0Title: All His Yesterdays
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Scotty, Chekov, Sulu, others
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 18948
Summary: He’s a Prince of all the land. His royal court includes his most trusted friends. There is no war, no poverty, no famine. Yet James Kirk becomes increasingly convinced this perfect life is his cage. The only way to win his freedom is to fight the one who built the cage – and that is himself.
Prompt: I had no ideas for space_wrapped this year so I asked for some help and received it. The storyline is based upon several prompts because my fandom friends are awesome and each gave me a clue to a great story. Thanks y’all!
And special thanks goes to hora_tio for the un-ending support. Without her, I’d have given up on this story altogether!
Read here or at AO3
The prince returns to his palace very early in the morning, a bedraggled, limping figure in strange clothing. When the guards on the wall recognize him, they raise a shout. He is given over to the care of healing women but released soon after once it is discovered he has no wounds. A creature with a thin, grave face pinches his skin, stares into his eyes, and declares him sane. He is bathed, shorn, fed, and dressed to be presented to the members of a council who have ruled in his absence. They too stare into his eyes, but what they see there none will say. Instead they claim he is weakened from barely escaping death. If he has trouble remembering what befell him, it matters little.
At the start of the next day a golden circlet is placed upon his brow, and an exuberant cry is heard throughout:
The Prince has returned!
Long live Prince James!
From his balcony, James watches a body of men, all darkly dressed, march across the lower courtyard. They neither smile nor frown, and move tensely as though they expect an attack from any angle. These men, well-trained guards of different sorts and backgrounds, belong to him. He can trust in their skill to fight, and he can trust they are steadfast in their loyalty.
Or so he has been told.
Such words do not prevent him from wondering to whom that loyalty is bestowed: the crown or its wearer. And how could a man worthy of the crown only by birth accept he will never come to harm in their company?
He had voiced this opinion to a room of the no-longer-ruling councilors. The stone-faced men and women had looked as if it were foolish to question what was plainly fact. Then they had communicated with silent glances among themselves before speaking aloud to the tall, impassive creature standing at James’ side. To him they had said, somewhat portentously, “It is up to you now.”
Whatever the real discussion had been was over, the prince’s part in it quickly dismissed. The councilors had filed out of the large, drafty hall, leaving behind James and the creature—his steward, it seemed—to move at their own pace.
James has not seen them since. He understands he is to rule this place without their interference because he is the rightful heir. Again, this is a fact he must accept.
He fixes his gaze beyond the courtyard, sees the top of a tiny wagon passing through the outermost gate of the grounds. It rolls and bumps along a well-trodden path curving toward a long line of trees. The prince’s fingers press against the sun-warmed stone beneath them. As he studies the distant forest, his heart thuds more rapidly in his chest.
The pair of guards at the gate no longer track the progress of the wagon; their attention has turned to whatever follows it. James pictures himself walking down there to take the same road. Would they allow him to pass from the castle confines unchallenged?
He recalls the intense stare of his steward and thinks not. An unsettling thought has scraped at him minutely throughout the day, that he has become a prisoner in place of a prince. The outside of his chamber is always guarded; every door, stairway, passage is watched. It is no wonder he imagines escape, if he is to be treated as though he intends exactly that.
And who is to blame but that blasted pinch-faced—
“Sire.”
James silences his thoughts and turns from the picturesque view to smile, if somewhat falsely, at the very person he had been condemning in his head.
The dark-eyed steward is standing just beyond the archway to the balcony. He does not smile back.
“Yes?” inquires James, moving indoors.
“I was informed you had no attendant doing the morning ablutions. The error has been corrected.”
The steward moves aside as Jim passes him. Across the room is a slender, curly-haired man, standing as still as a mouse.
The steward beckons, “Pavel, come forward.”
Pavel bows low, nervousness apparent in the fidgeting of his hands. “Sire,” he greets the prince, voice high, so unusually accented that James is instantly curious to know where the young man is from.
“Pavel is your new manservant,” he is told, a declaration which is promptly followed by Pavel swearing in earnest, “I shall serve you to the best of my ability!”
Dismay dampens James’ curiosity. Even as he adopts the steward’s careful lack of expression, he protests, “The reason I had no help this morning is because I did not require any.”
“Sire,” comes the insistence, “it is proper.” Meaning, We expect this of you, and you cannot change it.
