prince-ipled-blog

[prince-ipled-blog]

thecaptainlawrence‌:

Shouting, screaming, muffled coughing as smoke from the smoke grenades poured into the infirmary. Everything was a green haze as Charlie entered the infirmary, her automatic rifle pointed and ready to fire at any signs of aggression. The Charlie Team moved in perfect unison, swarming in and fanning out to cover every inch of the room and leaving two outside to keep an eye out for unwanted visitors.

‘’This is Charlie One, infirmary secure. Extracting the royals now.’�� Charlie spoke into the comms, her eyes sweeping across the room one last time. It was only then that she spotted a glint of metal in someone’s hands as he stood up.

How the fuck did they miss that? 

‘’Gun!’’ Charlie yelled out, rifle cocked and ready as she ran towards the blond. She blamed it on how preoccupied she had been with making sure Malle was okay and unharmed. ‘’Drop it and put your hands on your head!’’ The woman shouted at him. ‘’Drop it now!’’ It was hard to tell at this point who was a pirate and who was a royal. She couldn’t recognise this man. Then again, everyone on this island seemed to be dressed the same. Conditions hadn’t exactly been a luxury royal court. ‘’Drop the bloody gun or I will be forced to shoot you.’’ 

Drop the goddamn gun, comrade. Please. @prince-ipled

He was never closing his again if he could help it - every time he did, every fokking time - things somehow managed to get even worse. Even lying there in the dark, musty tension of the makeshift medical centre didn’t help, because one blink later -

Smoke. Acrid, stinging - chemical? He choked, biting off a groan, other hand - attached to his remaining functional arm - groping under him for the gun.

He had made it too far to lie down in surrender now.

“Gun!”

A voice inside his head started laughing hysterically, because this was exactly how this night - this whole fokking shitshow - had begun, with him yelling that exact word.

“ - and put your hands on your head!”

Did they think he was an idiot? He wasn’t sure he would be able to lift his left arm, even if he wanted to.

He steadied his right, pointing the gun at what seemed to be the armed leader of the group - who was certainly the loudest. “Who - who are you!”

“Drop it now!”

For fokk’s sake, if the shrieking person - a woman, by the sound of the voice, but he had never been good at telling - would just answer the question. “Who are you! Pirate?”

The moment he said that, the smooth motion of the team - because it was a team, had to be a team, that perfectly coordinated - registered. Standardized body armor. Chain of command.

He almost let go of the gun, but terror and the aftereffects of the night wouldn’t let him.

“You - you’re from - from outside,” he managed, stunned.

Outside force. Rescue.

And then, on the heels of that, cold realization: none of what he had set off tonight mattered.

[prince-ipled-blog]

infantacardoza‌:

Lecia sat at the end of the bar, watching the prince struggle with his sling. The swearing had caught her attention, and realization of who was swearing had kept it. When the world was theirs once more to move about freely (or more so than when they were being kept on an island), she couldn’t imagine what the odds were that she would end up at the same bar, at the same time, on the same day as someone she knew from the island. That seemed like some kind of a sign.

She stood and made her way over. Squeezing past a burly man with a well groomed beard, she kept one hand protectively over the right front pocket of her coat. She winded her way around the bar until she reached the empty seat on Iceland’s far side. He turned toward her almost as soon as she had sat down.

Meu Deus, she wanted to say. How much had he had to drink before he had even arrived? Her eyes dropped from his face, slowly making their way down and back up again as she gave him a once over. Enough that he could not recognize a face, apparently.

She placed her gloves on the bar. Then she pulled off her hat, and let her hair tumble out. It was shorter than it had been a month ago, and the ends were uneven in places. Her last trim had been a hack job she had attempted by herself. She did most things by herself these days.

“This you are saying is for when you are not knowing the person you want to be flirting with, Ragnar. It is not working when you know the person. But you can still buy me a drink,” she said.

( @thecaptainlawrence​ )

He saw their faces everywhere - the faces of his fellow he’d let down - put in danger - gotten killed - actively killed. It didn’t help that at first, their faces were everywhere; every news channel had them on loop, who was found, who was still missing. His minders had confiscated first the TV screen, then his laptop, then his phone. (The gun under his pillow had been first to go - they had been oddly more disturbed when they discovered the screwdriver under his other pillow.)

Maybe that was why he had come to Paris. Closure. Seeing their faces for real - maybe that would help. Tempting fate, even, by choosing this particular bar.

(He could feel Sacha’s eyes on him across the counter. It felt the same as when Sacha had him at gunpoint: Get away from my fucking sister.) 

