Once Upon a Blah Blah Blah
Title: Once Upon a Blah Blah Blah
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4428
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Here ye, here ye, own not do I anything to do with the concepts and characters of “Heroes”.
Written for challenge #12: four corners at sylaire_chall and prompt #4: prodigious tintinnabulation for the Ridiculously Specific prompt table. Thanks to ladyanne525 for betaing :)
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…
What? You don’t like the story already? Already? We’re only 10 words into it, for crying out loud! Okay, so it neither was that far away nor that long ago, but really - do you enjoy listening to stories about what happened in your backyard two days ago? No? Well, that’s because no one does! We want the drama, the excitement, the fabulous life, not the everyday and boring. That’s why it’s always in a kingdom far away, far away from your monotonous little lives, you plebeians, and always a long time ago because... well, I just like ancient history, deal with it. Now, where was I?
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a beautiful princess…
Hey! The princess really was pretty, and I resent the fact that you seem to think that I’m bribable. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, I’ve never taken a penny from the King, her father. Now, back to the story.
Once upon a blah blah blah far away, there was a beautiful princess. A very special beautiful princess from a very special family, for you see, Princess Claire could heal any wound and King Nathan could fly and…
You don’t like the way I’m telling this story? You’re sick of stories about pretty yet spoiled princesses and you’re highly worried that the combination of indestructibility and flying indicates a story about fighting against dragons with a taste for virgins’ blood? You don’t want to hear about pretty girls with special powers? Bah! Fine, if you want just the facts, that’s what you’ll get, but don’t crying to me when the art of storytelling dies.
There was a princess. Her father worried she’d never marry, for she was one of those very new-fashioned independent sorts - he blames his mother entirely for that fact - so he sent out summons to the four corners of the earth, inviting all the foreign royals, nobles, and military dignitaries to come and compete for her hand. They came, and she didn’t marry any of the men presented to her, but she still somehow managed to live happily ever after anyhow. So there. The end.
What? Too short? Geez, you people are never happy. This story’s too short, that story’s too long, wah wah wah. Now, I’m not going to let you interrupt me anymore. One more complaint, and you won’t get any more stories out of me, so there!
“Now this is interesting.”
Sylar looks up from his supper to see his servant boy waving a piece of paper in the air. Chances are that it was a two-for-one sale on chain mail or a discount for the local brothel. “What is it?”
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Luke reads off the paper dramatically; Sylar wishes he’d never taught the whelp to read. “Come ye all to Castle Petrelli to bide for the hand of the King’s daughter, Princess Claire. Suitors from all four corners of the earth, come one, come all! Prove your worth!”
“And bring all your gold and jewels with you.” Sylar snarks. “Another spoiled princess up for sale.. I mean, ready to marry.”
“Aren’t you interested?” Luke carefully places the announcement in front of him. “Everyone says that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Sylar rolls his eyes. “Lesson the first, beautiful women are more trouble than they’re worth, so when presented with one, run the other direction. Lesson the second, anyone described as ‘the most beautiful’ isn’t probably that great, it’s just that her family has power and prestige, the bastards.” Irritated, he stabs his knife through the hunk of beef on his trencher.
“Oh.” Luke suddenly remembers why the name Petrelli sounds so familiar. “Those Petrellis.”
“Yes, those Petrellis.” Sylar growls, before picking up his beef-encrusted knife and knawing at the remains of his supper. After using the edge of Luke’s tunic to clean the knife, he shoves the trencher at the boy and returns the knife to it’s holster. “Now, back to work before I have you hung by your thumbs.”
Luke grabs up the tray, and starts to leave the room. Hesitating in the doorway, he turns back to Sylar. “Wouldn’t it be something if you could convince her to marry you, though. King Nathan would have a coronary!” He leaves before Sylar can respond.
Now, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, our dragon Sylar isn’t exactly the kindest man on Earth, and he hates Nathan, King of Petrellicest Petrelliland, as well as Nathan’s younger brother, Prince Peter. Luke’s rather innocent words give our villain quite a lot to think about that night, and every night from then on as they make their way to the center of the universe, Petrelliland.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Let’s go over the rules again.” Sylar stares out at the walls of the castle, growing ever nearer, as their boat glides into the harbor.
Luke rolls his eyes, but promptly starts listing the rules that have been beaten into his head during their journey, repeating Sylar’s instructions verbatim. “One, don’t swive any of the servant lasses, unless I’m sure they won’t say anything. Two, don’t swive any of the noble ladies, since they all gossip. Three, don’t tup any of the men, no matter if they’re servants or nobles. Four, keep my mouth shut so that I don’t prove I’m an idiotic pain-in-the-arse. Five, don’t pick any fights. Six, if I absolutely must pick a fight, pick one with someone weaker than me.”
When Luke pauses, Sylar prompts him. “Rule seven?”
“Seven, if I pick a fight, fight dirty. Eight, for God’s sake, pretend to be a pious ass, so no cursing.”
“Good boy.” Sylar ruffles Luke’s hair. “You go in with the guards to the Great Hall; I’ll sneak in the back with the trunks. Try to catch the princess’s eye if you can.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar slams the door to their suite of rooms as soon as he drags their trunks into the room. He rips off the dark cloak that he’d been wrapped up in, trying to hide his travel attire, as the rest of the castle residents wouldn’t understand why a servant should be dressed so well. He frowns at Luke. The kid’s already acting the part of spoiled nobility, sprawled across the decadent bed. Sylar tosses his cloak at him, growling “Get up.”
Luke scrambles off the bed, scurrying over to the trunks.
