You Won't Be Mine

[annarti.livejournal.com]

AUTHOR Annarti
DISCLAIMER All mine
NOTES First public writing of Prince Nolryn, wai =D I loved this so much when I wrote it. It does show a very angry Nol, though he has reason to be. Nimay's just turned down his proposal, yasee.

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He kept his head and shoulders bent as he walked into the tavern, shrugging the dusty red shirt into a more comfortable position. He sank himself into one of the roughly upholstered seats in a booth at the far corner and waited for a serving girl to pass by.

“Hurry up, woman,” he muttered, dark brown eyes glaring through his stringy black hair at the serving girl. A group of male patrons were evidently doing their best to flirt with her, and she was in turn playing a rather intriguing game of hard-to-get.

He’d never been to this pub before, or indeed any in the area. He was rarely seen in this particular corner of the city, and with good reason. It was not a safe place for nobles, least of all royalty, but now was one of the rare occasions that the prince of Raykin wished to submerse himself in anonymity. None of the pubs in the higher, safer ends of town would grant him any peace. After all, he wasn’t exactly known for his passive nature, least of all at any of the watering holes scattered around the city.

It was certainly not the kind of tavern he was used to. The floor was more dirt than it was sand, stained after countless spilt beers and bloody bar brawls. The bar bench itself had certainly never seen a cleaning rag in its life. The patrons all carried at least two daggers on their person, some concealed, others paraded proudly in their belts. All of them bore more scratches and dents than the blades of the King’s Own.

And then there was the smell. The taverns he usually frequented had the overpowering tang of alcohol wafting through the air, but this one reeked more of stale sweat and blood than anything else.

He sighed heavily and rested his forehead in his palms, bighting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling and clenching his eyes shut to keep them from filling with water. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He’d been rejected before, but never had he felt like this. It just wasn’t him. It was wrong. That single look would never fade from his memory.

“What’ll ye be having?”

About time… He shook his head and looked up at the serving girl. He decided that, as far as women went in this district, she wasn’t such a bad looking girl, but he really wasn’t in the mood for flirting right now. Maybe some other day.

“Strongest liquid you serve in the biggest tankard it’s served in.”

The girl’s bright eyes took on a slightly mischievous shine that made Nolryn feel a bit uncomfortable. “Drowning yer sorrows then?”

Nol folded his arms on the table and glared up at her through his hair. “What of it?” he demanded.

The serving girl feigned innocence. “Oh, nothing ‘tall, nothing ‘tall. Place like this thrives on gossip, ye must know.”

Nol narrowed his eyes slightly. He may be attempting to pass himself off as a member of the general public, but it would take some time to get used to the way such people were addressed. “Just fetch my beer,” he told her, doing his best to keep from clenching his teeth as he spoke.

“That I can do.” The serving girl flashed him a gappy grin, then winked candidly at him before winding her way back to the bar bench.

The prince stared quizzically after the brash woman, not quite knowing what to make of her. She flaunted her womanhood at every table she passed that was occupied by men, no matter how old or filthy they were. Not surprisingly, they all responded with vigour. When she finally reached the bar, she looked back at him and winked again, then turned to the various casks of beer lined up behind the bench. Evidently she saw him as some sort of a challenge, and wouldn’t let him rest until she won her prize.

“So much for anonymity,” he muttered, watching as the serving girl whispered into the barman’s ear.

She cast suggestive glances in Nol’s direction throughout her conversation, urging the grizzly man to follow her gaze. He obliged, a look of surprise on his face. Nol sent a provocative glare back at him across the tavern. The barman obediently turned away and grinned at the serving girl, who had just finished tapping Nol’s drink.

The prince pretended to be fascinated at the various shapes that had been engraved into the table by the daggers of other, equally depressed men who sought to drown their sorrows in alcohol. He was tempted to take out his own frustration on the table, but thought the better of it. The shining silver blade of his dagger would contrast sharply with the dull and rusted blades the other patrons held. It would attract attention.

A tankard of beer suddenly appeared on the table under his nose.