“This you are saying is for when you are not knowing the person you want to be flirting with, Ragnar.”

He jerked at the familiar voice, that familiar lilting accent. Blinked when the hat came off and the dark hair came tumbling down - blinked again, mouth open when it clicked.

All the faces of his past month haunting him, but at least this one did not belong to a dead princess.

“It is not working when you know the person.”

“Lecia?” The infamous missing Portuguese princess, presumed dead by anyone who wasn’t Portuguese. He didn’t dare say her name above a whisper - for fear of her being yet another figment of his imagination, or worse, having the press descend upon them.

“But you can still buy me a drink.”

He was gaping. He closed his mouth. Stared some more. Women were complicated - princesses more so - and he couldn’t handle complicated even at his sober best.

But dru - no, not drunk, not yet - pleasantly buzzed Ragnar was daring. Post-disaster Ragnar had nothing left to lose - no dignity, no shame he hadn’t already felt. His usual compatriot on excursions like these was fokking off with some Spanish skinka with a crown.

So he waved over the bartender, canceled the cigar, and shot her a lopsided grin.

“What - what drink would make the flirting work?”

[prince-ipled-blog]

margaretofwales‌:

Each minute required one foot in front of the other, hands tying knots around cloth bandages, cleaning blood in white swabs of gauze, metering out pills and medicine. The keys were clipped against her bra strap, tucked under her dress, pressing coolly against her skin. If she needed to go – if she needed to get anywhere, here, she could.

But there was nowhere to go.

No surgeons had shown up. She expected they’d fled, or found another end. She tried not to think on it too much, tried to promise herself that if a ship had sunk in the harbor, she would have heard about it. She would leave at dawn, she decided. She would leave at dawn and go to the docks and the ships wouldn’t even be on the horizon. She would see it for herself, then, that he was safe.

Davies. “Yes?”

It had been so long since anyone called her that; for a moment, she just stared. And then her eyes grew wide as he fell, and she quickly followed him there, hands on either side of his shoulders. He was pale, with the tell-tale sweat along his brow that so many had shown that night. Malle reached for his shirt, peeling back the fabric with a practiced detachment. 

“It’s all right. You’re – you’re in the infirmary.”

Katrin?

“No,” she corrected in that soft, Welsh voice. “Davies. I’m Malle. I’m going to help you.”

But there was no one there – not another surgeon, not a nurse, not anyone but injured princes and pirates, a few still damaged from the first fire. She bit her lip, her fingers bloody. “You have to sit up.” It was soft, but firm, and her hand slid under his other shoulder until she had enough space to gently lever him upright. “What happened? Were you cut or shot?”

“Molly?” He was on the ground - when did that happen? And English, this fokking language was no good for anything - full of strange inflections and accents - and no two English speakers sounded remotely alike -

Katrin - no, now that she was closer, she didn’t look anything like Katrin. Molly. Molly was blonde, petite. Molly was trying to pull him up - he bit back a yelp, then cursed when his left shoulder was pulled.

Ah. So maybe that was actually him bleeding, and not - not - hers -

Not thinking about that. Davies. “No,” he gritted out, trying to wriggle upright. “Davies. Where - where is he?”

Maybe she didn’t know what he looked like. Maybe she was a pirate. Maybe she was the only shot he had left. “Tall. Dark hair.” Then, after a moment, “Attitude like shit - always telling people what to do - pushing them around. Davies.”

He couldn’t remember the name. Frustrated, he slapped about, trying to find leverage so he could stand - be useful - do something instead of wallowing about.

“I’m fine - I’m fine! I need to find - ” Fokk, what was it? “Gibbon. Giddon. Gideon.” That was it. “Gideon Davies, where is he?”

[prince-ipled-blog]

henryisafreeman‌:

“Okay,” Henry said with a nod, taking in all of the pertinent information as he realized a escape plan had been formatted that he hadn’t had a hand in. Fuck. “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. You keep living in that moment, you’re going to get yourself killed. I remember my first kill…” He trailed off for a moment, “And I remember my first friend who died. There will be time to mourn and go through your fucked up thoughts later. Don’t let her death be in vain, alright?” 

Henry led him over to the weapons, “You ever shoot a gun before?” He asked before glancing back over at him, grabbing an semi automatic for himself, checking for bullets and making sure it was full loaded before swinging it over his shoulder.

“In that boat, was there a radio by any chance?”

“Close your eyes.”

Simple instructions.

“Take a deep breath.”

He could do that.

“Don’t let her death be in vain, alright?”