“So, what have you learned so far?” Sylar asks Luke as the boy starts unpacking their luggage.
“Half the suitors have checked in - or at least, half the suitors that were polite enough to RSVP, as was pointed out to me by the Queen Mother. Really, you couldn’t even bother to send a letter to let them know we were coming?” He pulls out a few items of clothing, and hands them to Sylar.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t?” Sylar asks, frowning as he grabs the brown wool shirt he’s going to have to wear, fabric rough against his hands. “Seeing how there is no ‘Grand Duke Luke’ and his servant Gabriel, I’m rather glad we didn’t announce our pending arrival early enough for them to start researching your background, your grace.”
Luke laughs, then grabs Sylar’s favorite hat out of the trunk and plunks it down on his head. “And don’t you forget it, Gabey.”
Sylar grabs Luke by his embroidered collar and shakes him, hard. “Don’t you forget who’s really in charge here, and what will happen to you when we get back home.”
All the color drains from Luke’s face. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, while you’re helping me change attire, tell me about the suitors.”
A suitably chastised Luke starts unbuttoning Sylar’s shirt, pushing the fine silk from his master’s shoulders. “The emperor’s son was the first to show up, him and his servant-slash-interpreter-slash-lover. Hero, or Hiro, or something like that. Doesn’t speak English or Latin or Italian very well. Seems to only know the words for breakfast items. Called the king a magnificent frying waffle.”
Sylar laughs, then sits down on the bed, holding up his leg for Luke to start unlacing the boots.
“Next, in a prodigious parade of extravagance…” Luke starts tugging on the laces, cursing under his breath.
“Who taught you the words ‘prodigious’ and ‘extravagance’?” Sylar’s amazed that the boy can even pronounce them properly, much less use them correctly.
“I heard Prince Peter describe the Maharajkumar’s entrance that way.” Luke pouts then tugs the boot off, dropping to his knees to tackle the other boot.
“The who?”
Backing away as discreetly as he can, Luke whispers “Mohinder of Chennai” then waits for the inevitable explosion. He’s not disappointed as Sylar jumps off the bed and starts pacing, mumbling and muttering while clenching his fists; he’s heard all the stories about his master’s interactions with Prince Mohinder, and he’d known that Sylar wouldn’t take the news well.
As soon as Sylar calms down, he sits back down, letting Luke continue to undress him. “Who else?” He asks in terse tone.
“You’re not going to want to hear this.” Luke warns.
“Tell me.”
“Alejandro de Santo Domingo, with his sister in tow.” Luke rushes through the words.
“Sweet, sweet Maya.” Sylar licks him lips. “By the way, rule nine - avoid Maya and any other lady that might be able to identify you as my servant due to their time spent in my chambers.”
Luke snorts; Sylar’s ladies had all been so enchanted by him that it was as if Luke hadn’t even existed back then.
Sylar looks at him, suddenly confused. “Wait, Alejandro? I thought I had killed that son of a bitch.”
“It appears he’s been miraculously resurrected, then.” Luke’s smart enough to bite his tongue and not saying anything about that particular fight, or the reason for it, Luke continues on, trying to get through the rest of the bad news before Sylar can explode again. “The King of Haiti. Claude, Duke of Fenwick, although no one’s seen him since the first day. Prince Adam of Monrovia, although I’m fairly certain he’s no more a prince than I am - walks, talks, and acts just like a confidence man. Sir Matthew Parkman, Lord Protector of Los Angeles. A few local boys, Sir West and Lord Woolsly.” As he talks, his nimble fingers undo the lacings of Sylar’s velvet breeches, and he pulls them off.
“Interesting. Very interesting.” Sylar steps into the new woolen pants that Luke proffers. “Has the princess shown any preference yet?”
“No one’s seen the princess. Sit, please.” Luke carefully pushes a new pair of boots, ones made of incredibly cheap leather, onto Sylar’s feet, then laces them tightly.
Holding out his arms, Sylar lets the drab shirt be put on him, lost in his thoughts. “No one?”
“She was there, but heavily veiled. Didn’t say a word to anyone. Didn’t even get up to curtsy or nod her head, just sat there like a lump.”
That’s out of character for the girl, Sylar knows. He’s heard about her, heard about her fire and insouciance; if he’s correct, she was the blonde harridan hanging on Peter’s arm at the last jousting tournament, the one who’d caught his eye when she’d slapped a crude knight who’d asked for her favor. He wonders if Nathan’s drugged her.
The thought that perhaps the veiled mystery isn’t the princess also comes to mind.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar lurks in the dark corners of the room, watching everyone carefully, watching how each suitor comes before the throne, how the veiled girl doesn’t respond to any of them. He also carefully watches her maid, watches how that girl doesn’t bow her head to anyone but the king, how she meets the eyes of every man there, how straight she keeps her back. He can’t help but notice that she speaks perfectly, crisply, in a way that no maid he’s ever encountered can.
He notices, certainly, and he smiles. It seems that he’s not the only one in disguise.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Is your mistress close to deciding?” He leans in close to the maid, the one that he’s certain is anything but a maid, and whispers the question in her ear. She smells of roses and lavender, much sweeter than he’d imagined, and he wants to linger, standing improperly close. He wonders if she’d mind.
She jumps, and turns to face him, glaring when any other properly trained maid would cower. “What business is it of yours?”
“I just wondered if my man… manly master, Duke Luke, stood a chance.” He wonders if she’d catch his slip of the tongue, which leaves him wondering if she’d slap him if he were to slip his tongue another way, mayhap past her lips.
