Chapter Text
Foolish stepped into the luxurious en-suite, eyes nearly popping out of his head as he took in the room. The tiered ceiling was littered with gold tassels, which sparkled golden light down onto the floor. There was a small silled window in the far corner, although the room was too high up for anyone to see through the window from the gardens. The dark crossing pane that speared through it was a small but nice detail, the glass blurred.
Right in front of him was the marble counter with the porcelain basin and golden faucets, a large oval mirror hung above the sink. The wooden cupboard under was a rich dark wood, contrasting nicely against the white granite tiled floor. To his left was a large stone shower, the walls a rugged yet charming grey stone, a sliver of glass separating the shower with its golden showerhead from the rest of the room. A low stool with a plush white cushion sat beside the sink counter, alerting Foolish that there was more to the room.
He stepped to the left, moving forward to gasp at the large pool of a bath that sat low in the ground. It was a deep thing, white marble coating its roughly circular shape, with a slip along the sides for wine glasses or candles to be perched. The steps down into it were lapped at by the water, a horizontal pole on the wall a few feet over sitting free for towels. By the left was the toilet, a clean white, separated from the main pool room by the jut of wall that the sink sat against. To the right was a large, black polished dressing table that merged into a tall cupboard. The walls were stone, likely to protect against wood rotting, with candles sitting bunched in the room’s edges atop small gateleg tables, waiting to be lit. All in all, the place almost looked like a very expensive cave.
He’d never seen such a large bathroom.
Nervous even being here, he turned and closed the door behind him. It was warm, the tiles under his feet heated. Pulling his clothes off and setting them gently upon the small stool by the sink, he stood in the room and glanced between the shower and the bath.
Briefs still on whilst he explored, he tip-toed over to the large bath, crouching down to push a finger into the water. It was warm, in the spectrum between not boiling hot yet warmer than lukewarm. He could get into it, he knew, though he didn’t want to get soap in the water, or make a mess. Instead, he abandoned it and wandered over to the large mix between a unit of drawers and a tall cupboard and opened the large cupboard doors. Upon the six shelves inside, there was one dedicated to an array of white fluffy towels. He grabbed one, letting it unfold to reveal a huge bath towel that was the height of him.
Giddy, because this was all so gorgeous and so new, he squeezed the towel, thinking it was more a blanket than a towel. His blankets back at the Iris Estate hadn’t been this clean nor this comfortable. Was this what it was like to be Crown Prince? Luxury, comfort and safety?
He liked it. Foolish liked it a lot. The very thought was blisteringly warm.
Biting his lip, he glanced at the various other things in the cupboard, noting the colognes and extra tumbler of toothbrushes. He grabbed one brush, a green one to the white one Eret had by the sink, and toddled back towards the shower.
The towel was heaped atop his stolen clothes, his briefs joining the pile as the toothbrush was set on the counter. With that, he approached the shower, stepping into its open section. The glass slab separated the shower from the area of the door, but towards the pool-bath it was open. Standing inside it, he tapped at an indented panel of sorts that had symbols darker than the stone. With a click, water gushed down on him.
Surprised, Foolish stepped back. The water was a nice temperature, not too warm, likely a default stage. Unsure how to work the contraption, he let it be and noticed a white circle to his left. Tapping it curiously, he was startled when a stone tray appeared in the space, around chest height. A bottle of shampoo sat, bright red, with a duller pink liquid inside a bottle labelled conditioner. The scripture was pretty, swirling letters on parchment that somehow stuck to the glass bottles yet didn’t get wet under the spray.
Beside the hair products was another bottle, a blue one, labelled body wash. Foolish picked at it, fingers tapping it before suddenly his hand was weighted, a slimy substance on his palm. Jerking away from it, he blinked at the blue liquid-soap, like wet wax, on his hand. The things magic could do was amazing.
He re-entered the spray, standing under it as he pulled his hair out of its tie with one hand. The water washed over him, refreshing and gentle as he lathered the soap on his hands and began washing his body. It had been a while since he’d had anything other than a bath, and never had he had a warm shower.