Too late, he wanted to say. He left her brother wandering by himself on this fokking death-trap of a shitty island -

Focus. Woodenly, he followed the American prince, grateful for something to do that he didn’t have to think of. No more plans from him.

“You ever shoot a gun before?”

It took him a moment to understand. Before. Before the island. “There was training with - with live ammunition. Glock 17. I - I can use that.”

His glance slid over the assorted weapons, brain not processing. Focus on the rage, on what the pirates did. Handgun. Anger, not the feeling of nausea.

He reached out, checked the magazine, clicked it back.

“In that boat, was there a radio by any chance?”

Spare magazine went into a pocket almost mechanically, clanking against his screwdriver. These pirates were organized in their weapons at the very least.

“I - I don’t know.” Fokk, what an idiot he was, to have risked all this and for what? “Wales - Davies. The crown prince. He was - was supposed to secure the boat.”

Anger. Get off the island first. Don’t let her death be in vain.

“The pirates,” he added. “With all the - the chaos. They will have radios.”

Hers wouldn’t be the only death.

[prince-ipled-blog]

thecaptainlawrence‌:

His hands were shaking.

Sacha straightened up, the foul taste of bile lingering in his mouth as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips. His eyes fell on Ragnar. Ragnar holding Gen. Ragnar holding his sister. Ragnar holding his dead sister.

This plan had been Ragnar’s from the start. Ragnar that just couldn’t sit around and just wait until they knew exactly what was going on. Ragnar that was normally the level headed out of the two of them. He had gotten them into this mess. This mess that involved flaming generators, pirates with guns, dead pirates and them holding guns. 

Sacha held the gun now. 

And Ragnar held Genevieve. 

‘‘Genevieve.’‘ Sacha’s voice was barely a whisper, a voice filled with agony and pure pain. He wasn’t quite sure he remembered how to walk, but his body did it for him and Sacha stepped forward towards the pair on the ground. Sacha saw red. All sense was thrown out of the window as he raised the gun. 

Click. A bullet slid into the chamber. 

‘‘Get away from my fucking sister.’‘ Cold, steady, unforgiving. There was no doubt about it. Sacha was placing the blame on Ragnar. The full blame. There was no warning, no start of cracks forming in their relationship. It just ended. Just like that. It shattered.

Ragnar was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

And there was no doubt in the icy stare of his eyes. Sacha was going to pull the trigger. 

“Genevieve.”

He couldn’t look away. “I - I don’t - ” The click - ominous, loud in the wet, heavy silence - cut him off, made him flinch.

“Get away from my fucking sister.”

What? “What?” He didn’t get it - he was missing something again, something key, something essential, because this was his best friend - this was Sacha -

Who had a gun trained on him.

“Sa-cha?”

Of all the ways he’d imagined being held at gunpoint - pirate in a mood, being shot for a rebel - this? This had never been one of them. Had never even occurred to him.

“Is - is this a - a joke?” His voice had gone thin, unsure. Sacha didn’t look like he was joking - he was a pretty good actor though, and it wasn’t like there was enough light to really know - 

One beat, two. Thud. Thud. Thud. His pulse had been racing before, but now sounded like leaden footsteps pounding against his ribcage. He couldn’t think - didn’t understand -

How had it all gone so wrong?

He (gently, carefully, reverently) moved Gen off of him, held up his hands and (slowly, unsteadily) wobbled to his feet.

“Don’t - don’t do this.”

(There was another gun by his feet, next to the pirate he’d taken down.)

“Sacha. Wake up, it - it’s me. What are you - we need to get off this island.”

(He refused to look at it.)

“Come on.”

The pirates would be back soon - someone would’ve heard - but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

[prince-ipled-blog]

[edit: Dammit @thecaptainlawrence, why you gotta be right about this?]

[prince-ipled-blog]

[three christmases] bûche bitch de noël; 23 december 2018, approx. 10 PM

@infantacardoza; (@thecaptainlawrence?)

The bar was narrow, quaint - dark wood paneling, rich red trim - a retreat for all the people beleaguered from the seasons’ scramble. Smoky jazz emitted from somewhere in the back, mingling with the chatter and actual smoke from the cigars in the front.

Paris was different, now that he was no longer welcome.

The plan was still the same though - start the night classy (blazers, natty clothing, watches); work way down the bars and neighborhoods (strip down, swap coats with oblivious bar-goers); end up in some seedy district, blitzed out of their minds -

His mind. Singular. His fingers curled around the glass.

It was still early enough in the night that the place was still borderline upscale and that his security detail was still hovering. He shrugged off his jacket, then, after a moment, pulled off the sling as well, cursing when it jostled his shoulder. He shouldn’t have come. He couldn’t help himself.