“Duke Luke… Luke…” she bites her lip, a look of confusion on her face. “I don’t… forgive me, but who?”
Sylar laughs; for all the boy’s posturing about how he was the most favored suitor there, it’s obvious he’s actually the most overlooked. “Young, slightly taller than yourself?”
“Oh. Him.”
“That’s answer enough.” He rests his hand on her arm, and to his great surprise, she doesn’t rebuke him. Encouraged, he takes her hand. “Might you be able to get away from the princess long enough to watch the joust with me this afternoon?” It’s with great pleasure he’s looking forward to watching the other suitors try to beat the stuffing out of each other.
She frowns. “Why?”
“Why not?” He counters. “I want to watch a bit of good sporting with a beautiful woman at my side, and we can laugh at the nobility as they knock each other around until the tintinnabulation of the clanking armor deafens them.”
“You speak unlike any servant I’ve ever met.” She’s even more suspicious, and he adds ‘smart’ to the list of her virtues.
“Well, you don’t smell like any servant I’ve ever met.” He taps his finger against the side of his nose. “You’ve bathed in the last month, I can tell, and you wear a perfume fit for a princess.” Winding a piece of her hair around his fingers, he makes an ostentatious show of sniffing the lock.
She scowls at him. “You, sir, are incorrigible.”
He shrugs. “Actually, I’m just a prince in disguise, sneaking in to the kingdom to kidnap the princess and carry her off. Utterly scandalous, my behavior.” He winks at her.
She startles, then laughs. He joins in, until everyone starts looking at the misbehaving servants.
“Girl!” The Queen Mother calls out, a frown on her face, oh-so-similar to the one that graced the maid’s face two minutes earlier. “Come here, now!”
“Oyster-sucking cow.” She mutters under her breath. “I’ll meet you outside the lists before the tournament?”
“I’ll be there.”
He’s fairly certain he’s closer to capturing the heart of the princess than any of the fools who’ll be fighting for the honor later that afternoon, especially when she leans up to press a kiss against his cheek before running towards the royal table. With any luck, she’d willingly run away with him, and he wouldn’t even have to kidnap her. It wouldn’t be as much fun, of course, but it would be easier.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I’m so tired, Peter.”
Her voice carries, even though she’s whispering. Sylar’s glad that he’d picked this corner to sulk in, it’s allowed him the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop.
“Oh, poor baby. It’s so tiring to have half the civilized world fighting for your attention.”
“Peter.” She sighs. “Nathan keeps pushing me to decide, Angela keeps telling me that if I don’t pick, they’re going to pick for me - you wouldn’t believe the nightmares I’ve had since then. I’ve got a servant following me around - and I’m not exactly sure if he’s trying to seduce me or if he’s using me to advance his master’s proposal - and Elle keeps messing up!”
“So that’s who you’ve got underneath the veils.” Peter laughs, and the sound of it makes Sylar want to kill him, or at least gnash his teeth a bit. He hates that man.
“Yeah, well I wanted a chance to walk around free, observe all the men as they act when they’re not trying to impress me. So it was veil Elle, or try to pass off Angela as a beautiful and modest young princess.”
Sylar doesn’t even have to see them to imagine the look of horror on Peter’s face; it’s probably identical to the look on his own face.
“I’ve got a solution for you. Run away and marry me.”
“Peter. Please.”
“Seriously.”
Sylar wishes he had his sword with him; he has the most intense urge to shish-kabob the other man. He hesitates before jumping out of his hiding spot and throttling Peter, waiting instead to hear how Claire responds.
“Just because we’re European royals, that doesn’t mean that we have to act like it, and if I want mentally deficient kids, I’ll just marry Hiro. Besides, if I’m going to elope with an ineligible man, I’ll go for the servant. There’s something about him…”
“You’re not flirting with a servant, are you?” Peter sounds completely scandalized.
“Not flirting, per se. It’s just…” Her voice trails off. “Forget it, it’s nothing, I’ll marry someone proper and forget him… in time.”
“You haven’t fallen in love with him, have you?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Peter.”
It’s as good as a yes. Sylar just smiles in the darkness.
- - - - - - - - - -
She laughs as he escorts her around the marketplace, and as they pass the chapel, he’s hit with a brilliant idea.
“Come.” As he commands her to follow, he tugs at her hand, pulling her into the holy space.
“Gabriel!” She laughs again, then immediately blushes as the giggle echoes around the space and the priest frowns at them. “What are we doing here?” she whispers, much more quietly than before.
He tugs at the ruby ring he wears on his pinky finger. “I wanted a quiet place to give this to you.” Before she can protest, he slips the ring onto her ring finger. It’s loose, but he doubts she’ll let it fall off.
Looking down at the ring, she frowns. “I can’t accept this; it must have cost you a fortune.”
He looks at the ring too, just then realizing that it must be much more expensive than most servants could ever afford. He hadn’t thought about that earlier. Thinking quickly, he wonders if he can mislead her without actually lying. “My father was… well, you’d call him a member of the nobility.” Sylar purposefully blushes, trying to act like he’s ashamed of that fact. “He gave that ring to my mother when he found out she was with child.” The answer’s just vague enough to sound like he’s a nobleman’s bastard, without actually having to lie about it.
“Oh, Gabriel, I can’t take your mother’s ring! You need to give it to the woman you’ll marry.”
She tries to slide the ring off to return it to him, but he closes his hands over hers, stopping her. “I want you to have it. Will you wear it for me?” He raises his voice so that the priest can hear them.
Claire hesitates, but finally shakes her head in assent. “Yes, Gabriel.”
