Cross-posted from Hetachallenge
Title: The Things I Do For You
Author: kira
Claim: Prussia
Character(s): Prussia, Frederick II, Frederick William I, and an unnamed OC
Table/Prompt: Angst/ Prompt # 10, Fight
Word Count: 1713
Rating: PG16 for a brief description of violence
Summary: Prussia intervenes in a confrontation between Frederick and his father and gets severely beaten by Frederick William for his trouble…
Author’s note: My beta is unavailable, so this was looked over by myself; any errors within are my own.
Frederick closed his eyes and waited for the next blow to come. His father was in another one of his moods and the Crown Prince felt his father wanted to kill him. He hurt all over and he just wanted to die and end his misery. Frederick William had worked himself up into a blinding rage over what he considered were his son’s effeminate ways and he was determined to beat it out of the boy if it was the last thing he did. He rained down blow after blow upon Frederick and he was nearly senseless from the pain. Red faced with anger, Frederick William raised his hand to strike his son again with his cane, when a strong hand grabbed his wrist.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the king roared. He struggled to pull his hand out of the vice-like grip, but he was held fast.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Prussia calmly said. “Are you alright, Your Highness?”
Frederick was afraid to answer. He simply laid there, too frightened and sore to move. While he was glad his tutor had arrived in time to stop his father from beating him to death, he was afraid that Herr Beilschmidt had now turned his father’s anger towards him.
“You’d better let go of me, Beilschmidt, before you regret it!”
“That’s a chance I’ll have to take, cuz I have the feeling that if I did, the boy would end up dead.”
“So what?”
“So what? That’s your son you’re talking about, Your Majesty,” Prussia replied with thinly veiled sarcasm on Frederick William’s title.
“He acts more like my daughter.”
“Does he now?” Prussia grinned as he shook his head in disbelief. Having spent quite a lot of time with the Crown Prince, he knew better.
Frederick William sputtered wordlessly at him. No one had ever dared to defy him like that, never mind argue with him, and since he was spoiling for a fight, he decided to give his son’s tutor one that he would never forget. Pulling his hand free of Prussia’s grip, he raised his cane and whacked him on the head with it. He vented his spleen on him, beating him savagely about the head and shoulders, until his arm grew too tired to wield his cane. Prussia, took the beating stoically, until the pain became too much and he collapsed onto the floor. Feeling victorious, Frederick William kicked Prussia in the ribs for good measure, before leaving the room, his slow, steady footsteps echoing off the walls.
The Crown Prince let out a muffled sob. He was so sure his beloved tutor was dead that he wanted to die too. Frederick was so lost in his own sorrow that he barely noticed the soft moans coming from his tutor’s direction. Once he did, however, Frederick sat up and crawled over to him. Gently brushing the hair matted with blood back, he said softly, “I’m sorry, Herr Beilschmidt.”
Prussia moaned softly in reply. Even though he felt like he had been to hell and back, he knew he would be fine in a few days, even if looked like he was healing at the same rate as a human being. All he needed was a few days of bed rest and he would recover enough to go about his business. However, Prussia was worried about how the Crown Prince was affected by what he saw. He hoped to God that when the boy was an adult, he would have enough sense to curb his temper and save any violent outbursts for the battlefield, but he need not have worried, if the Crown’s Prince’s tearful compassion was any indication.
“Wait here,” Frederick said as he slowly got to his feet. The Crown Prince felt faint and sick to his stomach by his tutor’s condition, but he knew the man needed help. “I’m going to get father’s field surgeon.” Without waiting for a reply, he staggered from the room.
Prussia smiled, or at least he hoped he did. His face felt like it was on fire and the fingers on his left hand were numb. He idly wondered if Frederick William had broken his arm when Prussia raised it to fend off the blows. He flexed the fingers on his right hand. It hurt like hell and the skin on his knuckles felt like it had split, but at least it still worked unlike the left. If only I wasn’t left-handed… he thought wryly. Prussia coughed and his bruised ribs sent a shockwave of agony through him. Verdammt! I haven’t felt this bad since I was Teutonic Knights and we got our Ärsche kicked by Russia! He coughed again, his ribs screaming in agony and his head pounding, and when he tried to get more comfortable, his world went black...