It was nice.
Body washed, he tapped the shampoo, enamoured with how he watched the content in the bottle decrease as some appeared in his palm. He pushed what he’d been given through his hair, noticing how it lathered nicely. It took a few dollops to get it through his hair, the sheer length and thickness of his long locks requiring extra effort to manage. When done, he experimented with the conditioner, lathering it in before washing it out. Finished, he stood there, warm water riveting down his back, rolling along his jaw when he tilted his head to see the controls.
Tapping blindly at the wall, he squeaked as the water suddenly became freezing, fingers slapping at the panel in a hurry. The heat returned but this time the spray was like a bull stampeding. Laughing, because things didn’t get any better than this, he palmed the panel and the shower shut off. Left dripping, he spluttered and tried swiping off some water before stepping into the rest of the room.
It was warmer than it had been, the steam of the shower doing something to make the room warmer. Maybe the magic that heated the floors and water was designed to react and warm the room so those getting out of the shower didn’t get a chill. It sounded too good to be true, but Foolish knew that magic was like that. It’s discovery had greatly boosted the world, allowing for new inventions and laws to be put in place. It’s use was limited to those with a strong enough mana core to be able to control what they used, though otherwise, it was completely adaptable to most uses.
He grabbed the towel, sinking into it quicker than a kitten would curl into its mother’s side. Lingering like this for a moment, he eventually dried himself off and climbed back into the clothes Eret had forced on him. Dressed, shirt tucked into his trousers, socks on his feet, he settled the towel into a wicker basket in the corner, clearly the laundry, and looked at himself in the mirror.
Pulling his wet hair into a complex braid, what was known as a French braid, he pulled a tube of toothpaste from where he’d seen Eret get theirs, and began brushing his teeth. The steam in the room slowly receded as Foolish peered at the faucet, marvelling at how he could see his reflection in it.
Whilst brushing his teeth, he leant down to spit into the sink and a symbol on the space between the faucet and the mirror caught his eye. Tapping it, suddenly his hair wasn’t wet anymore. Nearly choking on his brush, he looked up at himself and found his hair was completely dried.
“Woah,” he managed past the toothbrush, tugging at his dry braid.
Finishing his teeth, he cleaned the brush off and set it neatly beside Eret’s and wiped the sink clear of any residual paste. With everything in order, he rushed out, breezing through the room on his mission to find Eret.
The portrait above the mantlepiece caught his eye, stopping him before he opened the door, hand on the knob. It was gold framed, with dark paints depicting what looked to be a woman. Leaving the door for a moment, Foolish wormed around the couches and stood before the painting, reading the gold plaque.
Her Majesty, Empress of Hiel, it read.
Foolish gasped, looking at the woman again to find any clue that she was the Empress. She wore a dark veil, dark dress a swathe of night against the grey background. The painting style was blotchy, as though the artist hadn’t seen what he was painting beforehand, with her face nothing more than a shaded blob under the veil, dark lips the only discernible aspect. Nonetheless, she looked as beautiful as the stories said, though Foolish wished there was a better painting.
Stepping back, careful to avoid the glass coffee table, he dogged back to the door and twisted the golden handle.
Outside the room, the hall was lit by magic due to the fact the room was in an area where the hall had few windows. The thunder rumbled through the Palace, Foolish pattering down the stairs in his pilfered socks. Once again, he was daunted by how comfortable everything was, having long ago accepted that clothing would scratch and itch.
The Palace wasn’t warm, though it wasn’t cold either. He strode onto the ground floor, gazing up at the huge golden chandelier sparkling overhead, and turned to the right as Eret had said. He’d never been up this early – the usual waking time at Iris Estate around nine am. It was odd to see the sky dark outside whilst he was up for morning; everything felt surreal.
Slowly, he walked through the halls, gazing at the gold swirling along the walls in painted vines. Portraits lined this narrow hall he walked through, strong men and women painted within detailed gold frames. Their plaques were gold, words chiselled with elegance and care. On each, below the title or name, the painted people had death dates, all transpiring over the year of the First War. Were they people who had played a large part in fighting for the Empire? Foolish wouldn’t know.