The serving girl looked down at him, the same mischievous grin on her face. She held one hand out to him and rested the other on her hip. “That’ll be one gold piece—” Nol half-raised an eyebrow. “—yer Highness.” She spoke the address with more than a hint of self-satisfaction.

The prince’s other eyebrow rose to join the first, and his eyes fixed impassively on the cocky eyes of the serving girl. He rearranged himself on the chair, leant back and folded his arms over his chest, then stared with deliberate disgust at the beer tankard that had been dumped in front of him. The dirty, cream coloured head took up a good third of the grime-smeared tankard, and specks of red dust were clearly visible in the foam.

He glanced incredulously up at the serving girl. “A gold piece,” he said flatly, more as a statement than a question. There was no point in trying to convince her that he was just another citizen of Ni-Yana. The look on her face told him that, even if he weren’t the kingdom’s crown prince, she wouldn’t have believed him, so instead he focussed on the other issue she had raised in her statement.

The serving girl nodded smugly. “Ye speak too proper to be from these parts,” she accused, still holding out her hand for payment. She was obviously proud of herself for figuring out his identity and planned to milk her discovery for all it was worth. “Ye’re too polished all over, including that dagger there in yer belt, and I recognised ye from whenever me sons drag me to watch yer King’s Own disappear up north.”

Nol blinked slowly up at her. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, returning to our original topic of conversation: a gold piece?”

The girl shrugged. “’Tis hardly the cost of a leg for yer good self.”

The prince glanced back at his beer. The weak bubbles that formed its head were diminishing. “And do your other patrons hand you a piece of gold for every tankard of this stuff you pour out? That is worth no more than a two copper pieces.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the aforementioned pieces of copper. “I’ve paid less for a drink at the Golden Thrai.”

With a great show of regret, he flicked the coins up so the serving girl could catch them, then reached out to take hold of his beer. “Now if it’s of your mind, I’d be much obliged if you’d allow me to return to wallowing in self pity.” He glanced back up at the girl, daring her to challenge him.

The girl’s eyes narrowed, but she clearly knew her place and walked off without further word.

Nol shrugged and turned his attention to the ale in his hand. He swilled it a few times to eradicate a few more bubbles so he could better reach the amber liquid hidden beneath them. It smelt all right, he decided. He’d just have to make a conscious effort not to bite down in the next few hours lest a grain of sand found its way between his teeth.

Finally he brought himself to take a wary sip of the pungent liquid, wincing and critically examining the contents of the tankard as he forced the beer down his throat. It wasn’t quite as bad as he had expected, but he had certainly tasted better.

“What’s the matter?” One of the men on the table opposite was laughing with his mate at the pained expression on the prince’s face. “Too strong for ye, Sonny?”

Nolryn swilled the tankard again to dispel more of the froth, then took another sip before shaking his head. “Nah,” he replied, taking the serving girl’s ‘advice’ about his manner of speaking. “Too weak.” He drank again from the tankard, staring disapprovingly at it as he swallowed then laying it back on the table and folding his arms. “How long do they leave this to ferment? They may as well serve me a glass of river water.” He gestured frivolously at the tankard, as though blaming it for making the ale taste bad.

“Ye knows yer beer,” the man praised him, rubbing thoughtfully at his stubble with a scarred hand.

Nol shrugged dismissively. “I’ve been around.”

“Is that so? I tells ye what, why don’t ye come over here and drink with me and me mate?” He grinned, showing more gaps in his mouth than teeth. “If the brew’s as bad as ye says, then mayhap we can improve your company at the least.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” the prince agreed. He pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed his beer, then slid in beside the pair. They didn’t appear to be all that much older than himself, maybe five years his senior, so he assumed everyone in this district called each other ‘Sonny’.

The man who had invited him over reached out to lay his right hand on Nol’s left shoulder. “Name’s Menan,” he said, “And that there’s Yenna.”

Nolryn extended his arm in the same gesture. “Ryn,” he said impulsively, hoping the men wouldn’t make the connection between that and his real name. Neither man said anything, so he figured he was safe.