With that, he knows he’s got her, whether she likes it or not. Smile firmly in place, he leads her out of the church.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I have a special announcement!” Nathan booms from his spot at the head table; Sylar doesn’t even look up from his breakfast gruel.
Apparently, no one else does either, as Nathan yells out again.
“Quiet, or it’s off with your heads!” Angela screams, and the room goes silent. “There you go, dear, it’s all in how you project your voice.”
“I said, I have an announcement. The Princess will make a decision as to her bride-groom today.”
Sylar looks over at the “maid”, waiting for an outburst. She doesn’t say anything, but she strangles an innocent piece of bread as if it was Nathan’s neck.
He pushes his gruel to the side, and makes his way to her table, pushing another servant out of the way and seating himself on the bench next to her. “Good morning to you, mistress.”
“What’s good about it?” She snaps at him, then blushes. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
While he can’t say anything about it, he understands completely. “Not happy about the announcement?”
“Not at all.”
“Come walking with me?”
She looks around the room, then slowly nods.
He takes her hand, and leads her from the room. On the way out, he notices the displeased look he gets from Nathan, but the king can’t say anything without giving away her true identity. He just smirks, then tightens his grasp on her.
As soon as they’re outside, she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I hate this place.”
She’s given him the perfect opportunity. “As soon as the betrothal’s announced, we’re heading back to New York, whether or not the princess accepts Luke. Come with us. Come with me.” As he talks, he leads her towards one of the private gardens they’d found earlier.
She stares back at him, mouth hanging open in shock. He takes advantage, sweeping her into a kiss. At first, she struggles against him, then just melts against him, acquiescing completely.
When he eventually pulls back for air, she shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t kiss me?”
“Can’t go with you.”
“Why not?” He pulls her close again. “When the princess marries, she’ll go to her husband’s country - unless she marries one of those two local idiots, but I don’t see that happening - and she won’t be taking you with her, will she? You don’t have to stay with her, so what’s stopping you from coming with me?”
“I can’t, I just can’t.”
“Do you not care for me?” He knows she does care; she wouldn’t have let him kiss her, wouldn’t have gone on so many walks with him the last two weeks, would have had the guards chase him off long ago if she truly had no interest.
She hesitates before she whispers “I do.” This time, she’s the one who initiates the kiss.
“Do you think I mean you dishonor? I’d prefer to marry at home, but we can marry here if you worry that I’d take you to America and then leave you.” It’s at that moment that he realizes that he actually does have every intention of marrying her, that he’s actually come to care for the girl for her sake, that he’s not pursuing her just to irritate the Petrellis. He hopes she agrees quickly.
She seems genuinely distressed when she cries out “I can’t marry you” while she continues to hold him close.
“Why not?”
“Because! I just can’t!” She kisses him again, and this time, he finally does what he’s wanted to do since that first afternoon he’d talked with her, lets his hands wander over her curves, palming her breast. She gasps, but doesn’t protest; instead, she lets her own hands wander over his chest. He pushes her back against the stone wall the circles the garden, lifting her so that she can wrap her legs around him as he fights with her skirts and petticoats.
“We can’t.”
“Why not?” It’s quickly becoming his favorite question to ask. He’s wondering just how far she’ll let him go before she finally reveals her deception, not that he’s planning on going as far as he’d like. They’re going to be discovered, and he’ll not have his lady wantonly displayed to everyone. She’s his, and that means that everything about her is for his eyes only, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a taste while he waits.
His eager hands finally find what they’ve been searching for, and instead of answering him she just squeaks in surprise instead. “Gabriel!”
Even as he starts unlacing his breeches, he imagines he can hear Luke’s prattle as he leads the king and the rest of the royal party towards them. He can almost hear Nathan’s irritated “what’s so damn important that you want to show us?” as he pulls her stomacher down just far enough to give him access to her breasts.
When they’re found, her head’s thrown back and she’s shrieking his name as he swirls his tongue around her nipple, hands disappearing under her skirt even as Nathan and Angela both exclaim “Claire!” at the same time, and the rest of the court start to gossip loudly. None of the suitors will want her now, sullied by the touch of a servant, gasping his name as they’re caught. Mohinder, Hiro, and the rest of them can go back home to their distant corners of the world now. He wins.
So you don’t like this version of the story any better? You don’t like hearing how the villain has an evil plan, and follows through on it, utterly destroying the princess’s reputation, thus forcing her to marry him? But… I thought you didn’t want a sappy love story about pretty princesses and bunnies frolicking in happy little fields. Make up your minds, people! You want the happy middle, where there are no villains, no heroes, no helpless princesses? But… that’s reality! I don’t do reality. Or windows, I don’t do windows either.
What was I talking about? Oh, yes, you want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! Bah, truth. A good fairytale, wasted on people who want truth. I’m going to go find an audience that actually likes my stories, like those nice Grimm boys.
Okay, okay, if you really want to know how the story ends…
Sylar’s only slightly disappointed when, hand in hand with Claire, he’d confronted the king and demanded her hand. He’d hoped that Nathan or Peter would have pulled a sword on him, as he’d wanted to spill blood in order to possess her. He’d wanted to throw their de facto betrothal, the one she’d fallen into when she’d taken his ring and given her agreement in front of the priest, in Nathan’s face. He’d wanted to trick them, fight them, manipulate them before announcing the extent of his deceptions, but it’s even sweeter when Claire tosses her head, straightens her skirts, and proclaims loudly that she’s going to marry a servant and if they don’t like it, then they can all go to hell.
And even though their marriage doesn’t start off as smoothly as it could have, they still live happily ever after. So there.