Prussia woke up several hours later, still in pain, but feeling a bit more comfortable than he had before he had passed out. His ribs felt bound and his left arm was splinted and tied in a sling. Prussia’s head was also bandaged and he had a feeling the nasty cut above his eye and the huge gash in his scalp was stitched. He considered himself lucky that the king had not split his skull open like a ripe melon and the way his one eye was swollen shut, left him in no doubt that that was Frederick William’s intention. His pride was also wounded, since he had held back from doing anything other than defending himself from the blows that had rained down upon him, but he figured it was better to let the king vent his anger on him than letting him continue to take it out on the Crown Prince.
“Herr Beilschmidt?” the familiar voice of the king’s field surgeon filled Prussia’s ears above the ringing in them.
“Yeah…?” Prussia croaked.
“Oh good, you’re awake. We’ve been worried about you.”
“Hunh?” Prussia frowned or tried to.
“The Crown Prince and I. We’ve been worried about you.”
“Oh…”
“He fell asleep next to you, Herr Beilschmidt, the poor thing was exhausted and frightened you were going to die. He kept going on about it being all his fault.”
Prussia gave him a slight nod, instantly regretting it as it made his sore head swim. The field surgeon fussed over him, explaining his injuries and telling him he was sorry he could not give him anything for the pain as Prussia was concussed. He also explained that he was afraid Prussia would not wake up if he took anything. Prussia snorted softly, he might have felt like death warmed over, but he was made of sterner stuff than most of the poor sods the field surgeon had tended to in the course of a battle and a little knock on the head was not going to keep him down for more than a day or two. “He’s…” he breathed, hoping the doctor would realize he was asking about Frederick. It was hard to think and the last thing Prussia remembered was that the Crown Prince had looked pretty beat up too.
“He’s fine, Herr Beilschmidt. A few bumps and bruises, but that’s to be expected when…” he trailed off, and lowering his voice to a whisper, added, “When the king’s in one of his moods again.”
Prussia coughed as softly as he could. It hurt to breathe as it was and coughing was agonizing. “Let… stay…” He reached for the sleeping boy with his good hand, his fingertips briefly brushing against Frederick’s knee. That simple touch was oddly reassuring and Prussia fell into a fitful sleep that the field surgeon roused him from several times during the night to make sure he was alright.
He finally woke around midday the next day, still feeling as though he was on the losing end of a bar fight. Prussia was pleased to note that he beginning to be able to open the eye that had been swollen shut and he squinted in the bright light of his room. A welcome and familiar sight swam into view.
“Herr Beilschmidt! How are you? Are you alright? We were so worried about you!!” Frederick cried; his words, a mix of French and German, coming out in a rush.
“German, Fritzchen,” Prussia gently admonished. While he understood and was beginning to learn to speak French from the boy, his head hurt too much to bother trying to understand him.
“Sorry, Herr Beilschmidt. Are you okay?”
“Been better.”
“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have been practicing my flute, but I was done drilling my troops and having a mock battle with my brother’s! And I hate it! And I just wanted to do something I liked so I got out my flute and-”
“Fritzchen…” Prussia held up his right hand. “Please, Your Highness.”
“Sorry, Herr Beilschmidt.”
“It’s alright, Fritzchen.” Prussia reached for the boy. “Get your flute and play for me…” Prussia closed his eyes. He had just woken up and already he wanted to go back to sleep.
“Okay! I’ll be right back!” Frederick hurried to do as he was bidden. He raced from the room, leaving Prussia alone with the doctor.
“If you’re tired, I can send the prince away.”
“No, that’s alright. Let him play.”
“But you need your rest, if you’re to get better, Herr Beilschmidt.”
“If I’m tired, I’ll sleep, Herr Doktor.” Prussia smirked as the field surgeon shook his head at him. “I’ll be fine, Fritz is a good boy.”
“I know.”
Frederick returned, ten minutes later, flushed from running through the palace halls. He strode over to the bed, where Prussia lay, resting. He smiled at his tutor, while he calmed himself down enough to play. Raising the flute to his lips, Frederick blew softly, his fingers dancing, as he played a series of scales. Taking a deep breath, Frederick launched into the song he had written for his tutor.
Prussia lay back against the pillows and smiled. The young Crown Prince was shaping up into a fine flautist, despite not being allowed to study it as much as he liked. Closing his eyes, Prussia let the music soothe him and take him away to a place where the pain he felt was a distant memory.