He shoved his tankard towards Menan. “Take a swig of that,” he said, “How in Lin’s name is a man expected to drown his sorrows in that?”

Menan took up Nol’s tankard and threw a mouthful of it down his throat. His eyes bulged suddenly, and he broke into a fit of coughs. Yenna slammed him on the back until he regained his composure, but even then he spoke in a husky voice. “You say this is a weak drink?” he gasped, staring disbelievingly at the young man sitting opposite him.

Nol grinned as he leaned back in his chair. “What’s the matter, Sonny? Too strong for ye?”

The man shook his head in defeat, pushing the tankard back to the prince.

Nolryn took another few gulps, half-expecting the beer to have miraculously tripled in strength. He set the tankard back on the table and shook his head. “I still say I’ve drunk better.”

Menan whistled, obviously impressed. “Ye should try it,” he told his friend, “But be warned. Don’t let the lad’s aloofness fool ye.”

Much to Nolryn’s amusement, Yenna gave the same coughing display as Menan had. “The boy knows how to hold his liquor, I’ll give him that,” he said approvingly, handing Nol’s tankard back to him.

Nolryn quickly finished off his tankard, still not understanding what was so remarkable about the drink. He made a point of not drinking the last dregs of the tankard—there had been enough sand filtered through the rest of the drink without having to finish it with another mouthful—then waved the serving girl over.

A faint look of shock passed over her eyes as Nol handed his empty tankard back to her, but she quickly hid it.

“Will ye take another?” she asked him curtly.

Nol nodded, then thought of something. “Only if it doesn’t cost me a piece of gold. I stand that it’s worth no more than two coppers.”

The serving girl walked stiffly back to the bar to refill his tankard.

“Ye drink like a noble, boy!” Yenna complimented him.

The prince shrugged. “I’ve been around,” he said evasively.

“So ye’ve said,” Menan agreed.

The serving girl returned quickly, slopping the tankard onto the table and spilling half its contents. “Two coppers, yer Highness,” she demanded tersely.

Nol grinned and flicked another two coins into her open hand. “Better,” he said, slapping her on the behind as she left. The daggers she shot back at him could have almost rivalled Nimay’s.

Yenna and Menan were staring at him.

“What?” Nolryn asked, sipping cautiously at his new glass.

Menan was the one to break the silence. “Yer Highness?” His voice seemed almost an octave higher than it had been.

The prince laughed openly. “She’s convinced I’m the prince in disguise,” he told them with an amused shrug, “I figure I may as well humour the girl.”

Yenna grinned. “Ye’re a cruel man, Ryn.”

“Ye could best the prince,” Menan mused, “the way ye skulls that like river water.”

Nol raised his eyebrows. “That’s a high call,” he argued, “I’ve heard he took four full tankards of Liquid Sunset, the finest the Golden Thrai has to offer, and asked for more when he was done.” He took a gulp of his sand-littered beer, wishing instead that it could change into the glittering golden liquid he spoke of.

Menan and Yenna were grinning wryly at each other.

“Or so the prince says,” Yenna said, “Don’t ye be fooled by what that overstuffed rooster says, Sonny. The word of a man who’s taken that many tankards, from the Golden Thrai, no less, ain’t worth heeding.”

“Exactly,” Menan agreed, “A man should be stone cold after half a glass of that brew, from what I’ve heard. He was probably more than a tad tipsy when he made that claim, I’ll wager.”

Nolryn grinned ironically, revelling in the praise indirectly dished out to him.

“That Nimay character though,” Yenna continued, “Now she’s someone to contest with. Not even the prince has bested that woman.”

Nolryn’s eyes shot up, ready to defend his honour, but remembered who he was supposed to be—or rather, who he wasn’t. Instead, he stared back down into the tankard and watched the bubbles slowly pop and reveal the mixture of sand and beer beneath them. The conversation had taken a turn he had hoped it wouldn’t. He was suddenly reminded of the reason for his being here in the first place.

“Them two are together, aren’t they?” Menan was saying.