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4428
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Here ye, here ye, own not do I anything to do with the concepts and characters of “Heroes”.
Written for challenge #12: four corners at sylaire_chall and prompt #4: prodigious tintinnabulation for the Ridiculously Specific prompt table. Thanks to ladyanne525 for betaing :)
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…
What? You don’t like the story already? Already? We’re only 10 words into it, for crying out loud! Okay, so it neither was that far away nor that long ago, but really - do you enjoy listening to stories about what happened in your backyard two days ago? No? Well, that’s because no one does! We want the drama, the excitement, the fabulous life, not the everyday and boring. That’s why it’s always in a kingdom far away, far away from your monotonous little lives, you plebeians, and always a long time ago because... well, I just like ancient history, deal with it. Now, where was I?
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a beautiful princess…
Hey! The princess really was pretty, and I resent the fact that you seem to think that I’m bribable. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, I’ve never taken a penny from the King, her father. Now, back to the story.
Once upon a blah blah blah far away, there was a beautiful princess. A very special beautiful princess from a very special family, for you see, Princess Claire could heal any wound and King Nathan could fly and…
You don’t like the way I’m telling this story? You’re sick of stories about pretty yet spoiled princesses and you’re highly worried that the combination of indestructibility and flying indicates a story about fighting against dragons with a taste for virgins’ blood? You don’t want to hear about pretty girls with special powers? Bah! Fine, if you want just the facts, that’s what you’ll get, but don’t crying to me when the art of storytelling dies.
There was a princess. Her father worried she’d never marry, for she was one of those very new-fashioned independent sorts - he blames his mother entirely for that fact - so he sent out summons to the four corners of the earth, inviting all the foreign royals, nobles, and military dignitaries to come and compete for her hand. They came, and she didn’t marry any of the men presented to her, but she still somehow managed to live happily ever after anyhow. So there. The end.
What? Too short? Geez, you people are never happy. This story’s too short, that story’s too long, wah wah wah. Now, I’m not going to let you interrupt me anymore. One more complaint, and you won’t get any more stories out of me, so there!
“Now this is interesting.”
Sylar looks up from his supper to see his servant boy waving a piece of paper in the air. Chances are that it was a two-for-one sale on chain mail or a discount for the local brothel. “What is it?”
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Luke reads off the paper dramatically; Sylar wishes he’d never taught the whelp to read. “Come ye all to Castle Petrelli to bide for the hand of the King’s daughter, Princess Claire. Suitors from all four corners of the earth, come one, come all! Prove your worth!”
“And bring all your gold and jewels with you.” Sylar snarks. “Another spoiled princess up for sale.. I mean, ready to marry.”
“Aren’t you interested?” Luke carefully places the announcement in front of him. “Everyone says that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Sylar rolls his eyes. “Lesson the first, beautiful women are more trouble than they’re worth, so when presented with one, run the other direction. Lesson the second, anyone described as ‘the most beautiful’ isn’t probably that great, it’s just that her family has power and prestige, the bastards.” Irritated, he stabs his knife through the hunk of beef on his trencher.
“Oh.” Luke suddenly remembers why the name Petrelli sounds so familiar. “Those Petrellis.”
“Yes, those Petrellis.” Sylar growls, before picking up his beef-encrusted knife and knawing at the remains of his supper. After using the edge of Luke’s tunic to clean the knife, he shoves the trencher at the boy and returns the knife to it’s holster. “Now, back to work before I have you hung by your thumbs.”
Luke grabs up the tray, and starts to leave the room. Hesitating in the doorway, he turns back to Sylar. “Wouldn’t it be something if you could convince her to marry you, though. King Nathan would have a coronary!” He leaves before Sylar can respond.
Now, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, our dragon Sylar isn’t exactly the kindest man on Earth, and he hates Nathan, King of Petrellicest Petrelliland, as well as Nathan’s younger brother, Prince Peter. Luke’s rather innocent words give our villain quite a lot to think about that night, and every night from then on as they make their way to the center of the universe, Petrelliland.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Let’s go over the rules again.” Sylar stares out at the walls of the castle, growing ever nearer, as their boat glides into the harbor.
Luke rolls his eyes, but promptly starts listing the rules that have been beaten into his head during their journey, repeating Sylar’s instructions verbatim. “One, don’t swive any of the servant lasses, unless I’m sure they won’t say anything. Two, don’t swive any of the noble ladies, since they all gossip. Three, don’t tup any of the men, no matter if they’re servants or nobles. Four, keep my mouth shut so that I don’t prove I’m an idiotic pain-in-the-arse. Five, don’t pick any fights. Six, if I absolutely must pick a fight, pick one with someone weaker than me.”
When Luke pauses, Sylar prompts him. “Rule seven?”
“Seven, if I pick a fight, fight dirty. Eight, for God’s sake, pretend to be a pious ass, so no cursing.”
“Good boy.” Sylar ruffles Luke’s hair. “You go in with the guards to the Great Hall; I’ll sneak in the back with the trunks. Try to catch the princess’s eye if you can.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar slams the door to their suite of rooms as soon as he drags their trunks into the room. He rips off the dark cloak that he’d been wrapped up in, trying to hide his travel attire, as the rest of the castle residents wouldn’t understand why a servant should be dressed so well. He frowns at Luke. The kid’s already acting the part of spoiled nobility, sprawled across the decadent bed. Sylar tosses his cloak at him, growling “Get up.”
Luke scrambles off the bed, scurrying over to the trunks.
