Prince Among Mortals (Boyxboy)

Prologue

Author's Note: Hello people. So, this is a new story I'm writing and I'm a bit unsure how this will turn out. So please share your thoughts on it and let me know how good or bad it is. I would appreciate it if you did.

Thank you and enjoy =)

Prologue

American, 1863. The Battle of Gettysburg was in its third day of battle. The smell of gun smoke, blood, and corpses filled the air and the ground was painted red. The gun smoke was like a thick curtain in the sky and hung over the soldier's heads as their screams and cries of pain mixed in with the sounds of cannon fire and gunshots.

It is here on this bloody field were two men, friends who forged a strong friendship near the start of the war, stood on the outskirts of the battle. The bloody cries and screams reached their ears but they paid no mind to them as they held out their swords at each others throats.

“This is not the time to be doing this!” exclaimed the tall Frenchman. His long, thick black hair blew in the wind and his honey colored eyes were filled with mercy and concern. He tightened his grip on his rapier as the wind blew smoke towards him.

His friend, a man slightly shorter than him with white skin and brown curly hair, scoffed, “Now is the perfect time. You betrayed me!” He thrusted his sword at him but the Frenchman quickly blocked it with his blade.

“I would never betray you. It wasn’t my doing,” the Frenchman explained. A cannon ball blasted near them. Dirt, grass, and rocked flew into the air as the Frenchman fell to the ground; his ears rang and blood dripped down his face from the cuts on his forehead. He propped himself up on his elbow—

And felt the burning sting of a blade piercing pain of a blade enter his chest as it forced him back down to the ground.

“This. . .is all a misunderstanding.” The Frenchman coughed. He felt the blood stain and soak mostly the right side of his shirt. Thank God he didn’t stab through the heart.

“She left me. . .for you, you sniveling son of a bitch.” His friend's words were like nails being pounded with a hammer. He crouched over the Frenchman, “So, here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to leave you here and pretend that nothing happened. You’ll rot here and I’ll leave this horrid battle.”

“You’re. . . .running away?”

The former friend stood and wiped his dirt covered nose. “You sacrificed yourself for me. I’m sure everyone will believe that. Murder is just. . . .to justifying for my taste. I may even ask that lovely girl of yours for her hand in marriage.” A wicked grin crossed his face, “Or just for the fun of it, I’ll tug at her heartstrings with this: you ran away from the battle, got drunk, bedded a few women and maybe even a prostitute, had a bastard child and got married to another women.”

He chuckled as he turned, “Oh, now that would be so fun to watch. To have her come to me for comfort. I’ll even say you had an affaire with my betrothed. Well, goodbye.” He took off running over the hill and into the woods.

The Frenchman grabbed the hilt of the sword as a cannon blasted the ground near him apart. He pulled out the sword with a grimace and sat up. He quickly took off his jacket and shirt. The deep cut slashed apart and pouring like a fountain, or more likely a waterfall at this point, pass the jagged and torn skin. With a few breaths, he braced himself for what was to come.

Another cannon fired off in the distance, the Frenchman flinched and threw hi head back and dug his nails into the ground as his skin slowly stretched out and mended itself back together. He cries of pain were drowned in the gunshots and screams of others, who were either dying or in pain. With a few breaths, he stood and grabbed his rapier; anger drowned his heart, if that coward was going to flee battle after “murdering” his friend. . . .