forum "Won't you pull me from myself again?" (oxo, mlm fantasy, closed)

Started Oct 23 by @Indie

tune

Disgraced Prince x Smitten Knight

In which the third prince of a kingdom, which we’ll call Coris, was born with a delicate constitution. Never quite as strong or fast as his brothers, unworthy to be noted as anything but “the spare to the spare”.

Even a weak prince, however, carries royal blood. And as the promise of war encroaches on the land, a personal knight is appointed to protect the youngest prince from threats that await outside the castle walls. Little does the knight realize that there is plenty of danger to be found within, and that the task of protecting the prince is not as black and white as he once thought.

The knight must make a choice: To follow the order of his ruler, or to follow the ruler of his heart.

Notes

Takes place in an Old Fantasy style setting with no modern technology. Magic exists, concentrated most strongly in those with royal blood. By Coris law, spellcasters who are not of royal blood must be carefully documented and monitored. Those who wield their magic freely risk imprisonment and having their power stripped from them.

I’ll be playing the prince, meaning it’s up to you to decide whether the knight has any magical talent, and if so, whether it is a known or hidden fact.

If you have any world-building ideas or suggestions for this, hit me up! I don’t have much set in stone at this moment.

Trigger Warnings
Expletives, blood and violence, emotional and/or physical abuse, & classism.

Rules
We're all mature here. Just be a decent person and we shouldn't have any issues! If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask.

I'm looking for a serious writer who isn't daunted by the idea of long passages of text or taking their own direction in the story. Response time doesn't really matter to me because I'll likely be inconsistent myself.

-

NAME Augustus Brent Sinnett
AGE Nineteen
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION Stands at 5’4”. Very thin and very pale; oftentimes a touch too pale to be considered the image of health. August has sunken eyes with circles beneath them that never seem to fully fade no matter how much sleep he gets. His hair is platinum blonde and wavy, long enough to cover his forehead at the front and to frame his cheeks on either side. His eyes are a pale blue, gray in certain lighting. Picrew here! (Not entirely accurate, but close enough. Keep in mind his hair and eyes are lighter than shown here.)
PERSONALITY Clumsy, insecure, eager to please, optimistic, inquisitive, & kind.
OTHER (1) His magic, like himself, is considered weak for a royal. August possesses the ability to conjure spirits made of mist, though he lacks the skill to call upon any larger than a house cat. (2) In spite of his constitution, he regularly undergoes the same training as his siblings. He's familiar with elements of the blade, archery, and horseback riding, though it's clear he doesn't hold a candle to his older brothers. (3) Coris is a kingdom known for military might. As such, the royal family is not mere decoration with inflated authority. Each member is deadly in their own right.

You can use the same format to post your character or use one of your own, I don't have a preference.

Name: Wolfram "Wolf" the Reliable
Age: 22
Appearance: Stands at 6'1". Broad and sturdy, equal parts muscled and portly. Fair skinned. Tanned on his face and neck, which are also littered with sunspots. A very faint, small scar beside his left eye. Honey brown irises. Sports a rpinded beard. Voluminous, brown/nearly black hair that falls between his shoulder blades when let down, though it's usually tied back. His hands are large and calloused with several scars, mostly on the back of his hands.
Personality: Altruistic, loyal, reliable. Rather sensitive for a knight, but he learned to keep certain inconvenient emotions hidden during his squire years. His stoicism is typically reserved for authority figures. While he honors and respects his superiors, they are not privy to his charismatic and affectionate personality that he offers everyone else.
Other: Born to a high ranking noble family; earmarked and destined to be a knight from his childhood.
If Wolf has any magic running in his blood he doesn't know about it, and has no desire to find out.
He enjoyed his life as a page. He fondly remembers the time he picked up a wooden sword for the first time in his small seven-year-old hands. When it was time to be a squire, though, he enjoyed it far less. The knight he followed was less than patient and quick to discipline.

