for Dorian (makingmyway) - Prince Dorian /Palace Guard Orym AU

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym spends too much time watching the prince. In fairness, it is his job to do exactly that, but it's gone so far beyond just the act of guarding a young noble. Of course it has.

When he'd first been assigned to this position -- the personal guard to Prince Brontë, a promotion really, after he'd managed to be in the right place at the right time to thwart an unexpected assassination attempt against the King and Queen -- he hadn't known much about the younger Prince Wyvernwind, save what he could tell from afar -- that he was beautiful, fair-faced and strong-shouldered, that he always managed to look the part of dutiful and perfect prince.

As he got to know him though, he'd seen more. So much more.

The prince is genuinely kind, not only for show in public. He's gentle and soft spoken, surprisingly down to earth for a young royal who's been sheltered in his kingdom all his life. He's funny too, clever and quick-witted once opened up. It took some time, really, but they've both let their guards down around each other. Orym has to remind himself again and again that he's nothing more than bodyguard, here to keep the Prince safe. Not to keep him company.

But oh he likes his company, has come to look forward to hearing that musical laugh, come to treasure when he's managed to convince Brontë to play or sing for him. There's a warmth in his chest when the Prince confides in him, when he's given glimpses into those surprising insecurities, his hopes and dreams.

It's several months into spending day after day with the Prince that he realizes he's fallen for him. It's foolish. It's utterly foolish and it can never be anything. So he wraps those feelings away and pushes them down as deep as he can.

Today they're in the palace courtyards. The sun shines bright from a sky that is a perfect shade of blue interrupted only by a few white clouds. Orym is rolling his wrist to let his sword dip and then rise, the familiar heft and weight of the blade comfortable in his hand.]

You know, you're good with a blade. I've seen it. But I could probably teach you a few tricks, if you'd be interested.

Comments

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë is easily flustered at the best of times, honestly, but there’s something about Orym that gets him blushing a lot. He knows he needs to be more careful before someone notices it, but he can’t bring himself to care as much when Orym smiles at him like that.

With a nod, he heads with Orym towards the training grounds. The guards training are usually done in the morning, so aside from a couple of guards who are off duty and getting some extra practice, the grounds are most likely empty. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[In another world, where Brontë wasn't royalty, where this was just a day in the sun between someone who could be his friend rather than his lord, Orym thinks he would be brave enough to reach out and catch his fingers with the other man.

But that is not their world, so he keeps his hands to himself, letting Brontë lead the way, falling into step just behind him, just to his right. They're on the palace grounds, and threats should be minimal, but Orym does not take chances. Especially not with precious things. This Prince is a very precious thing.

Once they've made it to the training grounds, he waves at a few of the guards he knows.] Practice swords are in the back. There should be something wooden that'll have decent balance. Worst we can do is bruise each other with those.

[makingmyway]

[ In another world, Orym would be able to walk right beside him instead of slightly behind. What Brontë wouldn’t give to live in a world like that instead.

Brontë nods politely to the guards as they pass, hoping they don’t look suspicious here. Then with a nod to Orym, he heads around back to where the practice weapons are kept. He and Cyrus have their own training here on the grounds, though at separate times then when the guards are practicing, but he’s snuck around here to watch the guards train enough times to know how to get around.

Finding where the wooden swords are displayed, Brontë looks over the various pieces before choosing one that looks similar to the scimitar he uses. He picks it up carefully, weighing it in his hands before practicing with twisting it around.

Satisfied, he rests the wooden blade against his shoulder. ] I think this should work.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The halfling watches as Brontë chooses and tests out the sword. There's something about the way he holds the weapon that seems natural, as if he understands the way the weapon should feel in his hand. The prince had a natural grace to him that Orym had admired noticed, even more than the other Air Genasi that he'd known.]

Looks good to me.

