Isabelle had always been there. In all of Kain’s memories, her smiles were the most important. Even when she was just a newborn, he had finished his education, and was starting his training. He could vaguely remember the first time he saw her. She was a baby, wrapped in a towel against the queen’s chest. At first, he felt insulted. He had loved studying. And then, his life was to be rough, merciless training for one little baby? Yet he soon came to respect his master. Soon came to enjoy the rush of sparing with real swords rather than wooden toys. The sting of aching muscles after a hard day’s work. And realized that, in the way he was always in her environment, often more than the King and Queen, he was becoming the center of her life as well. She babbled his name as soon as she could speak, learning it shortly after “Mama” and “Papa”. She followed him like his shadow, escaping from her parent’s surveillance to watch him spar with his master. She was an innocent little girl. It was hard to imagine how anyone could want to hurt her, yet somehow, between playing with her and standing guard in front of her door, when she became an adolescent, and actually desired privacy, she had sank herself deep into his life.
And now she was about to tear herself out. Whether she really wanted to or not.
Kain sat alone in the training court, on the brutally diminished remains of a training dummy. Beads of sweat still ran against his forehead, his breath was still coarse. Duke-in-waiting, and possibly the future king of this country, Benedict of Gracefield. God forsake that arrogant, self-sufficient, pampered boy! He had only met him once, and the fact that he was going to steal Isabelle away only played a part in the disdain he felt towards him. He treated everyone the same, were they not royalty- and even if they were, the smaller players had to fear his sharp, merciless tongue. Yet it couldn’t be worse than being a peasant, guard or servant, his own or simply a poor fellow that had the misfortune to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Three weeks earlier, he had attended a banquet to commemorate the official status of Isabelle and Benedict as fiancés. Standing behind her at all times, until she would be wed, he caught a glimpse of what kind of “gentleman” this man was- When Isabelle spilt wine over herself, he didn’t twitch. However, he had been thoughtful enough to ask “Guard-Dog” to take care of it, demanding he fix his fiancé’s problem. His tone oozed with disdain and indignation. Like if he owned her.
“He must be contagious,” Kain mused to himself, spinning to his feet, kicking the dummy (or rather unidentifiable garbage that remained of the said dummy) into the air, whipping out his sword to slice it down the middle. He sheathed his blade immediately.
He stood there for a second. The sky was darkening quickly. The wind started blowing, but the sand was damp enough, from the weak rain, to not billow into clouds. He knew he was making the situation seem worse than it was. Isabelle had no reason not to marry Benedict. He was born of a better family, had an outstanding education and was a promising diplomat.
As for Kain, he’d be released of his duties, and could either serve in his majesty’s army as a commander, or retire with a fine pension. He could finish the education that was interrupted by the princess’ birth. He could meet a woman- Perhaps one of the ones he had already been “acquainted” with, (a few of the female servants seemed inclined to “spend a little more time cleaning his room”,) before he was knighted, when his quarters were further away from Isabelle’s. Before he realized he loved her.
The rain began to fall with more force, the wind blowing it into cold, harsh curtains, a flash of lightning lighting up the dull, gray sky. He had already walked to the tower in which his chamber was before the faint sound of distant thunder made its way to his ears.
-
Needing to build a fire was well worth the hot bath that Kain offered himself as he returned to his chamber. He let his chiselled muscles soak in the warmth of the bath, even the smouldering waters and relaxation of the moment unable to make the muscled planes of his body anything other than rock-solid. He looked down at himself. He didn’t fit the standards of male nobility at all. His skin was tanned from head to toe, with the warm glaze of the peasant’s sun, without any excess body fat. His long, wheat-blond hair (which he usually tied at the base of his neck with a small leather cord), coupled with his dark brown eyes, like an exotic cut of wood, gave him a feral look. His teeth were his pride, straight as pickets and white as clouds. Though in his functions, he rarely smiled, Isabelle had guaranteed him that he had a charming smile. Not charming enough to charm her though. And not charming enough to give him the confidence he needed to go out with it, and share his feelings with her.
He sighed, standing up and exiting the small bath, his body shining like if it had been oiled. He checked his body for any excess hair- His chain mail caught in it uncomfortably- only on his head could he allow any hair to grow. He slipped on a pair of white trouser-like bottoms, just short enough to cover his backside (which were not customary, but required for him, as his “proportions” in that area were unlike anything the castle tailor had seen. Or so she said.
He slipped on thick, black pants, the coarse fabric enough protection for an improvised battle, but comfortable enough to spend the evening in (as opposed to chain-link pants). He slid on a a black shirt that covered his stomach and rippling abdominals, and not much else, as he finished the portrait with his armour, made light and compact to allow him to make use of his inane agility and speed, tied his hair, and left. He needed to be standing guard in front of Isabelle’s door by the time she finished eating her meal, privately, with her parents, (allowing him to have an hour or so of time to himself,) or he’d feel the scorn of the king. If he recalled properly, missing out on his duties once had taught him the lesson.