(I'm late, but here it is! I'm starting it off before Wolfram is officially appointed to be August's personal knight (which, fun fact, is a title called "Knight of the Body" if you didn't already know!), just to give them a chance to meet before circumstances demand it. Wolf probably already knows he's going to be appointed to one of the princes, but not which one—unless of course you'd rather he didn't know, which is perfectly fine also!)

---

It’s another beautiful day in Coris. There’s hardly a cloud to mar the wide stretch of blue above, nor the sun gently warming the land below. The wind carries a promise of chill; a sign that autumn is fast approaching.

It’s another beautiful day, thinks Augustus, though he only has time to admire the beauty for himself in the clear reflection of polished steel streaking towards his head.

The prince drops beneath the blade, raising a leadened arm to parry another attempt to clobber him with the flat edge of his sword. His knees tremble from the awkward crouch, but he pushes through the discomfort and rises once more. His own sword flashes in the sunlight while sweat drips from his brow, threatening to break his focus.

It’s the longest he’s held himself against Horace in a long while. His brother must know this, too, because a concentrated scowl splits the older prince’s face. Behind him their sword instructor watches impassively, every now and again offering corrections to their form or technique. He’s been silent for a few minutes.

The two combatants regard each other carefully, and August feels a twinge of pride to know he’s being seen as a genuine threat.

Then a loud clang rings out from the other side of the training grounds. August starts, his eyes straying to see what had caused it, and realizes his mistake too late.

His eyes widen and he pivots on his foot to fend off Horace’s attack, but it’s futile. He sees the wide grin on his brother’s face and then all at once the large expanse of blue sky. This time it’s no reflection.

The wind is knocked out of him as he lands hard on his back, and he gasps fruitlessly for air to fill his lungs. Footsteps rush over to him, then a pair of hands grab his shoulders and try to right him. He doesn’t have the heart to push Lettie away, so he bears the touch until he’s finally able to collect his breath.

Panting, he lifts his head to see Horace sneering down at him. Ashamed, August averts his eyes.

“…My prince?”

Only now does he register that Lettie is speaking to him. The ringing in his ears slowly subsides, and he swallows. His throat is dry. “A… Apologies, Lettie. Would you repeat that for me?”

The attendant studies him for a moment, lips pressed together so that they form a stern line. Before she can speak again, another voice cuts in.

“Are you well enough to continue, my lord?”

It’s the training instructor, and a feeling of inadequacy settles deeper into August’s chest at the clear look of disappointment in his eyes.

Rather than answer, the youngest prince pushes himself to his feet once again. It’s more difficult than it was a moment ago, and he sways dangerously into Lettie. He thanks her quietly, subdued, when she steadies him and keeps his gaze fixed on the ground until the dizziness passes.

“I can keep going,” he says, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes.

He senses Lettie’s disapproval at his answer, but much as he wishes to please the older woman, it’s imperative that he does not miss any more of his training.

Lettie gives them a brief, if reluctant, curtsy and falls back to where August knows she’ll be waiting if he needs help. He loves her, truly, but he wishes she wouldn’t intervene. He makes enough of a spectacle on his own, let alone when she rushes in to care for him like that.

Bending down to retrieve the sword he dropped, he sends a quick word of thanks to the gods that Horace had only struck him with the pommel this time. Though his chest aches and is surely already blossoming into a troubling bruise, it’s far better than an urgent visit to the healers.

Heavens know he spends too much time with them already.

August wobbles to the side of the practice area, ignoring the voices raised in laughter as he passes his brothers. Rufus, who had been a silent bystander throughout his spar with Horace, now cackled, “Did you see his face? He needed his nursemaid to stand him up, gods help him!”

Flushing in embarrassment, Augustus tightens his grip on his sword and refuses to look at them. On the other end of the field he spots a handful of pages scrambling to clean up a mess of spilled training equipment. Clearly that had been the source of his distraction, though it no longer matters.