Some simply read ‘farmer’ others, ‘officer’, some were blank. He probably spent a tad too long staring at them, flashes of white bursting in from the foyer and its large windows. The hall felt morose, the portraits of dead men and women adorning its walls and making this area sombre.
Continuing down the hall, he came along what seemed to be a sort of two-pronged path. There was the option to go left, or right. He paused here, attempting with futile to listen for the noise Eret had said he’d hear. Unfortunately, the thunder was booming now, and he had difficulty hearing anything other than the settling creaks of the Palace and his own heartbeat. Foolish turned right.
The carpet took him down another path, the gardens sparkling through windows to his left signifying he was near the back of the Palace. It was a large building, shown by how he was tiring from simply walking this far, although it was all so beautiful. Everywhere he looked there was something to gaze at, something to admire; a painting to praise, a tapestry to see.
“Walk to the right, and then the halls,” was what Eret had said. Foolish had went that way, was in the halls this very moment, but was desperately unsure of where he was. Maybe he should’ve asked for greater detail.
He passed a door, back-tracking to blink at the heavy appearance of it. Either way, if it was the wrong place, he could always ask someone inside – if there was anyone there – where Eret trained. It looked important though, and was on the cusp of what would be nearing the gardens. Perhaps due to the rain, and the lack of people he seen outside, they trained inside a room? It was not impossible.
Pushing open one door of two, he was met with a rush of noise. The clang of blades, the tang of sweat. Poking his head inside, he slipped in and found himself standing in a large inside court. Its ceiling was tall, a square-shaped raised area around the entire room of wooden slats, chairs and water bottles set along it. Within the centre of the room, a large area almost two times bigger than Eret’s room, sand took place of the floor, men rolling and sparring upon it. Foolish crept inside, watching two men shunt their swords off each other, stepping back and forth as if in a dance.
Inside, golden magic lit up the space, the tall raftered ceiling beyond reach by a multitude of metres. There had to be thirty men and women in here, all dressed in slim-fitting, tight clothing. Half wielded blades, a few in the back shooting arrows at targets, others sparing in hand-to-hand combat.
The large – and very heavy – dark wood door creaked shut behind him, Foolish blinking at the number of faces that turned to look at him.
He saw Eret before they even turned. Their smirk as they directed someone’s stance in wielding a blade, clutching their own netherite blade, the Holy Blade Ted’s Wrath, was a shining star in the night’s sky. He watched their hair fly as their head turned, their smirk breaking into a stunning grin at the sight of him.
“Foolish!” They called, the people around them blinking at their outburst, their confusion carefully noted. Foolish caught a few surprised looks before Eret was charging at him, Wrath sheathed by their hip as they sprinted over the sand with bare feet.
Sweaty arms closed around him, the musk of sweat and hard-work surrounding him as Eret hugged him, lifting him off the ground for a breath. Foolish blinked hurriedly and squeezed back, shocked but pleased when Eret bounced back, grinning manically. He felt unsteady after being lifted but couldn’t deny it had been an enjoyable shock.
“I’m glad you came,” they said to him, eyes soft despite their lack of colour. They whirled to the room, brandishing Foolish as if a rare item; arm hooked behind his shoulders, hand clutching at his bicep. “Everyone, this is Foolish. Foolish, this is my Royal Guard.”
“Y- Your Royal Guard?” He stammered, taking in the faces of the men and women who comprised the infamous group of knights. Rumours aplenty swirled around these people, telling of their harsh cruelty and mastering of any weapon imaginable. They were one of the strongest forces in the Empire, if not the strongest. Though a tad too small to be categorized as an army, they may as well have been one with how powerful and impressive their feats were. “Impressive. You train with them?”
“Every day,” nodded Eret, gesturing for someone to join them. A man with long pink hair emerged from the crowd, Technoblade stopping before them, still on the sand and thus at a lower position than them. Eret tugged him up onto the wooden slats, bumping shoulders with him. “This is Techno, he’s the Commander of this lot.”