Author: kira
Claim: Prussia
Character(s): Prussia, Frederick II, Frederick William I, and an unnamed OC
Table/Prompt: Angst/ Prompt # 10, Fight
Word Count: 1713
Rating: PG16 for a brief description of violence
Summary: Prussia intervenes in a confrontation between Frederick and his father and gets severely beaten by Frederick William for his trouble…
Author’s note: My beta is unavailable, so this was looked over by myself; any errors within are my own.
Frederick closed his eyes and waited for the next blow to come. His father was in another one of his moods and the Crown Prince felt his father wanted to kill him. He hurt all over and he just wanted to die and end his misery. Frederick William had worked himself up into a blinding rage over what he considered were his son’s effeminate ways and he was determined to beat it out of the boy if it was the last thing he did. He rained down blow after blow upon Frederick and he was nearly senseless from the pain. Red faced with anger, Frederick William raised his hand to strike his son again with his cane, when a strong hand grabbed his wrist.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the king roared. He struggled to pull his hand out of the vice-like grip, but he was held fast.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Prussia calmly said. “Are you alright, Your Highness?”
Frederick was afraid to answer. He simply laid there, too frightened and sore to move. While he was glad his tutor had arrived in time to stop his father from beating him to death, he was afraid that Herr Beilschmidt had now turned his father’s anger towards him.
“You’d better let go of me, Beilschmidt, before you regret it!”
“That’s a chance I’ll have to take, cuz I have the feeling that if I did, the boy would end up dead.”
“So what?”
“So what? That’s your son you’re talking about, Your Majesty,” Prussia replied with thinly veiled sarcasm on Frederick William’s title.
“He acts more like my daughter.”
“Does he now?” Prussia grinned as he shook his head in disbelief. Having spent quite a lot of time with the Crown Prince, he knew better.
Frederick William sputtered wordlessly at him. No one had ever dared to defy him like that, never mind argue with him, and since he was spoiling for a fight, he decided to give his son’s tutor one that he would never forget. Pulling his hand free of Prussia’s grip, he raised his cane and whacked him on the head with it. He vented his spleen on him, beating him savagely about the head and shoulders, until his arm grew too tired to wield his cane. Prussia, took the beating stoically, until the pain became too much and he collapsed onto the floor. Feeling victorious, Frederick William kicked Prussia in the ribs for good measure, before leaving the room, his slow, steady footsteps echoing off the walls.
The Crown Prince let out a muffled sob. He was so sure his beloved tutor was dead that he wanted to die too. Frederick was so lost in his own sorrow that he barely noticed the soft moans coming from his tutor’s direction. Once he did, however, Frederick sat up and crawled over to him. Gently brushing the hair matted with blood back, he said softly, “I’m sorry, Herr Beilschmidt.”
Prussia moaned softly in reply. Even though he felt like he had been to hell and back, he knew he would be fine in a few days, even if looked like he was healing at the same rate as a human being. All he needed was a few days of bed rest and he would recover enough to go about his business. However, Prussia was worried about how the Crown Prince was affected by what he saw. He hoped to God that when the boy was an adult, he would have enough sense to curb his temper and save any violent outbursts for the battlefield, but he need not have worried, if the Crown’s Prince’s tearful compassion was any indication.
“Wait here,” Frederick said as he slowly got to his feet. The Crown Prince felt faint and sick to his stomach by his tutor’s condition, but he knew the man needed help. “I’m going to get father’s field surgeon.” Without waiting for a reply, he staggered from the room.
Prussia smiled, or at least he hoped he did. His face felt like it was on fire and the fingers on his left hand were numb. He idly wondered if Frederick William had broken his arm when Prussia raised it to fend off the blows. He flexed the fingers on his right hand. It hurt like hell and the skin on his knuckles felt like it had split, but at least it still worked unlike the left. If only I wasn’t left-handed… he thought wryly. Prussia coughed and his bruised ribs sent a shockwave of agony through him. Verdammt! I haven’t felt this bad since I was Teutonic Knights and we got our Ärsche kicked by Russia! He coughed again, his ribs screaming in agony and his head pounding, and when he tried to get more comfortable, his world went black...
