1A/N: I took a glance at my profile page and scared myself when realizing it has almost been a year since I uploaded anything. I think I've lost my touch. Since I still have one month left of my summer holiday, I'd appreciate if you people could send me some prompts (event, word, character, anything). Request would also be considered. That being said, enjoy!
As he wore the face of dignity and stepped on the ancient bridge with every ounce of authority, Roy supressed the shivering that was about to consume him. The prince would not falter. The prince would not back down.
The prince would not be here, fallen under the sun running in his bloodline. The noise of the battle around him had subsided for a while, telling him his senses were going dimmer. That was not cool, he thought, dying in the hands of a face-painted madman and an army of undignified savages. Wasn't there a death more befitting of a royalty, one in which he would be sent off in colorful carriages in a grand procession?
Better off than the streets of Rainwall, he convinced himself.
After all, he was no prince. Never one, never would be one.
His mother led him out to the streets, her face less haggard than usual. It was one of her better days, and for the first time in months she didn't smell like alcohol and cheap perfumes. The city of Rainwall, dressed in pompadour in line of its lord, was even gaudier a notch or two, as if it could be any higher. Rumor had it that the royal family was visiting in their tour to introduce the newly born crown princess to the public.
Roy cared nothing of it. Them coming over brought a cosmetic change to the city, but the slum life was as awful as everyday. If anything, he was entranced by the rows of festive lanterns hanging off the main road, bringing about them sunset in every single case. Seemingly out of place for being the only thing unlike Lord Barows' excessive taste, the decorations in that certain part of the city were more subdued and actually beautiful. Many years later he wondered whether then-healthy Lady Barows had any say on it.
He entertained himself with the lights until the crowd went wild. They cheered and gasped and chattered among themselves, signaling Roy that the Sun Chariot was emerging. It was a sight to behold, the stallions as strong and dignified as the rulers they served. Omnipotent. How it went again? Let our mercy, as deep as the Feitas, and our authority, as powerful as the Sun...
It was only then he noticed of a boy peeking out the curtains of the chariot. His hair, a prized Falenan silver, fluttered as his eyes widened to absorb the world before him. In a swift second, the murmurs around him changed subject. For the first time in his life, Roy met the one he would grow to hate and respect the most in the following years.
"Ooh, he looks just like you, Roy."
"That's the prince! The prince!"
The hand that was firmly grasping his was shaking. Trembled and slurred, Roy would never forget the lines uttered.
"Why are you not the prince, Roy? Why? You are nothing but a failure. To think that someone with the prince's face was born to a ruined girl!"
What mockery was fate, for he was sure two children with identical face born at the same time, one destined for glory and grandeur while one forever a shadow, was too much for mere coincidence to ever happen. Frankly, he had had enough.
Yet, now, when he was about to die not as himself but the other man like he had done half his life, regret was not in his mind. He was but a shadow. To anyone outside the rebel army, 'Roy' was someone never was. Then there was one girl who could never fail to recognize him when no one else could, even when she was bedridden or suffering severe dizziness due to blood loss. This was the girl who finally saw him for who he was, the irony being that he was never and never could be her prince.
"Hey."
She was being civil, if he dared say it, almost nice. Roy took a good deal of pride on his instinct, one of his talent as a survivor of the slum. If he did not say it now, he would say it never.
"Huh?"
Her eyes were inquisitive, silence imploring. Her fingers dug into the hilt of her sword in habit, preparing herself for his typical ill-mannered joke. The fact she let him a benefit of doubt for once was definitely sign that he was not the only one expecting the possible outcome of day forthcoming.
"If I survive tomorrow, may I kiss you?"
He was met with stunned fury and shaken shoulders. A momentary pause, then she snapped, regaining the flame that marked her in his eyes.
"You will survive. You will survive and I will strike you down for ever uttering such request."
Roy did note she forced the last part out her still-sore throat.
He chuckled inwardly. Should've asked that earlier...
He was never and never could be the prince. Roy was well aware, his erasure from history might as well be guaranteed the moment he stepped into the role of body double. What good it would be to let a trace of warfare secret leaked out? If Lady Luck liked him enough however, he might get a gravestone bearing his own name. Push it even farther, and he imagined it carved in royal cursive on middle-grade marble. To be getting as much, he might at last earn his mother's pride, the woman who forever lamented upon his cursed face.
The last moment felt better, with the impersonation of the prince gradually fading away. That was right, he supposed, for such solemn parting was not his character at all. What better honor could a street rat left as a legacy than a chance of victory? There was enormous debt mounting for him and Roy couldn't help but smirk at the thought. The prince better do a damn good job at restoring the country and making sure everyone's happy, or he would nag whatever God was there in the afterlife to allow him come back alive for a well-deserved punch.
Lyon would be proud of him dying for her prince, wouldn't she?
Live long and greet me old and wrinkled, woman.
Had the cloud be always this beautiful? Finally, finally, freedom came for him.