[Orym nods and selects a practice sword for himself, giving it a similar roll of his wrist before making a few quick slashes through the air. That will do. He inclines his head back the way they came, where there's an open area out of the way where they should be able to spar without drawing too much attention to themselves.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë can’t help watching as Orym tests his own sword, seeing the way his muscles seemed to ripple beneath his skin. It was obvious that Orym was an expert in his field, even from before the halfling had become his guard, but there is something about getting to see it up close that has his heart racing.

With another nod, he walks with Orym to one of the practice areas, and takes a stance across the way from him. ]

So what’s first?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Defense.

[Orym nods to himself, walking past Brontë and settling into a readied stance of his own. Defense is the most important part, so far as Orym is concerned. You can't fight if you're dead, and a good enough defense will let you learn what your opponent is working with.]

Let's see what you've got to start with. I'll come at you, try to fend me off.

[He lets his head tilt to the side, setting his shield aside for the moment. He waits for Brontë to be ready before he is in motion, darting forward towards the prince, sword coming up in a short quick arc aimed towards the prince's off arm.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë nods, though can’t help feeling a little nervous now. Defense isn’t generally his strong suit.

But he still readies himself, and when Orym charges towards him he manages to parry the strike enough to move out of the way, getting a few steps of distance before taking a swing himself. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[It's a solid parry, and Orym is quick to praise with a light,] Good!

[But he also doesn't stop. His sword lifts to clash against the prince's, using the momentum to twist and bring his sword up at a lower angle, hoping to use Dorian's movement against him, aiming to come up beneath Dorian's blade this time.]

Moving is good. Make yourself a difficult target. But watch where your weight is balanced. The last thing you want is to get knocked off your feet.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë can’t help a small smile. It’s small praise for such a little thing, but it’s still a nice thing to hear from Orym.

He does his best to pay attention though, both to the halfling’s advice and his movement. He’s not fast enough to bring around his sword to block again, so instead he uses his cape, throwing it in the path of the sword to give him time to move as he tries to adjust his stance for another blow. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym laughs, delighted as the cape suddenly comes up. It catches him off-guard. Brontë is clever, resourceful. The halfling draws his sword back to prevent it getting tangled in the fabric, which slows him before his next slash.]

That was clever.

[He dances back to regroup, taking a moment to survey the prince.]

If we keep this up I might be risking my job security. [It's a playful comment, but there is some truth to it. Brontë is capable, more than he thinks anyone -- including his parents or himself -- even realize.]

[makingmyway]

[ The distraction gives him some time to put more space between them, letting him catch his breath. He watches Orym a moment, a small but curious smile on his lips. ]

I doubt I could take you if you were going full force. [ As much as he appreciates Orym’s encouragement, he knows the halfling is holding back. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Not yet, maybe. But I've got a a few years of practice on you.

[Orym has spent most of his life training with sword and shield and little else -- well, aside from a little druid magic that he'd picked up when he was young.]

Want me to dial it up a notch? [Because he'll happily throw himself a bit more into this to see what Brontë makes of is. This is, of course, not just an excuse to be close to the prince, to dance in and out of his personal space.

He'd never allow himself ulterior motives like that. Probably.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë considers this for a moment. Despite his training, he’s never really had much of a chance to use it. He’s never been in any kind of real fight, and with all the protection their family has there’s never been any need to use whatever skills he supposedly has.

So while he is sure that he would never be able to beat Orym, he would like to just see how good he actually is.

So eventually he nods, taking another stance. ] Yeah, all right. Let’s do it.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym's smile brightens at that. All right then. Another roll of his sword and he steps slowly to the side, circling Brontë, seeing how the prince tracks his movements.]

You've got it then.

[Another slow step and all at once he's in motion, quick on his feet, moving in one direction before feinting in another, a sharp swing of his sword up, straight for the prince's torso, meant to be blocked, to give him reason to raise his sword to that position.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë holds his position, even as Orym circles him, sword raised to be ready. When the halfling charges at him, he takes a step back, though is a bit caught off guard by the feint. He blocks the strike with the broad side of his sword, his free hand against the tip in order to put force as he pushes back, trying to throw Orym back. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Brontë has him beat in strength, but Orym knows this and fully intends to use that. He feels the push against him and does indeed move back, but instead of continuing, he turns that momentum into a turn, spinning quickly -- a move that is safer with a shield, but he's counting on his speed here -- and ducking low, sword coming up to catch the prince in his leg, intending to trip him up and knock him off his feet.]