“So, what have you learned so far?” Sylar asks Luke as the boy starts unpacking their luggage.
“Half the suitors have checked in - or at least, half the suitors that were polite enough to RSVP, as was pointed out to me by the Queen Mother. Really, you couldn’t even bother to send a letter to let them know we were coming?” He pulls out a few items of clothing, and hands them to Sylar.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t?” Sylar asks, frowning as he grabs the brown wool shirt he’s going to have to wear, fabric rough against his hands. “Seeing how there is no ‘Grand Duke Luke’ and his servant Gabriel, I’m rather glad we didn’t announce our pending arrival early enough for them to start researching your background, your grace.”
Luke laughs, then grabs Sylar’s favorite hat out of the trunk and plunks it down on his head. “And don’t you forget it, Gabey.”
Sylar grabs Luke by his embroidered collar and shakes him, hard. “Don’t you forget who’s really in charge here, and what will happen to you when we get back home.”
All the color drains from Luke’s face. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, while you’re helping me change attire, tell me about the suitors.”
A suitably chastised Luke starts unbuttoning Sylar’s shirt, pushing the fine silk from his master’s shoulders. “The emperor’s son was the first to show up, him and his servant-slash-interpreter-slash-lover. Hero, or Hiro, or something like that. Doesn’t speak English or Latin or Italian very well. Seems to only know the words for breakfast items. Called the king a magnificent frying waffle.”
Sylar laughs, then sits down on the bed, holding up his leg for Luke to start unlacing the boots.
“Next, in a prodigious parade of extravagance…” Luke starts tugging on the laces, cursing under his breath.
“Who taught you the words ‘prodigious’ and ‘extravagance’?” Sylar’s amazed that the boy can even pronounce them properly, much less use them correctly.
“I heard Prince Peter describe the Maharajkumar’s entrance that way.” Luke pouts then tugs the boot off, dropping to his knees to tackle the other boot.
“The who?”
Backing away as discreetly as he can, Luke whispers “Mohinder of Chennai” then waits for the inevitable explosion. He’s not disappointed as Sylar jumps off the bed and starts pacing, mumbling and muttering while clenching his fists; he’s heard all the stories about his master’s interactions with Prince Mohinder, and he’d known that Sylar wouldn’t take the news well.
As soon as Sylar calms down, he sits back down, letting Luke continue to undress him. “Who else?” He asks in terse tone.
“You’re not going to want to hear this.” Luke warns.
“Tell me.”
“Alejandro de Santo Domingo, with his sister in tow.” Luke rushes through the words.
“Sweet, sweet Maya.” Sylar licks him lips. “By the way, rule nine - avoid Maya and any other lady that might be able to identify you as my servant due to their time spent in my chambers.”
Luke snorts; Sylar’s ladies had all been so enchanted by him that it was as if Luke hadn’t even existed back then.
Sylar looks at him, suddenly confused. “Wait, Alejandro? I thought I had killed that son of a bitch.”
“It appears he’s been miraculously resurrected, then.” Luke’s smart enough to bite his tongue and not saying anything about that particular fight, or the reason for it, Luke continues on, trying to get through the rest of the bad news before Sylar can explode again. “The King of Haiti. Claude, Duke of Fenwick, although no one’s seen him since the first day. Prince Adam of Monrovia, although I’m fairly certain he’s no more a prince than I am - walks, talks, and acts just like a confidence man. Sir Matthew Parkman, Lord Protector of Los Angeles. A few local boys, Sir West and Lord Woolsly.” As he talks, his nimble fingers undo the lacings of Sylar’s velvet breeches, and he pulls them off.
“Interesting. Very interesting.” Sylar steps into the new woolen pants that Luke proffers. “Has the princess shown any preference yet?”
“No one’s seen the princess. Sit, please.” Luke carefully pushes a new pair of boots, ones made of incredibly cheap leather, onto Sylar’s feet, then laces them tightly.
Holding out his arms, Sylar lets the drab shirt be put on him, lost in his thoughts. “No one?”
“She was there, but heavily veiled. Didn’t say a word to anyone. Didn’t even get up to curtsy or nod her head, just sat there like a lump.”
That’s out of character for the girl, Sylar knows. He’s heard about her, heard about her fire and insouciance; if he’s correct, she was the blonde harridan hanging on Peter’s arm at the last jousting tournament, the one who’d caught his eye when she’d slapped a crude knight who’d asked for her favor. He wonders if Nathan’s drugged her.
The thought that perhaps the veiled mystery isn’t the princess also comes to mind.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar lurks in the dark corners of the room, watching everyone carefully, watching how each suitor comes before the throne, how the veiled girl doesn’t respond to any of them. He also carefully watches her maid, watches how that girl doesn’t bow her head to anyone but the king, how she meets the eyes of every man there, how straight she keeps her back. He can’t help but notice that she speaks perfectly, crisply, in a way that no maid he’s ever encountered can.
He notices, certainly, and he smiles. It seems that he’s not the only one in disguise.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Is your mistress close to deciding?” He leans in close to the maid, the one that he’s certain is anything but a maid, and whispers the question in her ear. She smells of roses and lavender, much sweeter than he’d imagined, and he wants to linger, standing improperly close. He wonders if she’d mind.
She jumps, and turns to face him, glaring when any other properly trained maid would cower. “What business is it of yours?”
“I just wondered if my man… manly master, Duke Luke, stood a chance.” He wonders if she’d catch his slip of the tongue, which leaves him wondering if she’d slap him if he were to slip his tongue another way, mayhap past her lips.
“Duke Luke… Luke…” she bites her lip, a look of confusion on her face. “I don’t… forgive me, but who?”