“No, I’m not,” huffed the man, sweat dripping down his brow before he wiped it away. He stood taller than Foolish, arms bulging with muscles, made extremely clear with his sleeveless shirt. “The Prince is our leader, I just keep the misfits in line.”
“You do a good job of it, if the stories of you lot are to be believed,” smiled Foolish, unsure why both men looked rather uncomfortable with the mention of stories. “Ah, I apologise, I—”
“Don’t worry,” smiled Eret, rocking back towards him. Their hand clasped his arm like an eager puppy whilst their other gestured towards the seats lined along the edges of the wooden platform. “Feel free to sit where ever.”
“Uh, okay,” he nodded and was left, Eret hopping off to rejoin the man they’d been with earlier. They shouted an order, voice ringing in the room, and everyone fell back into motion. Technoblade, however, stood before him a moment longer, staring down at him with his red eyes.
“Nice meeting you?” Foolish offered, only to be met with a huff. Technoblade turned his back on him and rejoined the swordsmen he’d been with prior.
Foolish released a breath and set off to find a good seat to watch everyone train.
He found one around the half-way mark, settling down on a wooden bench. The storm echoed in here, thunder roaring overhead. From the look of the place, wood versus the marble of the Palace, this place had been built as an addition to the main building, likely for this purpose.
The entire group were extremely skilled, archers standing with firm stances and strong arms as they got straight shots on the heads and chests of the human-shaped dummies in the far right corner. The swordsmen, of whom Technoblade stood with in the forefront of the room, going through motions, stood with low positions and swung sturdy swings. Eret was coaching the hand combatants, chittering with their people as they did so, situated around the middle of the large training arena.
Everyone had heard of the great Knights of the Royal Guard – a fighting force that not many armies would be able to defeat. Rumours swirled all over the Empire and beyond of a force bathed in blood, men and women emerging from a battle in their signature dark navy cloaks, silver bracers adorned with the crest of the Crown Prince. The uniform was a simple cloak with a silver clasp, silver bracers, black trousers, a white shirt and heavy boots. The dress uniform, one for special events or occasions, was not seen often, alleged to be a beautiful navy longcoat with silver tasselpads on the shoulders and threaded silver rope linking one shoulder to the breast pocket. With the longcoat ending in two sharply fanged coat tails, their heavy boots stomping as they flapped, the Royal Guard’s march was said to be a foretelling of death.
“Chin up, Iskall!” Boomed Eret’s voice, Foolish looking up from his sleepy daze to see Eret knee-deep in a spar with someone. “You need to see my actions and evaluate based on them, not swing recklessly. To do that, you need to see.”
The man, a brunet, nodded and took a hefty swing for their head. Foolish was on the edge of his seat as Eret ducked under, sweat shining in the golden flush of the room. They pounced like a jaguar going for the kill – all grace and speed, no chance to stop – and grabbed hold of the man’s arm, twisting it so that he rolled left. With their opponent on the ground, Eret stooped down, a knee to his chest, and grinned in victory as Iskall tapped out.
“Good job, work on balance,” they suggested, offering Iskall a hand up as the other brushed himself off. “Then I’ll have a harder time making you go down.”
“No, you won’t,” chuffed the man.
“I won’t,” agreed the Crown Prince.
Foolish had never thought someone brushing sand from their cheek, sweat dripping down them, could be defined as beautiful, yet here Eret was, all stunning grace and sharp skill. Perhaps that wasn’t right – in this light, Eret was more ethereal, glorious even. Their hair sparkled, long braid whipping around them, twirling and jumping as they danced around the attacks of their partners, their long grin a beacon in the shade, teeth glittering a powerful promise. The way their trousers pulled against their muscles, strong calves and thighs bulging when they squatted to dive for a woman, arms flexing and widening with muscles that didn’t appear to be there on first glance as they swept her onto the ground. Enamoured with how they stood tall, lifting the cusp of their shirt to wipe their face, proclaiming victory with such pride. Staring at them almost made Foolish burst with joy in that moment.
