Boy Of The Ball ~ A Ryden AU

Brendon (1)

"You look handsome, son." My father says, looking me up and down as I walk out into the grand hallway. He is wearing a dress shirt and slacks, his glossed medals pinned on his breast. Medals he does not deserve, for he has never fought in battle for his kingdom, I think angrily.

"Thank you, sir." I say, bowing my head respectfully. He is the king, after all. I must respect his word, outwardly at least.

"Oh, darling, you look so dashing!" My mother cries, wrapping her arms daintily around my chest, her long, honeyed curls pressing against my coat, and her skirt brushing along my ankles. I smile and kiss her temple gentle. My mother always has been a sweet woman, soft, kind and pure. Too good for the brutal politics of a queen. A real gentlewoman.

How unfortunate she had to be married off to my father.

Just as I'm being married off to another woman.

The mere thought of it makes my stomach turn. Gwendolyn is... a fine choice, politically. A daughter of a duke, she is everything a queen should be: gentle, but smart, cunning.

They say she is beautiful, too.

I would hardly know, for we have talked thrice, at rushed balls where I only kissed her hand or sped through a waltz. I am naught one to fall for the charms of a woman, but despite these factors, even I can say that she is.. divine.

But whenever I read about romance in books, it says there is a spark between a maiden and her escort.

There is no such spark between us. The only spark I have experienced was... with someone entirely unavailable.

'Twas with a servant, who went by the name of Ryan. However, that was years ago. An unspeakable moment. A casual affair, of sorts.

"Odette!" My father barks, yanking my mother off me and causing me to snap out of my reverie. "You'll cause him to wrinkle. He needs to look his best tonight, for we are announcing his engagement."

He talks to her as if I am not there.

I am.

"I am sorry, dear." She says softly, casting her eyes downward, her delicate features sagging. Anger jolts through me. No maiden should be subject to such cruelty. It is, indeed, despicable.

But it is the way of my father. I wonder if he was ever a young man like me, dashing and strong. With the goals to become a good, fair ruler.

I wonder if those goals, that hope, faded away. Withered, along with his youth, his boldness.

I wonder if mine will.

No, I think fiercely. I shall not let it fade away.

"Perhaps," I say, meeting my fathers gaze, which is always difficult. You have to meet his eyes sturdily, but you mustn't glare or scoff, in fear of disrespecting or making a mockery of him. "It would be prudent to begin the ball before our guests begin to grow weary?" I finish, hoping foolishly that he will leave my mother be.

He stares at her for a minute, and then me. "We are not finished." He says finally, pushing my mother away. She stumbles, tripping over her lacy skirts, and I catch her.

"Thank you." She breathes as I right her, and I know it is not just for catching her.

"Always." I whisper, and my father gives her a withering stare. "Lower your sleeves." He snaps. "You look like a lady of the evening." This is a lie. He wants her to cover her arms not because she looks impure, but to cover the mottled bruises and scars lining her limbs, stopping just above the knees and elbows. Always above the knees and elbows, lest the commoners, as my father calls them, see.

I open my mouth, but my mother touches my arm, her fingers slim and cool.

"Do not. Mind yourself, Brendon." She warns quietly, and I bite my tongue. She is, as always, right.

Women seem to have a talent for that.

My father eyes me, and I nod to him. "Sir." I say, a bit louder than required as I straighten my back, setting my shoulders.

Like a man.

Like a king.

It is time to do my duty. If I enjoy it is not of importance.

At least, that is what I say to myself.

We turn to the grand oak doors, my parents behind me, now. They place their hands on the small of my back, and oh, 'tis laughable, what a lovely caricature of family we are.

'Tis a shame that it is hollow, and cracked.

The two guards who stand at the door nod impenetrably, their eyes trained ahead, like the good puppets they are.

I am afraid that everyone is a puppet, now. They must bow their stiff, unwilling limbs to my family, the masters, the controllers of them. 'Tis unfortunate. I have only met one who is different.

But that is of no matter now.

The doors sweep open dramatically, and I stare ahead, not making eye contact with anyone, not Gwendolyn, not any of the guests, and certainly not the one I want to see.

Even though I know he is there. I wish I could see him again, feel him, touch him. Let the sparks coil through my body, lighting me up.

But a man mustn't lay with a man. I remind myself. It is indecent, and against the will of God.

I flinch slightly as I hear the announcer call out the words I have dreaded for weeks to come.

"Announcing the house of Urie... King Rowan, his wife, Queen Odette, and their sole son and heir... Prince Brendon Urie."