Overhead, the mini TV was rerunning scenes from the state funeral, the tinny voice informing the audience that the French royal family was in deep mourning but grateful for all well-wishes. He gingerly touched his bruised jaw - took a drink - and signaled for the bartender.

“Cigare, s’il t’plaît,” he said, miming a smoke. The security detail twitched unhappily in his peripheral vision. He’d make it up to him later.

He did flinch when he turned and found another, new figure at the bar on his other side. He squinted. “You - you look familiar.”

[prince-ipled-blog]

by the dawn’s early light; infirmary, approx. 3 AM; @margaretofwales

The best plans of mice and men, and he wasn’t even the best of them. That the plan had skipped the shit phase and hurtled straight to hell should not have surprised him. Her blood was still on his shirt. It stuck, stiff and crinkly against him - a constant, uncomfortable reminder of his many failings. 

Better to keep moving - to stay angry - to not have to think.

He had checked the warehouse (he flinched), the main house, the docks, the helvítis juice bar. No sign of his fokking promised boat or the brundþró of a Welsh prince. Infirmary seemed to be the next logical stop, in an otherwise illogical and nightmarish night.

He staggered in - when did putting one foot in front of another get so difficult? when did the ground start moving? - stumbling when the door gave way more easily than expected.

“Wales,” he rasped out, eyes flickering over the dim space. There were other shadowy figures, but he couldn’t make them out. All the wounded had begun looking the same. He didn’t know what that said about him. 

“Davies, where the fokk are you - ”

He tripped, a metal pan clattering to the ground seconds before he did - why wasn’t his left arm working?

Every time he blinked this night, he lost time and something bad happened. He looked up.

“Katrin?”

She didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong here.

“Where - where is Davies.”

[prince-ipled-blog]

henryisafreeman‌:

“Home of the free. Land of the Brave.” Henry said with a nod and then a salute. He paused for a moment, letting the man’s words sink in before raising an eyebrow, “We lost another royal. What the fuck happened?” He asked, wondering what the hell was going on outside and what he had missed.

“They are back there. I’ve been scoping this place out for months.” Henry moved to walk back to the weapons. “Tell me what’s going on. Let me see if I can help.”

What the fuck happened? He wanted to laugh. The blood on his shirt wasn’t his, but it should have been.

“I - I fokk- I fucked up,” he said, carefully. “The generators. That was - was me. There was supposed to be a boat, at - at the docks. During the confusion, we - myself, Sa- ”

He still couldn’t say their names. He closed his eyes for moment, then, “The French royals and - and - ” should he mention Lecia? Hadn’t he already dragged down enough people tonight? “We were supposed to use that as - as cover. But it - it went wrong. A pirate saw me. I shot him.”

He was shaking again. Belatedly, he lowered his hands, swallowed. “I shot him? And - and we were - were going to the warehouse to get weapons, but there was more shooting and - and - ”

A distant part of him noted that the American crown prince wasn’t interested, was probably waiting for him to get to the point. He couldn’t help himself. It was like confession, all of it - tumbling out - out of his control now that he’d started.

“She - she got shot. The French princess.” There was still some blood left on his hands. He couldn’t look. “She died.”

Then, firmer, “They killed her.” I killed her.

He stared back at the American, chin up. “Show me what to do, and I - I will get you to the boat.”

[prince-ipled-blog]

thecaptainlawrence‌:

More gunshots. And then Ragnar was racing off. It was like their roles had been reversed. Normally it was Sacha diving headfirst into danger. Sacha shouted at Gen, stay here, already running after Ragnar.

The sickening crunch of Sacha’s fist connecting with bone echoed through his head. And oh god, it hurt. But he didn’t have time to think about that, ducking to miss the swing that the pirate threw at him in retaliation. Sacha’s elbow swung round viciously, catching the pirate in his throat before his knee drove him to the ground and Sacha smacked the butt of the pistol into the pirates temple and he dropped like a light switching off.

His eyes widened at the sight of the third pirate, Ragnar’s name on his lips before a flash of blonde barreled past both the boys and Genevieve slammed into the pirate, a piece of wood clutched in both hands that she used to crack over his head.

Sacha would have grinned if he could - there seemed to be a theme going on with French and wood, but he was too busy focused on the pain in his fist. This definitely looked a whole lot easier in the movies. He walked, sauntered, over to Genevieve as she dropped the plank of wood. “Hold this for a second.” Sacha pressed the gun into his sister’s hands, crouching down to fish a keyring full of keys from the pirate that had dropped at Genevieve’s feet.