Behind them, he catches the gaze of a knight—one he does not recognize at first glance—watching the princes’ training intently. He must be newly appointed, he thinks, or perhaps returning from another post. August is used to being watched, and as such, pays him little mind.

Rufus steps forward at the instructor’s command and Augustus’ attention follows, slipping away from thoughts of the knight altogether.

—brief timeskip—

August’s ribs ache as he shuffles over to sit in the shade of the castle wall, half falling to his butt instead of the graceful descent he had planned. A puff of breath escapes him and his eyelashes flutter shut for a moment as he wards off another wave of discomfort.

Sweat beads on his forehead and he can feel the flush on his cheeks in spite of the mild weather. His entire body pulses in time to his heartbeat, and he knows he’s more than passed his limit for the day.

Lettie was right. I shouldn’t have overdone it, he thinks, expecting to feel regret over his prideful—and rather pointless—stand. Instead, he feels numb with bone deep exhaustion and a sense of failure.

The rest of the training was less intensive than his match with Horace, at least, with August only sparring once more with Rufus before its end. Even that, however, was more than enough for him to accumulate a few more welts and minor bruises. His brothers, as usual, were not accustomed to showing mercy, even to him. Perhaps especially to him.

Slowly leaning back on his hands and sighing, August opens his eyes to watch the few roaming clouds above—and starts at the sight that meets him instead.

It’s the knight from before, the long hair and staggering height unmistakable as he stands beside him.

August freezes, feeling very small where he sits. After a conflicted pause he relaxes, an equal mix of caution and curiosity in his eyes. “What brings you over here, Sir Knight?” he asks.

(Okedokes! That all sounds good to me!)

Despite his initial reticence, Wolfram found that there were some notable benefits to being a knight that was stationed at the castle. The training grounds, for one, were some of the most fine he's had the privilege to swing a sword in. As a page, his master's estate would never have been big enough to accommodate a space like this—or even Wolf's family's courtyard. The young pages who swung wooden swords and shoved their friends cared so little about where they do so.

While Wolfram observed, the older squires primarily instructed and disciplined, but he enjoyed offering a tip here and there. He liked to think the kids appreciated his company too. Many of the other knights, older than Wolfram, might be described as gruff—to say the least. Eight-year-olds rarely had thick skin.

"Wolf! Wolf…look…what I found," said one young page, his statement sparsed with heavy breaths from running. He presented his cupped hands up towards the knight, who had to kneel to eye the worm. It was wriggling around in protest of its unjust capture.

"Ah, I see you have a…worm, hm?" The boy smiled proudly in response. "Did you perchance find this worm while you were meant to be practicing your lunges with Carle over there?" The boy's smile dimmed, turning sheepish instead. "Well, how about I—"a pause to bolster himself–"hold this for you while you go get yourself a sword?"

The boy seemed to find this solution acceptable, if not very much fun. He nodded, transferring the worm into Wolfram's hands. Wolf stifled a shudder, at least until the boy was on his way to the training equipment, and placed the worm in his pouch that hung at his side.

In the meantime, Wolfram looked past the pages and across the grounds to a sparring match between two princes. That's right. He'd forgotten the primary reason he'd even come to the training grounds again after his own session. The princes. He was meant to guard…one of them. No one had specified which yet.

A loud clatter startled him out of his thoughts. Wolf snapped his head towards the sound. It didn't take him long to identify the boy from earlier standing in front of the mess with a wooden sword, but it appeared another boy had crashed into the equipment while sparring. One of the squires barked at the pages to clean up the mess.

With the situation handled, Wolf glanced back at the princes. A flash of concern sparked in his chest at the sight of the youngest prince on the ground. He stood up straighter, narrowing his gaze to focus on the scene. His concern subsided as the prince stood up. He could hear the faint sounds of laughter. Their eyes might have met. Otherwise, Wolf simply watched the rest of their fight.