Sylar laughs; for all the boy’s posturing about how he was the most favored suitor there, it’s obvious he’s actually the most overlooked. “Young, slightly taller than yourself?”
“Oh. Him.”
“That’s answer enough.” He rests his hand on her arm, and to his great surprise, she doesn’t rebuke him. Encouraged, he takes her hand. “Might you be able to get away from the princess long enough to watch the joust with me this afternoon?” It’s with great pleasure he’s looking forward to watching the other suitors try to beat the stuffing out of each other.
She frowns. “Why?”
“Why not?” He counters. “I want to watch a bit of good sporting with a beautiful woman at my side, and we can laugh at the nobility as they knock each other around until the tintinnabulation of the clanking armor deafens them.”
“You speak unlike any servant I’ve ever met.” She’s even more suspicious, and he adds ‘smart’ to the list of her virtues.
“Well, you don’t smell like any servant I’ve ever met.” He taps his finger against the side of his nose. “You’ve bathed in the last month, I can tell, and you wear a perfume fit for a princess.” Winding a piece of her hair around his fingers, he makes an ostentatious show of sniffing the lock.
She scowls at him. “You, sir, are incorrigible.”
He shrugs. “Actually, I’m just a prince in disguise, sneaking in to the kingdom to kidnap the princess and carry her off. Utterly scandalous, my behavior.” He winks at her.
She startles, then laughs. He joins in, until everyone starts looking at the misbehaving servants.
“Girl!” The Queen Mother calls out, a frown on her face, oh-so-similar to the one that graced the maid’s face two minutes earlier. “Come here, now!”
“Oyster-sucking cow.” She mutters under her breath. “I’ll meet you outside the lists before the tournament?”
“I’ll be there.”
He’s fairly certain he’s closer to capturing the heart of the princess than any of the fools who’ll be fighting for the honor later that afternoon, especially when she leans up to press a kiss against his cheek before running towards the royal table. With any luck, she’d willingly run away with him, and he wouldn’t even have to kidnap her. It wouldn’t be as much fun, of course, but it would be easier.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I’m so tired, Peter.”
Her voice carries, even though she’s whispering. Sylar’s glad that he’d picked this corner to sulk in, it’s allowed him the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop.
“Oh, poor baby. It’s so tiring to have half the civilized world fighting for your attention.”
“Peter.” She sighs. “Nathan keeps pushing me to decide, Angela keeps telling me that if I don’t pick, they’re going to pick for me - you wouldn’t believe the nightmares I’ve had since then. I’ve got a servant following me around - and I’m not exactly sure if he’s trying to seduce me or if he’s using me to advance his master’s proposal - and Elle keeps messing up!”
“So that’s who you’ve got underneath the veils.” Peter laughs, and the sound of it makes Sylar want to kill him, or at least gnash his teeth a bit. He hates that man.
“Yeah, well I wanted a chance to walk around free, observe all the men as they act when they’re not trying to impress me. So it was veil Elle, or try to pass off Angela as a beautiful and modest young princess.”
Sylar doesn’t even have to see them to imagine the look of horror on Peter’s face; it’s probably identical to the look on his own face.
“I’ve got a solution for you. Run away and marry me.”
“Peter. Please.”
“Seriously.”
Sylar wishes he had his sword with him; he has the most intense urge to shish-kabob the other man. He hesitates before jumping out of his hiding spot and throttling Peter, waiting instead to hear how Claire responds.
“Just because we’re European royals, that doesn’t mean that we have to act like it, and if I want mentally deficient kids, I’ll just marry Hiro. Besides, if I’m going to elope with an ineligible man, I’ll go for the servant. There’s something about him…”
“You’re not flirting with a servant, are you?” Peter sounds completely scandalized.
“Not flirting, per se. It’s just…” Her voice trails off. “Forget it, it’s nothing, I’ll marry someone proper and forget him… in time.”
“You haven’t fallen in love with him, have you?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Peter.”
It’s as good as a yes. Sylar just smiles in the darkness.
- - - - - - - - - -
She laughs as he escorts her around the marketplace, and as they pass the chapel, he’s hit with a brilliant idea.
“Come.” As he commands her to follow, he tugs at her hand, pulling her into the holy space.
“Gabriel!” She laughs again, then immediately blushes as the giggle echoes around the space and the priest frowns at them. “What are we doing here?” she whispers, much more quietly than before.
He tugs at the ruby ring he wears on his pinky finger. “I wanted a quiet place to give this to you.” Before she can protest, he slips the ring onto her ring finger. It’s loose, but he doubts she’ll let it fall off.
Looking down at the ring, she frowns. “I can’t accept this; it must have cost you a fortune.”
He looks at the ring too, just then realizing that it must be much more expensive than most servants could ever afford. He hadn’t thought about that earlier. Thinking quickly, he wonders if he can mislead her without actually lying. “My father was… well, you’d call him a member of the nobility.” Sylar purposefully blushes, trying to act like he’s ashamed of that fact. “He gave that ring to my mother when he found out she was with child.” The answer’s just vague enough to sound like he’s a nobleman’s bastard, without actually having to lie about it.
“Oh, Gabriel, I can’t take your mother’s ring! You need to give it to the woman you’ll marry.”
She tries to slide the ring off to return it to him, but he closes his hands over hers, stopping her. “I want you to have it. Will you wear it for me?” He raises his voice so that the priest can hear them.
Claire hesitates, but finally shakes her head in assent. “Yes, Gabriel.”
