" He can hear the mollified tone in the prince's voice, but that's all that happens. Perhaps, perhaps… "Not your life? Not your freedom?"

He scoffs. "We both know my life has been forfeit since the beginning of the war."

"And your freedom?"

A bluff, perhaps? He forces himself to sit up straight, looking the prince dead in the eyes. "We both know you're going to give that to me one way or another."

He braces himself for the prince's expression to darken, for the rage and fury he's been waiting for to finally slip through the cracks of whatever forced diplomacy this has been. He readies himself to be torn to shreds, to be the perfect stand-in for someone to take out all the hurt and pain and suffering of five years, he swallows and raises his chin lest the crown slips—

—and nearly startles in surprise when Prince Roman chuckles.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

The sudden scrape of the chair as the prince stands has Virgil's hands jerking against the restraints. He walks over to the door, knocking on it twice. It swings open and the torchlight fills Virgil's vision with screams and black powder—but the prince only takes a small wooden bowl and a few bottles from the guard before the door swings closed again. He carries the items over to the table, places them down, and takes a seat on the edge.

Like this, their legs are nearly brushing. The prince's weight propped up on one hip, leaning against the table as he takes a handkerchief from his pocket. Virgil's breath catches in his throat as he picks up one of the bottles, unstoppers it, and pours a few drops onto the fabric. Slowly, slow enough that Virgil could stop him if he wished, he cups Virgil's jaw with his hand and tilts his chin up. He's sure the prince can feel the roll of his throat as he swallows heavily.

"What—" he forces his voice lower— "what are you doing?"

The prince pauses, tilting his head, the smallest of smiles coming to his face. "As you said: I'm giving you your freedom."

The instant the cloth brushes softly across his cheek, Virgil swears he dies. He must have, he must have died in the sacking of the castle, he must have been put to the blade by the first knight who saw him, he must have gone up with the rest of the servants in the explosions, he must be dead. There is no other explanation for how he finds himself here, as Prince Roman of Everfell cradles—cradles his face in his hand, cleaning his face of Chester Daghenheart, touching him as though he were something precious.

The sweet smell of the oil begins to fill the air around them, Virgil's skin appearing bit by bit as the prince runs the cloth over his cheeks, his brow, the bridge of his nose. Every so often he pauses to clean the cloth in the bowl of water, rewet it with the oil, and return to his work. He's so close. He's so close.

Virgil can see every freckle and wrinkle in the prince's skin. He can see the slight furrow of his brow as he works at the false birthmark. He can see the laugh lines at the outer corners of the prince's eyes. He can see the notch in his right ear from the earring he shares with his brother, Duke Remus. He can see the slight purse of his lips as he spots the nick on Virgil's neck from the sword. He pauses, fingers drifting down to touch it gently.

"Does it hurt?" Virgil is beyond words. He shakes his head. "Good."

Only then does the prince notice that Virgil's been, well, staring at him, and he winks.

Virgil would like to say that he doesn't turn bright red under the prince's hands, but he would be lying, and the heat would rival the brightest of candles. The prince merely chuckles at his reaction and returns to his gentle ministrations. A few more passes of the cloth and Virgil's skin is clear, his disguise stripped away until he is nothing but a servant in prince's clothes. Prince Roman drops the cloth on the table and reaches up, taking the crown and pulling it away from his aching temples, coaxing a breath of relief from Virgil's lips. A shadow flickers in front of him and he looks up in time to see the prince carefully move the hair out of his eyes.

"There," he says softly, touching Virgil under the chin once more, "that's better, isn't it?"

Virgil's eyes dart towards the door. He swallows heavily. "Please, you have to believe me, he—they hid black powder caches under the village and in the storerooms, they—"

"Have already been removed," the prince breaks in, still speaking in that sweet, low voice, "one of my knights found a guard making to light them. Your people are safe, you have my word."

Armies themselves could not stop the way Virgil sags in relief, the weight sliding from his shoulders. He pays no mind to the way the prince is suddenly carrying the weight of his head again, too busy riding the rush of it only to realize the truth of what the prince has said.

"He was never going to spare them," he whispers, "even if I…"

"No," Prince Roman says, just as quietly, "he wasn't."

"You were right. I shouldn't have had expectations of decency."

He tuts, guiding Virgil's head up so their eyes meet. "Do not apologize for having hope, it's a thing we are sorely lacking in this world."

He stands, making sure Virgil can hold himself upright before taking something else from his pocket—keys, Virgil realizes, as the prince walks behind his chair and kneels to unlock his shackles. They fall away with another gasp of relief and he rubs the raw and reddened skin, clutching his wrists to his chest.

"Forgive me for not doing that sooner," comes the prince's voice, "I had to be sure you weren't a loyalist."

He chokes on a noise that could be a laugh. "That bad at being him, was I?"

Prince Roman's laugh is far more tender. "No decent man is ever good at pretending to be an indecent one. Besides—" and here he tilts Virgil's chin up once more— "I saw your eyes when we met in the throne room. No one capable of such cruelty could have eyes as sweet as yours."

Virgil splutters, the red returning to his face, much to the prince's amusement. He runs a thumb over a burning cheek.

"You're pretty when you blush."

"I—uh—I'm—I don't—" The prince just smiles, waiting for him to settle back down, which isn't helped at all by the gentle way his thumb keeps stroking his cheek. "W-what happens now?"

He leans back against the table. "What would you like to happen now?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"When was the last time someone asked you what you wanted?"

"Look around," Virgil can't help but say, "when do you think?"

"All the more reason to ask now." He takes one of Virgil's hands in his, examining the marks left by the shackles, yes, but the other bruises and scars that have yet to fade. "You've had to hide and hurt for a long time, sweet boy, is it any wonder that I want to help you stop?"

"Why are you doing this? Why are you—aren't you going to kill me?"

"Kill you? No, sweet boy, why would you think that?" Virgil can't stop the way his eyes dart to the discarded crown and Prince Roman tuts. "You were forced to play a role by a cruel man who saw people as nothing but pawns to be used at his disposal, and the first thing you did when offered a modicum of power was bargain for the safety of innocent people. You are nothing like him, and as such you have nothing to fear from me."

"But you're a prince."

"I am, yes, and if you'd permit me, I'd like to show you that not all princes are the same."

"I'm a servant, why do you care what I think?"

"You are the only person from Evkin that I can speak to like this. As just a man, without all the titles and the frivolity and the excess. You have suffered under your last prince, you perhaps more than others, and you have no reason to trust me. You are the only person I must convince, you and the people like you. If I come in and order your obedience, that makes me no different from the man who had the audacity to call himself a leader." Prince Roman speaks to him tenderly, sweetly, and Virgil has no idea what to do. "Let me earn it, sweet boy, let me earn you."

It's too much. It is simply too much. The war, the deception, the death, the threats, the violence, the dark shadow of Chester Daghenheart and the warmth of Prince Roman, the soft words, the gentle touch, the promise, it's too much.

"Oh, you poor thing," he hears from ages away, "you must be so tired. You can cry, sweet boy, it's alright. You're safe now."

Safety has not been Virgil's companion for many, many years. Perhaps…perhaps it is time to seek it out once more. As if he could hear his thoughts, the prince runs a hand gently through his hair, pushing it back from his bare face.

The crown sits forgotten on the table.

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