#every little swear word in Justin's royal-like linguistic style is intentional

[nadiajustbe]

After months of running away, objecting and arguing with his brother, Prince Justin finally marriess Beatrice of Strangia. And it's... not bad, definitely: the weeding was big, rich and loud, made for four people, marrying at the same day. Beatrice herself is a great, a strong-willed person who knows how to dab socks and manage the country.

He can't tell anything here is objectively wrong: on the contrary, every single detail, from the number of candlesticks arranged in an even circle on the chandeliers, to the color scheme of the napkins and the distribution of seats at the huge tables, semeed horrendously perfect. People approach him, glowing with the wide smiles on their faces, sharing their remorse that the Royal Wizard — as If they thought it would be great to remind him about this miserable fact, or somehow guessed he wasn't keeping it in mind himself — can't come to see his dear friend on such a important day of his life.

For fully unknown reason, Justin almost finds the fact that he isn't there a good coincidence, at least a little bit, walking around a huge decorated hall, so full of music and voices he can't quite hear his own steps. Royals and commoners of all wise and statutes are eager to shake his hand, tipping a glass or two of wine with him.

But aside of that, things go pretty smooth. His own brother is smiling at him, almost as If they never argued about anything in their lifes, proud and clear. Prince Justin finally found a place of patience, stopped running around his problems, throw yourself into the flames of a chaos, burn himself with their tongues, without considering the consequences. He became what they all called, "a model prince", in the end of the day.

And, watching at all they do, and hearing all they say, Price Justin thought that they may be right. That the feeling of tingling uneasiness will ease with time, earning itself, that he'll find the way of ruling, the way of earning trust and respect hundreds of times larger than the one he has. There's nothing that tragic in leaving your own country forever, when you're an adult general with important issues on your mind? Justin thought he could handle it.

It lasted for about a week. Even less, if Justin had to be honest, counting days, unsure whether the whole week has passed yet. Less than a week of time, stretching and testing him, ticking with the hands of the clock. Less than a week of missing his small garden outside of the castle, where cats would climb on trees and water would rush through small, calming stream. Less than a week of missing Valeria's scribbles, silly painting on wich Justin was almost always shown somewhere at the top of the paper and childish, mischievous laughter.

Less than a week of one particular name jumping on the tip of his tongue, showing up in his own thoughts, appearing before his eyes everytime mighty mountains cleared the path into the Ingarian fields, somewhere in the distance.

There's nothing wrong in the feeling of loosing something so dear to you tearing you up, he reasoned. Most accordingly, his own reasoning had much more swearing, army slang and vague wording within it, but it sounded close to that.

And there's definitely, absolutely nothing wrong in being so eager to see your friend, whom you are not sure you will ever meet again. No matter how often your last meeting — brief, sore and painfully quick, accompanied with with the impatient clatter of horse hooves and the order to move forward — flashes in his own memory, keeping him awake at night.

There were simply so many things to tell, and so little time in which saying them had at least some sense.

And the irony is, Justin didn't even know, what exactly those words were supposed to be.

He looked up at the celling of his hew home, trimmed with gold, while Princess Beatrice was moving a little uneasily by his side, having long since fallen asleep.

The other disadvantage of marriage turned out to be sharing a room with another person. Justin didn't want to wake her up, nor bother her the nonexistent problems, seeping through his fingers like sand.

Still, he was at the right place. He had to be at the right place. He was a Prince with a powerful Princess by his side, wounded in worthy amount of battles, getting his long-earned rest. That's what every fairy tale says: happily ever after comes after Prince finds his courage to find a Princess, and they face not a single problem after that, filled with joy. There's a reason they never show married life in this books, If you squint.

Except, it didn't feel right. Nothing, written in ink, engraved on the paper, felt right. The walls gave off a ghostly coldness, the curtains swayed in the wind in rather strange way, the halls drowned those present with its grandeur, completely different from the one he knew. Even the selling — higher power knew how much he wanted to close his eyes just not to look at it — looked even more distant than the one they had in the library, mirroring his reflection.

Here it goes again.

