The Scion and The Squire - {solangelo au}

1. I Think We've Got a Deal

I was 7 years old when I saw Prince William Solace for the first time. I mean, sure, I had seen his picture plastered all around, had heard tales about his "adorable" red chipmunk cheeks (and also about his ear-splitting, snot-flying tantrums). But the first time was different.

There he was: in the flesh! A Prince, and I a simple Page, when he stomped his way into the servant's kitchen. It had been a month since I began my stay in the palace (more accurately in the sheds an acre away from the castle itself); I was assisting the majordomo in baking intricate croissants for a late-evening dinner party between the king and queen and their high-class friends.

20 croissants—20 exactly equal croissants—one for each quest, all warmed to the perfect temperature, all just-the-right amount of flakiness, coated and soaked in righteous butter—a beautiful, tasty array of art. God damn, it would bring tears to the Antichrist.

Or maybe it wouldn't have—as I'm convinced the antichrist walked right through that kitchen that day. Every servant remembers where they were on that day when they first heard about the bite.

At the same time majordomo had went to fetch the stew, I was staring down at the lastly finished croissant. It glistened and taunted my saliva like I was a ravenous dog, when suddenly a chubby, dark little hand reached into view—grabbing not one, but two croissants. And in they went, shoved into those haughty chipmunk cheeks. William Solace had ate two of majordomo and I's buttery delights right before they were to be served, stuffed into those lips pulled tight. Will smiled mischievously at me before skipping out the door, passing the majordomo on the way. He looked at me with a horrified expression, and I the same to him.

"Damnit, Nico," he groaned. "You will never be a knight if you don't learn to speak up."

Story of my fucking life. That night, I had to take horse duty (sleeping in the stables while they drop insane bombs of mass destruction, farting happily as they drift off into sleep), and I was never allowed back into the kitchen.

I had seen William off and on since then, all in passing. I especially remember his christening—his eyes had latched onto my direction. I couldn't tell if it was me he was glaring at, and if so, I don't understand what he'd have against me. If anybody should be sending bitch stares across the room, it should be me.

Okay. Sure. I haven't talked to the guy ever and I hold a grudge from when the both of us were 7 years old, but I still feel like I have a valid viewpoint.

It doesn't help that his chipmunk cheeks eventually turned into high cheekbones and a pronounced jawline that could cut into metal and that his grubby little hands turned into the spokes-palms of 'Griswald's Hand Lotion! (Made Without Cow Pee!)'. Meanwhile, I'm subjected to announcing my existence every time I walk into a room because of my "skeleton-man appearance" that "makes the servants jump" when I "appear out of seemingly nothing but Satan's shadows like a ghost."

I wish I could let the whole kingdom of Apolla, no, scratch that: all of Olympia, all 8 bloody continents, know that Prince William has no remotely inspiring aspects about him. All times I've come by him in passing, he is laying about, asleep outside of his quarters—quite an embarrassing sight, I might add. He drools out the side of the mouth and every now and then he jolts like a lizard's jumped onto his face. His long, curly hair falls in cloud puffs all around and he looks quite the opposite of 'angelic' as most teenagers across Olympia would parade.

And now here I was, face to face with him, 13 years from our first encounter. Hades puffs out his chest, trying to take up as much space as possible as we wait for the Queen. Even now, William sits in a sofa chair in the middle of the meeting hall while the rest of us stand in the parlor. There's about 30 other Royal cabinet members in company; all stiff and tight-lipped, anticipating for the door to fly open at any given moment.