---

Later, when the pages had left the training grounds, and there was nothing left to do in the day except to wander until supper, Wolfram noticed Prince Augustus sitting against the castle wall, eyes closed. He'd done well during training—his resilience was extraordinary. Wolf admired that. Now the prince just looked utterly drained.

He'd been assigned to guard the prince. Which prince, he didn't know, but maybe this one needed him now. So Wolfram took his post, one arm at his side and another hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared forward until Augustus spoke. At that, he angled his body towards the prince and bowed.

"Your Highness. It appeared to me as if you required an escort." His speech was stilted, almost reheared. Although not without flecks of emotion during his next sentance. "I would be appalled with myself if I were the type of man who left a man of your station alone without offering assistance. I apologize for being forward if that is not the case, and I will take my leave at your request."

(Wolf is absolutely adorable with kids omg)

"Ah," he says, softly and colored with a tinge of uncertainty. August threads his fingers through the grass beneath them, a betrayal of his nerves as he considers the knight's words.

After training he's often left to his own devices; a routine he appreciates because of the toll it takes on his body. Usually he finds somewhere quiet to sit and recoup until Lettie arrives to spirit him away to his room—or worse, to the infirmary. As unpleasant a thought as it is, it's not nearly as daunting as someone unfamiliar witnessing the aftermath of his bullheadedness.

He wonders if this knight has already heard about it.

His illness is a poorly-kept secret, August knows. Though his father, the King, would prefer to keep such matters private so as not to announce such a failure of a son to any enemies of the crown, it's hardly practical for an entire kingdom to keep silent for a near two decades. No, it would have been easier if he had died as a child, or perhaps even better if he had never been born at all.

The hostility of the thought surprises him—it doesn't sound like his own thoughts speaking in that moment—and he abruptly realizes he still hasn't given the knight an answer.

He's already witnessed my loss here today, and he seems quite genuine. Suddenly, the thought of sitting on the ground, alone and waiting for his frenzied nursemaid to retrieve him, seems unappealing. Besides, this knight has a pleasant voice and a sense of calmness to him that he rarely encounters in others. He sort of wants to bask in it.

"Well, I would hardly wish to challenge your integrity by way of declining," he responds in an equally formal manner, a half smile on his face as he looks up at the man. "However, I'm afraid I am quite unable to stand at this moment. I need a few minutes to regather my strength before I am to be escorted anywhere." He pauses, pulling his legs closer to himself with effort he tried to disguise. "I assure you, no matter my station, you are under no true obligation to wait on me. But, if you would like to wait with me until that time, then I would not be opposed to the company."

August tilts his head. "If you don't mind my asking, honest knight, would you tell me your name? I hope I do not appear ignorant by saying so, but I do not recognize your face."

(At last, after a bout of writer's block I am back! I'm sorry for the wait)

Wolfram inclined his head towards the prince. A gentle smile on his lips, perhaps relieved that his offering was not only accepted, but seemed welcome. "It would be my honor to wait with you, your Highness." With that, he settled back into a forward facing position. His arms clasped behind him in the way knights do that accommodated heavy plates of armor.

Wolf allowed his mind to wander in the slim moment between phrases, observing the prince through his peripheral. Three brief thoughts occurred in rapid succession. One: the youngest prince's name—what was it—Augustus, yes? Yes, Augustus Bent Sinnett. That sounded right. He hadn't heard much of this prince by way of political activities or public appearances, thus the lapse of memory. Two: what could this Prince Augustus be waiting for? There was a nurse maid doting on him during the sparring match, could it be her? Three: Wolfram hoped the nurse would take her time returning, or perhaps not at all, so that he might be the one to help the prince to wherever it is he went after sparring.

The last thought had Wolfram forcefully blinking it out of his headspace. He shouldn't be selfishly wishing for more time with this royal man than he already was already borrowing by placing himself here without explicit permission. And it certainly wasn't his prerogative to choose which prince he should guard, either. Augustus was asking him a question anyway. He latched onto the distraction of conversation like a cat to string.