However, he also knew that Isabelle wanted her independence and often insisted on walking herself back alone. A few times by the past, he had been spared by that fact, walking to her chamber door only for her to tell him that he could enter in just a minute- Despite that he always remained outside while she bathed, the nights spent guarding her door often turned to nights chatting in her chamber.
And now she was about to tear herself out. Whether she really wanted to or not.
Kain sat alone in the training court, on the brutally diminished remains of a training dummy. Beads of sweat still ran against his forehead, his breath was still coarse. Duke-in-waiting, and possibly the future king of this country, Benedict of Gracefield. God forsake that arrogant, self-sufficient, pampered boy! He had only met him once, and the fact that he was going to steal Isabelle away only played a part in the disdain he felt towards him. He treated everyone the same, were they not royalty- and even if they were, the smaller players had to fear his sharp, merciless tongue. Yet it couldn’t be worse than being a peasant, guard or servant, his own or simply a poor fellow that had the misfortune to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Three weeks earlier, he had attended a banquet to commemorate the official status of Isabelle and Benedict as fiancés. Standing behind her at all times, until she would be wed, he caught a glimpse of what kind of “gentleman” this man was- When Isabelle spilt wine over herself, he didn’t twitch. However, he had been thoughtful enough to ask “Guard-Dog” to take care of it, demanding he fix his fiancé’s problem. His tone oozed with disdain and indignation. Like if he owned her.
“He must be contagious,” Kain mused to himself, spinning to his feet, kicking the dummy (or rather unidentifiable garbage that remained of the said dummy) into the air, whipping out his sword to slice it down the middle. He sheathed his blade immediately.
He stood there for a second. The sky was darkening quickly. The wind started blowing, but the sand was damp enough, from the weak rain, to not billow into clouds. He knew he was making the situation seem worse than it was. Isabelle had no reason not to marry Benedict. He was born of a better family, had an outstanding education and was a promising diplomat.
As for Kain, he’d be released of his duties, and could either serve in his majesty’s army as a commander, or retire with a fine pension. He could finish the education that was interrupted by the princess’ birth. He could meet a woman- Perhaps one of the ones he had already been “acquainted” with, (a few of the female servants seemed inclined to “spend a little more time cleaning his room”,) before he was knighted, when his quarters were further away from Isabelle’s. Before he realized he loved her.
The rain began to fall with more force, the wind blowing it into cold, harsh curtains, a flash of lightning lighting up the dull, gray sky. He had already walked to the tower in which his chamber was before the faint sound of distant thunder made its way to his ears.
-
Needing to build a fire was well worth the hot bath that Kain offered himself as he returned to his chamber. He let his chiselled muscles soak in the warmth of the bath, even the smouldering waters and relaxation of the moment unable to make the muscled planes of his body anything other than rock-solid. He looked down at himself. He didn’t fit the standards of male nobility at all. His skin was tanned from head to toe, with the warm glaze of the peasant’s sun, without any excess body fat. His long, wheat-blond hair (which he usually tied at the base of his neck with a small leather cord), coupled with his dark brown eyes, like an exotic cut of wood, gave him a feral look. His teeth were his pride, straight as pickets and white as clouds. Though in his functions, he rarely smiled, Isabelle had guaranteed him that he had a charming smile. Not charming enough to charm her though. And not charming enough to give him the confidence he needed to go out with it, and share his feelings with her.
He sighed, standing up and exiting the small bath, his body shining like if it had been oiled. He checked his body for any excess hair- His chain mail caught in it uncomfortably- only on his head could he allow any hair to grow. He slipped on a pair of white trouser-like bottoms, just short enough to cover his backside (which were not customary, but required for him, as his “proportions” in that area were unlike anything the castle tailor had seen. Or so she said.
He slipped on thick, black pants, the coarse fabric enough protection for an improvised battle, but comfortable enough to spend the evening in (as opposed to chain-link pants). He slid on a a black shirt that covered his stomach and rippling abdominals, and not much else, as he finished the portrait with his armour, made light and compact to allow him to make use of his inane agility and speed, tied his hair, and left. He needed to be standing guard in front of Isabelle’s door by the time she finished eating her meal, privately, with her parents, (allowing him to have an hour or so of time to himself,) or he’d feel the scorn of the king. If he recalled properly, missing out on his duties once had taught him the lesson.
However, he also knew that Isabelle wanted her independence and often insisted on walking herself back alone. A few times by the past, he had been spared by that fact, walking to her chamber door only for her to tell him that he could enter in just a minute- Despite that he always remained outside while she bathed, the nights spent guarding her door often turned to nights chatting in her chamber.