“A– are you okay?” Genevieve looked shell shocked, her skin a pasty white colour as she directed her question at Ragnar. Big, round, blue eyes staring at him in worry. The gun was held loosely in one hand, she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Although she definitely knew not to point it at her brother’s head, so Gen shifted the gun, the barrel of it pointed away from them.

“You know, for a moment there, you looked like a blonde, less attractive me. High five for good genes, Gen.” Sacha babbled as he unhooked the keyring and started to look up.

The next moments that unfolded seemed to happen in one quick flash. Sacha never knew that your world could end in such a short span of time. And that it could hurt so damn much. Names were screamed, bangs exploded in Sacha’s eardrums, blood splattered and he would cry for the first time since he was sixteen and had his heart broken for the first time ever.

A pirate ran into view, his eyes going from Sacha on his knees, to the blonde princess holding a gun and then to the blond Prince that was stood the closest to the pirate. “Gun!” He yelled, his own gun raising and pointed level with Ragnar’s chest.

“Ragnar!” Genevieve screamed. Her feet kicked up dirt that flew over Sacha, the gun in her hand accidentally went off as she dropped it, the bullet hitting the ground harmlessly. The blast made the pirate jerk, and his finger flew to the trigger of his own gun. Ragnar was stood there in the way, and there was one thing that repeated in her mind.

Not him.

Not him.

Her hands grabbed at Ragnar, her lips shaped in a perfect o shape as one of her hands fisted in his shirt, the other pressed against his neck. Her eyes were wide and at first nothing registered, she didn’t feel the bullet as it drove home into her back, nor did she feel the second one that hit her thigh. Then it all hit at once and Gen realised as she stared into Ragnar’s eyes that she couldn’t breathe. Liquid bubbled up in her throat, a nasty sensation, and then she coughed. Blood dripped down her chin, drips splattering across the white shirt that he was wearing. “Ragnar–”

Sacha’s heart was in his throat, he could barely see her, Ragnar’s larger body hiding hers from his sight. But he knew. He just knew what had happened. And then he watched her collapse into Ragnar and the scream tore from Sacha’s lips. A blood curdling, heart breaking scream as he watched his sister’s lifeless form crumple against his best friend.

Dirt got caught under his fingernails when Sacha scrambled for the gun, no time for hesitation as he pushed himself on his feet, the gun aimed and with a bang and another bang, the pirate fell

and then Sacha vomited.

Blood pounded in his ears. Around him, all the noise and action felt muffled, dampened by the humid night air and panic so thick it was suffocating. He struggled to his feet, slamming his elbow once - twice - three times into what had to be his opponent’s face - ignoring the crunch and the wetness, no time for that now -

He blinked, still feeling about for the pirate’s gun or weapon, when the dull crack sounded. Another body hit the ground. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to be sick.

“A - are you okay?”

Gen. “I - I - ” No, he wanted to say, You shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have to deal with this, deal with me. In the dim light cast by the warehouse lamps, her hair looked like a golden halo around her face.

“...you looked like a blonde, less attractive me.”

Leave it to Sacha to break the tension. He choked out a laugh, turning to say, “That depends on who you ask - ”

He shouldn’t have turned.

He shouldn’t have done a lot of things, most of which dated back exactly to this night, but -

“Ragnar!”

Don’t blink, don’t blink, don’t blink -

He blinked, and for the second time in a span of minutes he was knocked backwards, arms instinctively open, face full of that same blonde halo he’d been staring at from a distance just moments before - this wasn’t the way he’d imagined it going, this wasn’t the time or the place, but -

Wetness against his chest. Cold horror seeped back in as he pushed Gen’s hair back, scanning futilely in the darkness. There had been a shot. There had been two shots - but where -

“No, no, no, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, turning her gently even as he kept her cradled against him. “Gen. Tout va bien, tu m’entends? Gen. Gen!”

He couldn’t see, not in the dim light, but he doubted he would’ve been able to even in the light of day. Dark splotches everywhere he could make out, on his shirt, on his hands, on her - all over her.

Somewhere in the background, Sacha was howling.

Back. Fokk. Not good. None of this was good. Apply pressure. “Gen. Gen. Ne me quitte pas, non.” Her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t make out any words over the dull dread beating in his ears, the panic pounding in his heart. “Sacha! We need - ”

Another bang and he flinched, cursing when he jostled the French princess. He didn’t need to see to know there was too much blood. Her hands - were they getting colder? He couldn’t tell - they grasped at his arm, scrabbling, trying to pull him closer.