Eret was all sleek glory and silent power. They were the Crown Prince, but they were a solider, a fighter, and they’d won the Empire’s first war like it was nothing. A War Hero and a Prince – Foolish wasn’t sure how they hadn’t buckled under the pressure yet.
“Sally,” they called, beckoning another one from their group forth. A red head with her hair pulled back into a tight bun stepped forth, meek in appearance.
“Start,” nodded Eret, the two of them stepping back from each other and settling into low stances. The rest of the group stood a few feet away, circling the group in a half-circle, all watching keenly.
The woman moved first, keeping low as she dived for Eret’s knees. Foolish observed how she went head-first for them, retreating away at the last moment with a sidewards roll when Eret swept out with a kick. Sally propped herself up on a knee and somersaulted, back on her feet in an instant and moved in whilst Eret was resituating from their kick. She roundhoused them, spinning a kick that took out the leg they’d just kicked with.
Eret fell back, picking themself up with a quick backflip. Sally moved in before they could reorient, delivering a harsh blow to their stomach. Wincing, Foolish expected Eret to gasp and go down, but instead they stayed up, simply stepping back. Capitalizing on their retreat, Sally jerked forwards, arm already knocking back in preparation for a punch.
She swung. The Prince’s lips twisted into a smirk and it was evident in Sally’s expression that she knew she’d lost. What had changed, Foolish wasn’t sure, but he was gripping his shirt a little too tightly in his lap.
They intercepted her punch, sidestepping to avoid it whilst grabbing her elbow with a hand. They used her own momentum to shove her forwards, the woman sprawling out on the sand. Before she could get back up, Eret dropped and pressed their knee into the centre of her back.
“Yield?” They offered.
“I yield,” she gasped, panting.
Blowing out a breath, Eret lifted themself and brushed themself off before offering her a hand. Sally took it and stood, making a face as she attempted to get all the sand off herself. When done, breath regained, Eret nodded at her.
“Thanks,” Sally rubbed at her neck, sheepish. “Wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d uppercut me there, sir.”
“I thought about it.”
The knights gathered around choked on their snickers. Eret turned and gave them a look Foolish couldn’t see from his angle. What he did see though, was how the knights all paled and clamoured to join each other in sparring. Eret stood, chest heaving, and watched as they all paired off.
Foolish stared at them, realising why they hadn’t had a shower upon waking. The amount of sand that fell from their braid when they experimentally shook it was enough to start a snowstorm, a mammoth pile settling at their feet as they shook out their linen shirt. Suddenly, they turned to him, head tilting forwards as they grinned.
They gestured for him to approach. Struck, Foolish stood from the uncomfortable chair and came down to the lower step.
“Would you like to spar with me?”
“What?” Foolish spluttered, searching for words as the knights behind Eret stole glances at him. Self-conscious, he looked down, fingers pulling at each other. “I… don’t know any martial arts.”
“That’s okay,” hummed Eret, voice soft. Their hand appeared in his view, splaying out for him to grab. He did, tentatively.
Coarse sand-gnawed fingers tightened around his, thumb rubbing comfortingly over the soft of his palm. Foolish gripped back, looking up to find white eyes staring at him. Something in him told him that stare wasn’t the same one they sat with upon their throne – something about this one felt more gentle, precious even. Maybe, if he dared, it was loving.
“I’ll teach you,” promised the Prince, voice strong again. “A punch is always good to have. Take your socks off and come onto the sand.”
Pulling the navy socks off, concealing his disappointment at losing their softness, he threw them onto the bench he’d sat on and stepped down onto the sand. It was cool, not burningly hot as he’d heard stories of, and it wasted no time in wriggling between his toes.
Foolish wondered if this was what beaches were like. He’d never been but he’d heard the stories.
The knights training seemed oddly quiet now. Foolish looked up from admiring the sand and found Eret smiling at him, the knights having stopped to watch. Embarrassed, he brought his hand up to cover his face and suddenly the noise returned.