He liked Ben. He liked him a bit too much for his own well-being, or at least that's what his brother had been telling him. And his brother was a big fan of reminding Justin of all the wrongs in his life.

According to him, there were a lot. According to him, more than a half of them led to the Royal Wizard.

Not like he cared. Of course, screw the rules, let your own worries consume you, let your legs take you whenever they want to go, let the darkness eat you alive, let it decide what are you made up from.

His brother could scream at him all he wanted. That's wouldn't have changed anything. Justin knew there were things and people worth fighting for.

It didn't matter, now that he was away. That's not something a model prince should be thinking about, but it was certainly something Justin couldn't help but think about despite this new status.

Everything returned to Ben, in the end. As If it was a cycle.

To than strangely big amount of moments they didn't get to share, to occasional smiles and words in a language he could never quite make out. To the days when his friend couldn't even understand what he himself was saying, looking fascinated by every thing that met his eye, asking unusually basic questions. To quiet melodies, created by the strumming of the guitar strings, which he always deeply, unreasonably cherished. To that too peaceful ideas — he told him the only thing that could stop the Witch of the Waste was well-armed army, and certainly not a planting of fields, but Ben always clang to more idealistic ideas than Justin did.

Every thingle moment, unwillingly running across the celling — as If Justin's own image wasn't really his — collected a cluster of such a strange, pulling sensation somewhere under the side, that he wanted to punch something. Or hit it with a sword.

Shit.

His vast, colourful vocabulary had no substitute for this particular word.

If he's gonna stay here for a second longer, no damn princess will save him from what he's about to do.

Justin doesn't really remember how exactly he got out of bed, leaving a disheveled blanket on the mattress, the floorboards creaked somewhat under his weight.

Gathering his things into a small cloth knot, moving as quietly as possible so as not to wake Beatrice or anyone else important enough in the castle, Justin quickly glanced at the clock on the wall.

There was a brief conclusion, made on a rush of his mind, the same way every of his questionable, unbearably harsh ideas, that never led to anything remotely sane or logical: he held the status of a model Prince for about a dozens decades less than he was supposed to do so.

Yes, definitely less than a week.

Justin didn't give himself benefit of the doubt. Whatever the hell will be going on there after he does what he does is not his problem.

He was never supposed to be a King of this country. He's more of a solider. A general. A dog, a servant, an inpatient mysterious costumer gone to buy spells. That felt right.

The curtains had stopped waving, freezing in a slippery, eerie moment. Justin could swear the sound of water droplets hitting the metal supports of the balcony began to reach his ears. A thread of chill stretched through the crack in the window, making its way into the room, right under the sleepwear.

The dim glow of the candles cast shadows across the corridors, echoed by the heavy boots of guards and servants.

He couldn't get straight through the main exit. As if his situation wasn't a total crap without this fact.

The cold was getting on Justin's nerves as he opened the window wider, hastily pulling on a green coat and rough shoes. Tons of fighting about saving his "unacceptable" clothes definitely paid themselves off.

Justin looked down, gripping the handle of a huge, door-like window tighter with his fingers. Only a couple of meters, no more that two floor — no thing that a proper army man couldn't handle.

He jumped onto the balcony, grabbing the handrail with one swift movement. He took one last, quick glance around the room before turning his back to it.

Beatrice continued to dream, almost motionless now, like had never known any strong worry. Raindrops, from that moment large and unpleasant, flew into the room, blowing out the lights of the candlesticks with the howl of the wind, that was treacherous enough to start picking up again now.

The flame went out. Justin closed the window.

He jumped over the partition, holding on to the small connecting bars.

It was very stupid. Very unclear. But there was no difficulty in crossing the mountains of Strangia, even on foot. Justin did much harder things. No matter how majestic the borders were, they could hardly compare to the fearless dryness of the Waste.

He knew where he was going. Of all the houses that had ever been in his native country, he knew exactly which door to knock on. And Ben might laugh at him for it — he would have every bloody right to burst into pure mockery — and at the same time he would not mind in any way. He liked Ben, no matter what it meant.

Justin jumped off the balcony, landing nimbly on the ground.

He was going home.