He still couldn’t make out what she was saying, just the moment the light in her eyes went - out -

He blinked. He was still pressing the already-soaked wad of someone’s torn shirt. The world was still dim, murky - desperation and despair wrapped like a garotte around his neck, a blindfold over his eyes, a hand around his chest that squeezed and squeezed and there was nothing left -

“Gen?”

She was a weight on his lap, unmoving, but he didn’t dare check, didn’t dare confirm.

“Sa- Sacha?”

Everything felt distant, as if he were watching another Ragnar there at the warehouse, holding the body of - of - holding her body, with another Sacha crouched over, ill, a few steps away.

He blinked. Stared, bewildered, down the barrel of a gun.

“Sacha?”

A-are you okay?

No. He was not.

[prince-ipled-blog]

“I’m willing to bet – ”

“You’re willing to bet on anything. Stop using that phrase.”

[prince-ipled-blog]

[prince-ipled-blog]

thecaptainlawrence‌:

‘‘What’s that?’‘

Sacha glanced over at Gen, irritation washing over him briefly. He had told her to be quiet. But no, of course she didn’t listen to him. They might has well have a giant flashing neon sign hanging over their heads saying ‘’French here’’. He wondered for a moment if this was how Ragnar felt most of the time. Maybe Sacha would apologise to him later about it. Or maybe he won’t. He probably won’t. Then Sacha saw what Gen was talking about and a laugh bubbled up on his lips.

‘’Clever son of a bitch.’’ Sacha whispered to himself, pulling the bow from the branch. ‘’Come on, Gen. I know where he is.’’ And the two set off again, Sacha with a stolen gun in his hands and Gen terrified over the fact her brother, Sacha La Tremoille, was holding a firearm. This was not going to end well. He was going to get himself and Ragnar killed.

~

‘‘Watch where you swing that thing. Nom de Dieu, you almost took out my eye.’‘ Sacha hastily withdrew his hand that had been thrown on Ragnar heavily, a frown gracing his features for a moment before he shook the surprise off and beckoned Gen forward. ‘‘You need to calm the fuck down.’‘ 

‘‘I’m not–’‘ 

‘‘Not you.’‘ Sacha snapped at his sister, eyes rolling towards her before flicking back to Ragnar. ‘‘Him. You’re being suspicious.’‘ He jerked his free hand towards Ragnar to emphasise his point.

Genevieve didn’t quite want to point out the fact Sacha was holding a gun and that was more than enough to raise suspicion. ‘’So…’’ She began slowly, her eyes lifting to meet Ragnar’s gaze. ‘’How do we get in there?’’ The blonde shook her head, golden curls falling down her shoulders. ‘’Please tell me you two don’t have some kind of idiotic idea.’’ The words almost came out pleading. Desperate. This wasn’t a good idea. They needed to go back to the Tulach House. Wait it all out there.

‘‘I have an idea.’‘ Sacha would have been offended if he wasn’t used to his sister’s reactions by now. Besides, except for Ragnar she was probably the closest person he had. The prince threw her a dazzling smile, dropping her a quick wink that did nothing to reassure her nerves. ‘‘I’ve got you chère sœur. Everything is going to be just fine, you’ll see.’‘

(@infantacardoza​ ?)

“You need to calm the fuck down.”

Sacha. It was Sacha. He wanted to snatch at his friend - you’re real, you’re still alive - “Calm - calm?!” His voice broke on his panic, but it was as if the weight on his chest had lifted. Sacha was here. We’re okay. He turned, saw the figure next to the French dauphin. “Gen. You’re here. You - ”

“You’re being suspicious.”

He gaped, then gestured at the panicked figures darting all around. “We are - are all suspicious.” And I’m a murderer, he thought, weight resettling into his stomach as he glanced at Gen and then away.

“I have an idea.”

Those four words usually inspired feelings of dread. It was a testament to how fokking fokked the situation here had gotten that all he could feel was relief. His plan had gone to shit the moment it was put in action; Sacha would know what to do -

He flinched when a sudden spate of crack-crack-crack split the humid night air. Bullets. More guns, and here they were, standing in the open, unarmed.

He grabbed Sacha’s arm. “Wait. The - the - the shots. They are coming from there.” His arm waved, then swung in the opposite direction towards the warehouse. “When they shoot again - wait for it, and then when the - the pirates react, we run for the warehouse?”

Crack-crack. They were sounding closer now, close enough that he could just hear the screams in reaction now as well. He closed his eyes. There wasn’t time to be sick - or time to think that he was using someone else’s fear - or that he had set this all off to begin with -

He opened his eyes. Over at the warehouse, the supply line had paused, unintelligible commands of some sort barked, because a group had broken off - were beginning to move out and towards the shooting. He tried to count, figures blurry.