"You most certainly are not ignorant, my lord. I have not been here long. You would not be expected to recognize my face. I am Sir Wolfram the Reliable. You may call me if 'Wolf' if it pleases you."

Wolfram. The youngest prince mouths the name to himself, eyes sparkling with interest as he looks up at the knight in question. It isn't often the opportunity to call someone by something as casual as a nickname presents itself, and he finds himself smiling at the offer.

"That is a strong name, Sir Wolf. If that is the case, then I offer you a belated welcome to the castle." August dips his head in his direction as a sign of respect, knowing his father would have scolded him if he was there to witness it. 'Do not give your acknowledgement to others so easily,' he imagines the king saying, but in his mind, Wolfram has already proven himself worthy of his title. 'Reliable, indeed. Chivalrous, for certain.'

A soft kind of amusement kindles in his chest at how eager the knight seems, and he wonders if it's because he is new to knighthood. It's a stark contrast from the older knights who still serve within the castle walls. It's refreshing, even.

A slight breeze lifts the bangs from his forehead, cooling skin still dampened with sweat. Some of the rosiness in his cheeks has faded—he's sure of it, because he no longer feels as warm to the touch when he sweeps the wayward bangs back. Still, he's not quite recovered enough to move freely, and so he voices another of his thoughts,

"Do you like it here?"

The question is out before he gives it much consideration, and he blinks at the informality of it. That was hardly the kind of question a royal should ask a knight, let alone upon their first meeting. The last thing he wants is to pressure Sir Wolfram into giving him whatever answer he thinks the youngest prince wants to hear, especially if it's inauthentic. Realizing this, he tries to backtrack.

"Ah, that may have been too forward of me. You don't have to answer, I was merely curious." After all, Augustus has spent his entire life in this castle. His perspective is tainted with familiarity, and he doesn't know if he seeks validation in his discontent of the place or to hear positivity spun about it.

"I've often heard stories from the older knights about how exciting it was for them to first arrive at the castle. How magical, even," he says by way of explanation, his voice calm and even. "But I've never known anything else, so that magic eludes me." At this he smiles, though there's a note of something vulnerable in it. Wistful, perhaps.

Just like that, however, it's gone. He smiles, brightly now, up at the knight. "Are you an instructor, Sir Wolf? I noticed you standing near the pages earlier." This, he has no qualms about asking, never mind the obvious shift in topic.

For half a second Wolfram's brows lifted at the sound of his nickname on the prince's lips. This man of such higher station didn't need to know him by what his companions called him. There were professional and personal boundaries to think of. Yet it had been so easy to offer without a conscious thought, and was surprisingly pleasant to hear it spoken by Augustus. As if they were equals.

Instead of dwelling on such things, Wolf returned the prince's acknowledgement with a nod of his own. A deferential grin rested on his mouth while he listened to the prince. He hung on practically every word. Except when he would have to glance away and think about his answers, of course, but his gaze always returned. "Do I like it here?" he echoed.

Wolfram blew a puff of air from his lips, briefly scanning the courtyard around them before answering. "The people are pleasant, and the decorations are slightly more extravagant than I am accustomed to. And the stonework is breathtaking. It is a lovely place. Beautiful, in fact."

Just a few short weeks ago a courier had found Wolf on the road to his own estate, Wildehollow, bearing a letter that requested his presence at the capital for a special assignment. It had been so long since he'd visited the castle pure nostalgia might have encouraged him to go if obligations didn't require it.

"This isn't my first time here. Perhaps that is why it isn't quite so magical. My master—the knight who trained me—was assigned here for some time, not long, and I joined him." At the mention of Sir Andreu, Wolfram grazed the fine lines of scars on the back of his hand with a thumb.

He accepted the change of topic eagerly. His fondness for the kids reflected in his smile. "Oh! Not exactly. I was assigned in another capacity, but while I await information for the specifics I like to watch the pages and squires train. The pages have so much fun that it's just as fun to watch them."