He peeked through his fingers in time to see the cusp of Eret’s harsh glare fade, head whirling back to beam at him. His cheeks burned as they offered him their smile once more.
“You need to be balanced,” urged Eret, demonstrating a few different stances. “You can be low, which is harder to knock down, or tall, which will work if you want to be imposing. Most find a lower position has greater benefit, as people tend to underestimate those who shrink.”
Copying the stance Eret was in, Foolish spaced his feet about a shoulder’s width apart and bent his knees.
“Good,” praised Eret, standing before him suddenly, hand prodding at his shoulder. “Keep your back as straight as possible. You could hurt it otherwise.”
He pulled his upper body upwards, attempting to mimic how Eret had stood. “Like this?”
“Mmm,” Eret stretched out the sound, obviously attempting to cover up their dislike. Foolish wilted. “Unhunch your shoulders.”
Attempting to do so, he startled when Eret’s hand grabbed his bicep. Looking down at them, because he was still taller even when slightly crouched, he eyed their focussed look. They nudged his arms around, pushing them apart to grab at his waist and physically straighten his posture.
“There,” they said, nudging at his feet with their own foot. “Widen your stance by an inch.”
He moved out his feet. Eret nodded. They pulled his arms back together, leaving them up in a defensive pose as they circled around and placed their hand against the small of his back. The warmth of their hand leeched in, Foolish shivering as their other hand grabbed at his shoulder and pulled him back whilst the hand at his back pushed forward.
“That’s your posture,” Eret mulled, Foolish standing more upright and perhaps a tad as though he was standing in a Ball again, except now he was crouched and it was weird. He felt stiff and awkward, Eret letting out a sharp breath behind him. “Stand normally.”
Shifting back into his normal stance, he towered over them, watching as they circled around and stood before him. Eret had their lips pinched, as though they were pouting.
“Perhaps low isn’t the way to go, sir,” called one of the men. Eret looked over, Foolish following their gaze to find a blond guy with brown streaks in his hair smiling at them. “Mister’s tall, maybe he should stay up.”
Whatever that meant, Eret made a humming noise and turned back to Foolish, blinking at him.
“How are you so tall with such small feet?” They asked out of nowhere, Foolish spluttering on a response as the knights to the side of them shuffled with giggles.
Outraged, he finally managed to blurt out, “What?”
Eret’s face scrunched up, brows drawing down as their nose twitched. They stepped back and cupped their mouth before sneezing. Foolish stared, relating the noise to that of a kitten squeaking. The knights dispersed, fluttering back as they struggled to not laugh.
The Crown Prince whirled around, glaring at the knights who quickly fell back into their training partners. Disgruntled, they looked back to Foolish, who couldn’t help it anymore and laughed.
“Your sneezes sound so cute,” he fawned, unable to resist the opportunity before him as he stepped forward and pinched their cheeks. Eret blinked up at him, the room suddenly very quiet.
“Nuh ‘ey dun,” was the warble past stretched cheeks.
“Yes, they do,” he teased, releasing their cheeks to let them rub at them. This time, Eret did pout at him.
“No,” muttered Eret, sulking.
Foolish laughed, head tilting as he patted their head. They leaned up into his hand like a cat, going on their tippy-toes to level off with his height. He smirked back at them and went up on his own tippy-toes, revelling in their affronted look.
“I’m taller than you,” he jested.
“But you’re so small,” huffed Eret.
“I am not,” Foolish raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, you are,” insisted Eret, who turned to the room and glared. The bustle of sparring restarted, Foolish only realising how quiet it had gotten.
His cheeks felt warm. He wasn’t sure he’d ever blushed this much before.
“So,” he pried. “Will you still teach me how to throw a punch?”
“Why should I when I can always protect you?”
Left dumbstruck by their words, all he could manage was an incomprehensible mumble.
“But the partner of the Crown Prince must be able to defend themselves,” pondered Eret, finger tapping at their chin, lip twitching.
“Stop teasing me,” he smirked back.
“Alright,” appeased Eret. “Try out that stance from before with a taller posture, less of a crouch.”