This was good. Two remained that he could see, unless there were more inside the warehouse.

He nudged Sacha. “We - we can take two, n’est-ce pas?” He didn’t dare look at Gen - could already see her face, lips disapprovingly pursed. “You - you still have the - the - ” say it, Ragnar, you can say the word, “the gun? You can cover me.”

Wait for it. Crack-crack-crack, and that was definitely screaming now, and there went the group of pirates exiting the fenced-off area -

“Now!”

He slapped his friend’s arm, then turned and bolted for the swung-open gate. The air was thick, pressing like soup against his face - the two figures jerking up in surprise, struggling to get their weapons up -

He slammed into one, air knocked out of him in a shocked huff - choking on a gasp when it hit his burns. The other was still before him, and then -

Fokk.

There was a third pirate, stepping out of the warehouse.

@thecaptainlawrence​

[prince-ipled-blog]

infantacardoza‌:

They were all going to die.

Lecia was pretty sure Iceland had never truly understood the consequences of what they were doing. They would have been punished for the cock up with the generator alone and the fire – the fire – at least one of them would probably be thrown in the ring with an executioner just like the Ukraine. But all that had been before the figure of an Icelandic prince, backlit by the growing flames, had pointed a gun at a man on the ground. Lecia had jerked to a halt when the shot rang out. She stared with a growing sense of horror.

There were no words. There were no curses that could capture what she felt right then, which was a deep and unrelenting certainty that a line had been crossed. There would be no dungeons this time. They would, every last one of them, be marched one by one directly to the sword. They were all going to die.

Her face contorted into an expression that was somewhere between terror and anger. Ragnar’s voice rang out from across short distance left between them, announcing her name to the crowd pouring out of the buildings nearby. Everyone was going to know. They would have already suspected her, but now they were going to know. Her mouth fell open. Another shot rang out, and instinctively she cowered, covering her ears to block out the shrieks that followed. This shot hadn’t come from where the princes stood, though. This one had been fired from the direction of the Tulach House. They were under fire.

Lecia Belmira Cardoza had arrived in this world covered in someone else’s blood and screaming at the top of her lungs, and if someone was going to try to take this life from her, by god if she was not going to leave it the same way. Ragnar and Sacha were on their own. Without so much as a ‘here I am, I am safe’, Lecia turned around and fled. She did not look back.

The warehouse had been the next stop, but surely it would be on lock down within minutes.

One gunshot gave way to several more. It was as if all that had been needed was one person to start the dance to entice everyone huddled off to the sides, who desperately wanted to join in, to do so as well. Lecia’s feet pounded heavily against the sand. Hot tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes, but she still did not look back to see what had become of the princes.

@prince-ipled​

-- timeskip! --

warehouse; approx. 10:30 PM

Warehouse. Guns. We’re okay. He repeated the words like a mantra as he stumbled over the last rise. The building loomed larger now in the darkness than it had the first few times he had memorized the route - feet knowing the way on autopilot, weaving through the panicked clumps of people -

Eyes staring into his, awareness dimming after the deafening crack - the pirate had been a person too - andskotans helvítis fjandans djöfull, could they tell, could they see he had blood on his hands -

He shook his head. He had a list. He could do this (had to do this) - he’d already fucked it all up the moment the sparks went off. He hadn’t even been able to find Lecia, when he’d dragged her into this in the first place.

Warehouse first. He squinted, could just make out some shapes milling about in the darkness ahead, just beyond the chain-link fence. Pirates, likely, given how they were the one cluster of people not making noise, looking purposeful instead of desperate. One of the large double doors was open, a line of them passing something down the line - objects too small for him to make out. Could be anything. Flashlights. Radios. Guns. Bombs?

He was shaking again. Turning, he leaned against the tree and closed his eyes. Warehouse, check. Guns, likely check - the pirates were arming up to respond, and now that one of them had been killed - they weren’t likely to be merciful -

Warehouse. Guns. We’re okay. The iron band around his chest eased for one breath, then two.

Behind him was the flickering of the smaller fire they had left at the main house. The pirates would be responding soon. The panicked ones were beginning to stream this way - likely other royals who had also figured out the warehouse was the way to go. They should act fast before that happened, but -

His hands flexed. If he had a gun - but just thinking about the gun, any gun caused a fresh wave of nausea.