Yenna shrugged. “I dunno, are they?”

“What it is that I’m getting at is, mayhap he just lets her win. Ye knows what I mean, lady’s pride an’ all.”

Nolryn took another long drink from his tankard, hoping they would move onto a different topic.

“Ye could be right,” Yenna said reflectively, “but if them two’s together, then why’s the prince not asked for her? His hrai-dani happens in less than a moon, from my reckoning, and we’ve heard naught from the king.”

“That’s truth,” Menan agreed, “but I’ve heard he has asked for her, nigh on a week ago, only she’s yet to give him a reply.”

Yenna snorted. “How many women wait that long to give an answer? My reckoning is that she gave him a no, only the king doesn’t want us to know.”

Menan rubbed thoughtfully at his stubble. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it? It’s not often a sensible woman turns our prince down.”

“He’s too cocky for his own good, that prince. One woman turns him down and he hides away in his palace, far from us common folk as he can be.”

“Aye,” Menan agreed, “My reckoning is that the longer King Mithé lives, the better. Can ye imagine that cocky young bastard as king?”

The two men broke into raucous laughter.

Nolryn drained his tankard and slammed it down with such force that it shattered into three large pieces. “Blood of the goddesses,” he swore darkly, “My reckoning, is that neither of you have the slightest idea about the words you speak.”

He abruptly shoved the broken glass towards his drinking partners, stood and stormed out of the tavern, ignoring the strange looks he received from the patrons as a result of his outburst.

So that was what the rest of Ni-Yana, and for all he knew, the whole of Raykin thought of him. He was nothing more than a cocky young bastard who was only good for drinking. He’d been lectured numerous times by his father on his inability to rule. He hardly needed confirmation from a pair of peasants.

“High and holy blood of the goddesses,” he swore again, “Aiea-damned peasants. Where’s my Aeia-damned Liquid Sunset when I need it?” He stared down the rough, dusty excuse for a street to where the palace loomed, then shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself to ward off the moonlight chill. It would take hours to reach the palace.

“Hey Ryn!”

Nolryn shook his head. They knew who he was now, they had no right to call him by name anymore.

“Ryn, ye all right?”

Nol couldn’t be sure who had spoken. It didn’t matter anyway, they were just peasants.

“Aeia-damned peasants,” he muttered again, not caring whether or not they heard him.

“Say that again?”

“I’m sure you realise that it’s customary to refer to the crown prince as ‘your Highness’,” Nol muttered.

One of the men suddenly stepped in front of him, forcing the prince to look up into his face. He hadn’t realised how tall Menan was when he was sitting at the table. He was quite an imposing figure, for a peasant.

“So it’s truth?” Menan’s voice was half questioning, half demanding. “What them are saying in the tavern? Are ye truly the prince?”

“No,” Nolryn snorted, “I’m nothing more than a cocky young bastard, or an overstuffed rooster, take your pick. Now if it’s not of your mind, I’m going to hide away in my palace, as far away from Aeia-damned peasants as is humanly possible, and then I plan on drowning myself in a tankard or five or Liquid Sunset.” He pushed past Menan’s silhouetted form.

He had barely gone a few steps before Yenna blocked his path. He was shorter than Menan, but he was still tall enough that Nolryn had to look up at him.

An exasperated sigh escaped the prince’s lips. “What do you want?”

“Can’t say I much take to the way ye’re talking about us.”

“Likewise,” the prince muttered, making to push past the peasant, but Yenna grabbed at his wrist.

Within a heartbeat, Nolryn had his dagger blade up against Yenna’s throat. His wrist was instantly freed as Yenna backed away, but he didn’t lower the dagger. The shining blade glinted menacingly in the moonlight.

“At least some sense resides in your head,” Nolryn complimented him, but no sooner had he finished than the two men stood before him, each brandishing a blunt and dented dagger. The prince raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I stand corrected,” he said, brandishing his own dagger.

“Does ye truly wish to pit yer single dagger against two?” Yenna challenged.