[makingmyway]

[ Orym is definitely faster than him, and he yelps as the sword swipes his leg out from under him. He barely manages to catch himself, just enough to not get hurt when he hits the ground, and instead of pushing up right away he uses the momentum of the fall to roll and try and put some distance between them in order to recover. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Good. That's perfect.

[Putting distance between them is safer than trying to get to his feet immediately.

Orym doesn't let up though. He'd said he would give his all, after all. So he's in pursuit. His goal here is to catch Brontë still on the ground, see if he can pin him there. Because what could possibly go wrong with being on top of the prince you have a forbidden crush on? Nothing, that's what.]

[makingmyway]

[ While it helps trying to get some distance, Brontë is definitely at a disadvantage this low to the ground, just for the unfamiliarity of it. Still, as Orym comes towards him, he swings his sword out as though trying to also swipe his feet out from under him.

But at the same time he springs up, trying to catch Orym off guard and tackle into him. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym sees the swing coming and manages to leap over the blade, landing lightly, his own sword already in motion. What he doesn't expect is Brontë immediately coming for him with that tackle.

The halfling realizes his mistake in the next moment, but he doesn't have time to counter. Given the size difference and the prince's greater strength, he winds up fully caught by that charge.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë knows he doesn’t have time to act, so he’s quick to pin Orym to the ground, sitting on his legs and holding down his wrists. His hair and clothes are a bit disheveled, coated with dust from being on the ground, but he manages a grin even as he tries to catch his breath. ]

So…do I win?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Well, the tables have turned. This is pretty much what Orym had planned, but he was the one doing the pinning. The halfling is stubborn and gives one attempt to break Brontë's hold, arching up sharply off the ground, twisting, but not managing to dislodge that hold.

He collapses back with a breathless laugh, looking up at the disheveled prince and returning that grin.

It's right about then that he realizes the position they're in and he can feel his face flush as he looks up at Brontë. He doesn't exactly think he lost, given the view he currently has.]

I... yeah, I think you win. [And before his brain can think better of it,] But I don't really feel like I'm losing.

[Don't flirt with the prince. Don't flirt with the man that you're duty bound to protect.]

[makingmyway]

[ He grins, feeling triumphant. He figures it really is just luck that he managed to surprise the guard, but for now he’ll take what he can get.

Orym’s words have him blinking and it’s only about then that he realizes how compromising their position is. His heart skips, and a blush spreads across his cheeks as well.

In his mind, he knows that he could get off the halfling, to put some distance between them before he does something stupid. Instead his hands trail down Orym’s arms to circle around his wrists, his thumbs lightly stroking over his pulse. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The halfling expects the prince the move, to stand and brush himself off and for this moment to end.

Then he doesn't. Then he sees that blush on Brontë's face that mirrors his own. He could explain that away as exertion, could write it off, but then there's the way the other man's hands move, the brush of those thumbs along his wrist. Brontë will probably feel the way that Orym's pulse quickens, hear the way that his breath catches.]

Brontë?

[His voice is barely a whisper, more breath than sound. And he's called him by name. Brontë. Not 'Your Highness' or 'My Lord' or any of the titles he ought to use. He's always been so careful with those, has never allowed himself the familiarity, never crossed that line. Until now, until he's looking up into those impossibly blue eyes and apparently losing his mind.]

[makingmyway]

[ His breath catches softly at the sound of his name on Orym’s lips, without any title or formality. It’s such a little thing, those words that somehow put them such a distance apart, but the gap has been closed a bit suddenly, and he finds that he likes the way it sounds from him. ]

…say it again?