Instead, he ripped a strip of fabric from his shirt, tied it in a bow on a low-hanging branch. Baden Baden. Nature hike which Sacha had turned into an exploration of ...other beauties the region had to offer. They had no ties or doorknobs to loop them around, so the bow on a lower branch had to suffice to show that it was ‘occupied.’ Hopefully - hopefully Sacha would see and figure it out. Anything else might attract pirate attention, and all he had was - was pliers and a screwdriver.

Deed done, he shuffled to the other side of the trunk, keeping an eye on the figures past the warehouse fence. Warehouse. Guns. We’re -

A hand on his shoulder and he full-body flinched, screwdriver out and pointing. “Who - ”

@thecaptainlawrence​

[prince-ipled-blog]

henryisafreeman‌:

Henry put his hands up in surrender as soon as the guy pulled a gun on him. The kid was clearly royal and he wasn’t too worried about having a gun pulled on him. Probably because it had happened before with way more skilled fighters and he managed to get out alive. 

“Henry Bishop.” He said with a nod, “And you are Ragnar Thorolfson. Prince of Iceland.” He paused for a moment, giving an explanation without being asked as he took a step closer. “I make it my job to know every royal on this island. I know where the weapons are because I located them several weeks ago and have been waiting for my opportunity to get to them.”

He pointed at Ragnar, “Now buddy, I am going to need you to put down that gun. I don’t want to have to take it from you because chances are, that thing goes off and alerts people to us here. We don’t need to make a scene.”

Bishop. “Bishop,” he said slowly. His brain felt numb - thoughts started and sputtered out before he had a chance to grasp them. Bishop. He knew this - “America?”

Weapons. Fokk, where had this royal been a week ago when he’d been trying to come up with something, anything - 

Something caught in his throat. No, not anything. No escape plan was worth what had happened.

He nodded and shakily lowered the gun. “It - ” He swallowed, mouth dry. “Too late. They - they caught us, on the other side. One of the French princesses - ”

Gen. No. Couldn’t think on that now -

“I - they - they killed her.” Another swallow. “They - we split up.” Split up was an understatement for the fallout that had happened afterwards.

“But if you say the weapons - if they are back there, then - then - ”

Safety on the gun back on, then he held his arms out, mirroring the American prince’s original stance. “Help me. And I can tell you what has been happening so far.”

[prince-ipled-blog]

henryisafreeman‌:

@prince-ipled

Henry had heard the shots in the distance, they clearly were coming from across the island. His whole body immediately tensed, ready for the fight that he knew would happy eventually. Still, even if it was a false alarm or even another ploy by Roman, he would use the distraction as an advantage. Dropping his tools, he quickly hid the radio he had been working on and moved out of the Tulach house. 

He was a man with a purpose but he also stayed to the shadows, not wanting to draw any attention to himself as he made his way towards the warehouse. It wasn’t guarded, a fact that Henry didn’t take lightly as he made his way inside. He headed to where he knew the weapons were kept, confident he’d be able to get a few when he heard another set of footsteps.

Heading over to investigate, he smirked when he saw another royal and stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself. “If you’re looking for weapons, they’re on the other side of the warehouse. Just so you know.”

He staggered around the back of the warehouse, head still ringing - from the shots exchanged or from Sacha’s yelling, he wasn’t sure which. If he closed his eyes, he kept replaying the moment: the shout; the slow turn and realization; her body falling - Sacha’s face, distorted into something unrecognizable - just enough light to make out the fact that she was no longer breathing -

A blink, and he had the gun up and pointed before he had fully registered the person in front of him.

“Who are you?” he rasped, eyes flicking over him - past him - then back on him. His hands shook despite his two-handed grip. “Who are you!”

“If you’re looking for weapons, they’re on the other side of the warehouse.”

Helpful, if slightly redundant information. The other side of the warehouse was where -

He wrenched away from that line of thought, narrowed his eyes at the speaker. “Who are you, and - and you know where the weapons are?”

He had grabbed the gun - they all had grabbed something - but ammunition, that was hard to find in the dark, in a warehouse they didn’t know, in a situation where they were being shot at.

He couldn’t go back there alone, but maybe if this person went with him he could - could pretend -

And if this person was also a pirate...

He adjusted his grip on the gun.

[prince-ipled-blog]

@thecaptainlawrence hey Sacha hey

French Crown Jewels, the Coronation Crown of King Louis XV bejeweled with hundreds of diamonds and other precious gems from the royal collection. This is the only surviving French Royal Crown from the Ancien-Regime (before the French Revolution). Now in the Apollo Gallery in Louvre Museum, Paris.

Vive-la-france 🇫🇷