“Only if you’re willing to vie your abilities with the skills of the King’s Own.” He spun the dagger hilt around one finger to demonstrate.

The men were visibly edgy. Their two to one odds already seemed considerably less of an advantage. But, true to the reputation of the people living in the district, they refused to back down. Once a challenge was issued, the embarrassment of withdrawing far outweighed the shame of losing. Nervously, they edged towards the prince.

Nolryn sighed heavily. “Typical peasants,” he mumbled. He darted instantly towards Menan, locking his dagger with his adversary’s while simultaneously kicking out at Yenna’s gut. The two daggers clashed in the moonlight, but while Menan was obviously aiming for Nolryn’s flesh, Nolryn aimed to disarm the peasant.

After five, maybe six advances, the prince’s hilt locked firmly with that of his opponent, leaving him free to flick the dagger from Menan’s hand. Menan cried out in pain and hugged his bleeding hand to his chest.

Nolryn grabbed the hilt of the spinning dagger and spun around to meet Yenna, who had just gotten to his feet and was poised for battle. Nolryn could see instantly that he was prepared more for defence than attack. He circled the peasant quietly, making certain that Menan wouldn’t be able to evade his line of sight.

“Come on, Sonny,” the prince taunted, spinning both daggers threateningly in his grip, “prove to me that royalty knows nothing of the combat of peasants. Show me that military training has taught me nothing of true engagement.”

Yenna snarled and lunged clumsily towards the prince, his dagger flying in a manner that appeared quite threatening, but was nevertheless quite ineffective. Nol crossed both his blades and lashed out at the one lumbering towards him, flinging it easily from Yenna’s grip and catching it in his right hand.

Calmly, keeping both disheartened men in his sights, he sheathed his own dagger and held the two he had just gained possession of in a way that wasn’t threatening, but didn’t let the men forget they were there. Without uttering a word, he leant back against a wall and crossed his ankles, raising his eyebrows to silently question the peasants.

It was another technique he’d picked up from Nimay. For someone who never spoke a word, she had an uncanny ability to give a man the silent treatment and extract any shred of information she wanted.

“Will ye be willing to listen,” Menan finally asked, still nursing his cut hand, “or will ye sooner split our throats?”

Nol made an indelicate noise. “Please,” he scoffed, “I’ve hardly made that kind of a reputation for myself.” He frowned slightly as an afterthought came to him. “Have I?”

Menan exchanged a wary glance with his friend, silently begging for him to be the one to answer.

Their silence was answer enough. “Blood of the goddesses,” he swore, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Not only am I a cocky young bastard and a puffed up rooster whose only virtue is that he can hold his liquor, but I can add cold-blooded killer to the list now, too. Well, that just improves my day tenfold.”

Yenna cleared his throat. “To be perfectly honest with ye, Ryn—Highness,” he corrected at the prince’s glare, “There are rumours.”

Nolryn lifted the pair of daggers to the moonlight to determine whom each of them belonged to, then tossed them negligently onto the dusty street in front of the two men. “Rest assured that it was never my intention to take your lives. Perhaps you might like to take it upon yourselves to spread that rumour.”

“If it’s not too bold of me to say, Highness,” Menan said carefully, “What we was saying in the pub? That weren’t us talking, ‘twas the brew.”

Nol folded his arms, and his eyebrows arched over his half-lidded eyes. “I don’t suppose that might be the brew talking now, would it?” He pushed himself away from the wall. “I’m going home,” he said, recommencing his interrupted course. He kept his ears open for signs of the peasants following him, but they made no advance.

“I’m not ready to be a queen. We’re just friends, Nol, nothing more.”

That was what she had told him. Not in words, of course, but Nolryn had known her long enough to know what she was saying. He had also known her long enough to know there was far more behind those unspoken words.

A black-clad shadow passed overhead, wide black wings barely moving on the beeline journey to the palace.

Nolryn stood silently as he watched Nimay float away from him, then shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at the dusty street in frustration.

“You can’t honestly think the way they do,” he asked the dust desperately, “can you?”