With that, he knows he’s got her, whether she likes it or not. Smile firmly in place, he leads her out of the church.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I have a special announcement!” Nathan booms from his spot at the head table; Sylar doesn’t even look up from his breakfast gruel.
Apparently, no one else does either, as Nathan yells out again.
“Quiet, or it’s off with your heads!” Angela screams, and the room goes silent. “There you go, dear, it’s all in how you project your voice.”
“I said, I have an announcement. The Princess will make a decision as to her bride-groom today.”
Sylar looks over at the “maid”, waiting for an outburst. She doesn’t say anything, but she strangles an innocent piece of bread as if it was Nathan’s neck.
He pushes his gruel to the side, and makes his way to her table, pushing another servant out of the way and seating himself on the bench next to her. “Good morning to you, mistress.”
“What’s good about it?” She snaps at him, then blushes. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
While he can’t say anything about it, he understands completely. “Not happy about the announcement?”
“Not at all.”
“Come walking with me?”
She looks around the room, then slowly nods.
He takes her hand, and leads her from the room. On the way out, he notices the displeased look he gets from Nathan, but the king can’t say anything without giving away her true identity. He just smirks, then tightens his grasp on her.
As soon as they’re outside, she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I hate this place.”
She’s given him the perfect opportunity. “As soon as the betrothal’s announced, we’re heading back to New York, whether or not the princess accepts Luke. Come with us. Come with me.” As he talks, he leads her towards one of the private gardens they’d found earlier.
She stares back at him, mouth hanging open in shock. He takes advantage, sweeping her into a kiss. At first, she struggles against him, then just melts against him, acquiescing completely.
When he eventually pulls back for air, she shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t kiss me?”
“Can’t go with you.”
“Why not?” He pulls her close again. “When the princess marries, she’ll go to her husband’s country - unless she marries one of those two local idiots, but I don’t see that happening - and she won’t be taking you with her, will she? You don’t have to stay with her, so what’s stopping you from coming with me?”
“I can’t, I just can’t.”
“Do you not care for me?” He knows she does care; she wouldn’t have let him kiss her, wouldn’t have gone on so many walks with him the last two weeks, would have had the guards chase him off long ago if she truly had no interest.
She hesitates before she whispers “I do.” This time, she’s the one who initiates the kiss.
“Do you think I mean you dishonor? I’d prefer to marry at home, but we can marry here if you worry that I’d take you to America and then leave you.” It’s at that moment that he realizes that he actually does have every intention of marrying her, that he’s actually come to care for the girl for her sake, that he’s not pursuing her just to irritate the Petrellis. He hopes she agrees quickly.
She seems genuinely distressed when she cries out “I can’t marry you” while she continues to hold him close.
“Why not?”
“Because! I just can’t!” She kisses him again, and this time, he finally does what he’s wanted to do since that first afternoon he’d talked with her, lets his hands wander over her curves, palming her breast. She gasps, but doesn’t protest; instead, she lets her own hands wander over his chest. He pushes her back against the stone wall the circles the garden, lifting her so that she can wrap her legs around him as he fights with her skirts and petticoats.
“We can’t.”
“Why not?” It’s quickly becoming his favorite question to ask. He’s wondering just how far she’ll let him go before she finally reveals her deception, not that he’s planning on going as far as he’d like. They’re going to be discovered, and he’ll not have his lady wantonly displayed to everyone. She’s his, and that means that everything about her is for his eyes only, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a taste while he waits.
His eager hands finally find what they’ve been searching for, and instead of answering him she just squeaks in surprise instead. “Gabriel!”
Even as he starts unlacing his breeches, he imagines he can hear Luke’s prattle as he leads the king and the rest of the royal party towards them. He can almost hear Nathan’s irritated “what’s so damn important that you want to show us?” as he pulls her stomacher down just far enough to give him access to her breasts.
When they’re found, her head’s thrown back and she’s shrieking his name as he swirls his tongue around her nipple, hands disappearing under her skirt even as Nathan and Angela both exclaim “Claire!” at the same time, and the rest of the court start to gossip loudly. None of the suitors will want her now, sullied by the touch of a servant, gasping his name as they’re caught. Mohinder, Hiro, and the rest of them can go back home to their distant corners of the world now. He wins.
So you don’t like this version of the story any better? You don’t like hearing how the villain has an evil plan, and follows through on it, utterly destroying the princess’s reputation, thus forcing her to marry him? But… I thought you didn’t want a sappy love story about pretty princesses and bunnies frolicking in happy little fields. Make up your minds, people! You want the happy middle, where there are no villains, no heroes, no helpless princesses? But… that’s reality! I don’t do reality. Or windows, I don’t do windows either.
What was I talking about? Oh, yes, you want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! Bah, truth. A good fairytale, wasted on people who want truth. I’m going to go find an audience that actually likes my stories, like those nice Grimm boys.
Okay, okay, if you really want to know how the story ends…
Sylar’s only slightly disappointed when, hand in hand with Claire, he’d confronted the king and demanded her hand. He’d hoped that Nathan or Peter would have pulled a sword on him, as he’d wanted to spill blood in order to possess her. He’d wanted to throw their de facto betrothal, the one she’d fallen into when she’d taken his ring and given her agreement in front of the priest, in Nathan’s face. He’d wanted to trick them, fight them, manipulate them before announcing the extent of his deceptions, but it’s even sweeter when Claire tosses her head, straightens her skirts, and proclaims loudly that she’s going to marry a servant and if they don’t like it, then they can all go to hell.
And even though their marriage doesn’t start off as smoothly as it could have, they still live happily ever after. So there.