Royal

Quick Authors Note. So this is about being the king of France but it is not going to be in French. Just because I want him to be the king of France. The dates will be off as will most of the history because this is for fun. So sorry if you're into history but if you want to correct me I am open to creative criticism? Anyways Enjoy

In the Spring of 1778, on April 27th, Patrick Martin Vaughn Stumph was born into royalty. His parents were the King and Queen of France. On that rainy morning, his mother passed away, due to the complications of labor. The king grieving his beloved queen held his first and only son in his arms. 

The kingdom was filled with riches beyond belief and Patrick grew up in riches, never knowing something as simple as hunger and never left the castle walls without a guard escorting him. Shielded from the poverty and struggles of the citizens of the kingdom his father owned. Patrick was used to being shielded from the world, he matured quickly and soon tried to find everything out about the world his father hid him from.

When Patrick turned seventeen, the date passed uneventfully and it was not until a month later that his entire world changed. News had come in that his father, his one blood relative left had been killed in battle. 

In the summer of 1795, Patrick became known as King. 

(Patricks POV)

I stay stock still staring at the space on the wall as instructed. I can't feel my legs and these clothes are so heavy I may collapse. I sneak a peak at the painter who is studying me closely before going back to furiously paint on the canvas. Why did this have to be done? This crown is too heavy to wear comfortably. I can feel the itch of cotton tickling my lower back.

I shift slightly and see the painter suck in a breath and let out in frustration. Poor guy is worried to yell at me. Probably a good thing since kings do deserve respect. I still feel a flush of embarrassment knowing that people have to treat me like that, I am used to joking around with the servants and acting freely and now that is all gone because I am...

King. 

God, this happened too soon. I was prepared to become king at the late age of 35 or older like my father and his father before him. I wasn't prepared to be one of the youngest kings of France. For goodness sakes, I have a kingdom to rule and here I am getting my portrait painted in a tight pair of pantaloons.

I'm starting to sweat under this fur collar and I am not sure how much longer I can take this. I don't want to tell the painter to take a break because what if he has to start over because I moved? I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly I am a king I can do this.

"Painter we have to resume this later I have uh, business to attend," I say nodding as if it is a question. The painter looks at me with wide eyes but nods and puts down his brush. I take a step and shake out my limbs. I walk over to the canvas the painter is fiddling with his hands nervously.

"Good so far." I say gesturing to the canvas, it's actually quite far along considering how long we have been here. The only thing left is the small details and my face. The painter smiles and bows.

"Thank you, your highness." I walk out of the room and to my private chambers. I start stripping off the ridiculous layers of velvet and fur and jewels. Seriously way to hot for the summer. I change into a simple shirt and pants. I finally can move and it feels great. I still feel too hot in the dusty castle so I grab a book and I walk out of my chambers and out to the garden. I walk along the grass and enjoy the summer breeze.

I nod at the guard who stands by the garden walls and then continue my way to the far end. The garden stretches far away from the main rooms of the castle and wraps around to the stables. At first, I hated it because on days the wind changed the smell of hay and horse would waft in the far end of the garden.

But then I learned of what was in the stables. No, I am not talking about the horses imported from Italy. But the stable boy seemingly imported from Africa.

Except he wasn't as dark as the other slaves I have seen he had lighter skin as is only what I can assume half African and half European.

He was one of the most beautiful people I have laid eyes upon. I sneak to the tree on the hill where you can see the stables best. I pull out the book I had brought with me and pretend to read it but instead my eyes search the wooden stalls below.

I fear that perhaps he is sick and not there when I don't spot him right away. But then suddenly he pops up from a stall a pitch fork in hand and begins hucking clumps of dirty hay into a wheelbarrow.

I melt on the inside when I see his tanned skin shiny with the layer of sweat strain to lift the pitch fork. Oh what this man does to me.