Augustus' lips part in surprise at Wolfram's answer. He had expected the topic to end there, and now the words give him pause. 'The people are pleasant?' He supposes that's true enough. The royal family holds decorum in very high esteem, so it's hardly surprising to hear that Wolf has noticed the same behavior in the castle occupants. To August, it has always felt rather cold. Distant. But then, there's a distance to be expected between someone of the royal family and their subjects. Perhaps Sir Wolf's experience as a knight has been different.

At the mention of stonework, he taps the back of his head against the wall behind him and glances up at it. Again, the knight's observation rings true. August has always taken the view for granted, but now he muses about what it must have been like to craft such an imposing fortification. Was it so detailed because of the craftsman's passion for his work? Or was it merely the result of a well-paying job?

His brow furrows in thought, though he's pulled back to the present at the sliver of history Sir Wolf presents him with. "I see," he murmurs, refraining from asking further when he notices the look in the knight's eye. There's a reluctance there, August thinks, and out of politeness he brushes off his curiosity.

It's worth it to see the way his face lights up at the mention of the pages. The sight is contagious, bringing a smile to the prince's lips with ease.

"I agree. They all have such a sense of adventure and wonder—it warms the heart to see." Rarely does he have the opportunity to interact with the younglings himself, but they make a pleasant spectacle on days like this when his body needs time to recoup and his mind begins to drift.

"I am certain that you will excel wherever you are assigned, Sir Wolf. I can tell you have a good heart, and moreover, that you are a good knight." The words are no simple flattery, merely the truth as far as August can see. As such, he gives it no room for discussion, rather deciding on that moment to try and push himself to his feet.

It's not an easy process, relying more upon the stone wall at his back than the strength in his legs, but he remains upright without much difficulty. His joints have stiffened considerably, but it's much more tolerable in comparison to the throbbing aches of earlier.

He gives Sir Wolf a smile tinged with victory, ignoring the faint tremble of exertion in fingertips still pressed to the shaded side of the castle wall. August can walk, which is all he needs in this moment. 'I can prove I'm not helpless, here and now.'

"Have you been shown the right wing of the castle, yet?" he asks, referring to the chambers where those of the royal family reside. August hardly expected the man to have been inside the right wing, but it would be more convenient if his spur-of-the-moment escort knew where he was escorting the prince to.

Still, a part of him almost hoped Wolfram would say he hadn't. If he enjoyed the decor in these parts of the castle, August surely wanted to see his face when he first laid eyes upon the hallways in the right wing.

Thinking back to the page who'd brought him the worm, Wolfram nodded his earnest agreement. "Ah, adventurous and wondorous, indeed. They will all make fine knights." He might have identified with the boy in his own youth, despite the penchant for bugs. Speaking of, Wolf made a deliberate choice not to place his hand in his satchel for the time being. He nearly shuddered again at the thought of it.

Prince Augustus' compliment stalled him, images of worms forgotten. For the subtlest of moments the edges of Wolfram's lips quirked down, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows. His eyes sparkled at the praise. The words were genuine—spoken as if simple fact—and there was an air of finality to them that truly touched his soul. He'd been commended for jobs well done before, of course, as all knights have, and yet this felt different. "Oh. Thank you."

Wolf quashed those emotions leaking from his masked expression in favor of a quick cough into his arm, then a keen eye on the prince as he stood. His hand itched to reach out and offer to help steady him, but it seemed Augustus wouldn't need it. He still watched intently, ready to assist if the moment came.

"I have been shown where the right wing is, Your Highness. And strictly instructed not to enter unless explicitly requested," he replied with a faintly amused huff of air. "The footman escorting me was very adament about it." The right wing. The thought of it piqued his interest more than he had any right to. Wolfram knew he would be allowed entry once he was assigned a prince to guard, for the assignment required it, but until then the entire wing was shrouded with forbidden whimsy. "Are you wishing to be on your way back to your quarters, my lord?"