Prussia woke up several hours later, still in pain, but feeling a bit more comfortable than he had before he had passed out. His ribs felt bound and his left arm was splinted and tied in a sling. Prussia’s head was also bandaged and he had a feeling the nasty cut above his eye and the huge gash in his scalp was stitched. He considered himself lucky that the king had not split his skull open like a ripe melon and the way his one eye was swollen shut, left him in no doubt that that was Frederick William’s intention. His pride was also wounded, since he had held back from doing anything other than defending himself from the blows that had rained down upon him, but he figured it was better to let the king vent his anger on him than letting him continue to take it out on the Crown Prince.
“Herr Beilschmidt?” the familiar voice of the king’s field surgeon filled Prussia’s ears above the ringing in them.
“Yeah…?” Prussia croaked.
“Oh good, you’re awake. We’ve been worried about you.”
“Hunh?” Prussia frowned or tried to.
“The Crown Prince and I. We’ve been worried about you.”
“Oh…”
“He fell asleep next to you, Herr Beilschmidt, the poor thing was exhausted and frightened you were going to die. He kept going on about it being all his fault.”
Prussia gave him a slight nod, instantly regretting it as it made his sore head swim. The field surgeon fussed over him, explaining his injuries and telling him he was sorry he could not give him anything for the pain as Prussia was concussed. He also explained that he was afraid Prussia would not wake up if he took anything. Prussia snorted softly, he might have felt like death warmed over, but he was made of sterner stuff than most of the poor sods the field surgeon had tended to in the course of a battle and a little knock on the head was not going to keep him down for more than a day or two. “He’s…” he breathed, hoping the doctor would realize he was asking about Frederick. It was hard to think and the last thing Prussia remembered was that the Crown Prince had looked pretty beat up too.
“He’s fine, Herr Beilschmidt. A few bumps and bruises, but that’s to be expected when…” he trailed off, and lowering his voice to a whisper, added, “When the king’s in one of his moods again.”
Prussia coughed as softly as he could. It hurt to breathe as it was and coughing was agonizing. “Let… stay…” He reached for the sleeping boy with his good hand, his fingertips briefly brushing against Frederick’s knee. That simple touch was oddly reassuring and Prussia fell into a fitful sleep that the field surgeon roused him from several times during the night to make sure he was alright.
He finally woke around midday the next day, still feeling as though he was on the losing end of a bar fight. Prussia was pleased to note that he beginning to be able to open the eye that had been swollen shut and he squinted in the bright light of his room. A welcome and familiar sight swam into view.
“Herr Beilschmidt! How are you? Are you alright? We were so worried about you!!” Frederick cried; his words, a mix of French and German, coming out in a rush.
“German, Fritzchen,” Prussia gently admonished. While he understood and was beginning to learn to speak French from the boy, his head hurt too much to bother trying to understand him.
“Sorry, Herr Beilschmidt. Are you okay?”
“Been better.”
“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have been practicing my flute, but I was done drilling my troops and having a mock battle with my brother’s! And I hate it! And I just wanted to do something I liked so I got out my flute and-”
“Fritzchen…” Prussia held up his right hand. “Please, Your Highness.”
“Sorry, Herr Beilschmidt.”
“It’s alright, Fritzchen.” Prussia reached for the boy. “Get your flute and play for me…” Prussia closed his eyes. He had just woken up and already he wanted to go back to sleep.
“Okay! I’ll be right back!” Frederick hurried to do as he was bidden. He raced from the room, leaving Prussia alone with the doctor.
“If you’re tired, I can send the prince away.”
“No, that’s alright. Let him play.”
“But you need your rest, if you’re to get better, Herr Beilschmidt.”
“If I’m tired, I’ll sleep, Herr Doktor.” Prussia smirked as the field surgeon shook his head at him. “I’ll be fine, Fritz is a good boy.”
“I know.”
Frederick returned, ten minutes later, flushed from running through the palace halls. He strode over to the bed, where Prussia lay, resting. He smiled at his tutor, while he calmed himself down enough to play. Raising the flute to his lips, Frederick blew softly, his fingers dancing, as he played a series of scales. Taking a deep breath, Frederick launched into the song he had written for his tutor.
Prussia lay back against the pillows and smiled. The young Crown Prince was shaping up into a fine flautist, despite not being allowed to study it as much as he liked. Closing his eyes, Prussia let the music soothe him and take him away to a place where the pain he felt was a distant memory.