James flexes a fist and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he is calm enough to speak. “Very well. Pavel, welcome.”
He hesitates next, uncomfortable. Must he give an order? Looking around the too-large chamber proves futile in finding something for Pavel to do.
“The prince should be hungry,” suggests the steward, “since he has not eaten this day.”
“I vell fetch a meal,” responds Pavel, once again bowing low before scurrying from the chamber.
“Excellent,” James mutters to himself.
All necessary introductions accomplished, the steward starts for the door.
James has no intention of letting him win so easily. “It seems to me if a prince says no, his word should stand.”
The man studies James’ face a moment before lifting an eyebrow. “Yes, it would seem that way.”
“Then what makes me the exception?”
“If you are not the exception, then the exception does not exist.”
James opens his mouth, ready to argue, only to close it in confusion. “What?”
The steward looks upon him with something far from malice and akin to pity. “You do not understand. That is acceptable, for now.”
“Wait!” James calls before the other man can turn away. “If you won’t give me an explanation, the least you can do is let me loose from this cage to find my own.”
“Cage?”
James’ open-handed gesture encompasses the whole of the chamber. “Pretty and comfortable but still a cage. I cannot stand it a moment more—nor will I,” he adds grimly.
But the steward has heard him at last, the impassivity in his voice gone. “You labor under a misconception. You are not, and never shall be, kept against your will.” Here, the slight crease to his brow is the only sign he is troubled. “I assumed you wanted your solitude while you healed.”
“But the guards—”
“They are for your protection and to remind others that your privacy must be respected.”
Why does that sound like he would be inundated with visitors otherwise? Maybe he too, James concedes, has made some false assumptions.
He says, tentatively hopeful, “Then I shall leave my chambers and…” What, exactly? “Is there something I can do?”
“What is it that you wish to do?” For once, the steward sounds mildly interested.
James has no clue, because escaping beyond the gate doesn’t seem so important now that he realizes his cage is not only unlocked but the windows and doors are open too.
“Whatever it is that a prince does for his people,” he decides upon.
For some reason, the steward’s demeanor returns to his characteristic reserved silence.
James is disturbed. “What have I said wrong?”
“Nothing,” the prince is assured. “Although had you, the fault would not be yours to bear. You are, after all, the exception by which we live.” The steward straightens his spine infinitesimally and states, more formal than ever, “It is understandable you do not wish to remain idle. I will arrange a place for you in tomorrow’s council meeting.” He pauses. “You may review my notes beforehand if you are not familiar with the taxation laws concerning wool markets.”
Having extended that olive branch, he takes his leave.
Taxes? James coughs, dismayed. As he rubs distractedly at his collarbone, an idea forms.
On the morrow, there is an unfortunate tickle in his throat, succeeded by very dramatically delivered bout of illness. The new manservant is sent along to the steward bearing a message of regret that the prince is unable to attend any meeting. It was windy, he pens into his note, on that balcony the day prior, thereby causing him to take a chill in his weakened condition.
Pavel returns very quickly with the steward’s reply. “He says,” the young man quotes aloud, “it has always been most unfortunate that your rooms are the draftiest in the castle.” Pavel clears his throat. “…And that he hopes your excuses improve with time.”
James stares at Pavel from beneath heated bedcovers. “I do not like that man,” he declares.
Pavel smiles in return. James does not understand why.
The world does not cease to exist, up-end itself, or otherwise seem to forbid James from exploring the castle. In the most crowded areas, the great hall and kitchen, he is greeted like a host long absent by servants and nobles alike. Everyone acts pleased to see him, and more than a handful of times he is waylaid in his mission to map out and memorize the entirety of the grounds by people eager for conversation.
At midday, in the dining hall long wooden tables are laid out with simple but hearty fare. Finding he is suddenly ravenously hungry, James allows himself to be plied with every kind of dish within reach, including more than his fair share of rabbit stew. Once the main course is removed, he samples the desserts. In the midst of tasting his third honey cake, a shadow falls across the prince’s chair.
“The cook is pleased with your appetite. She wishes to know if you have any requests for the evening meal.”
James surveys the many platters across his table, gaze lingering on a nearly empty basket. He lifts the cake in his hand. “More of this!” Although nothing is said, James has the feeling he has amused the steward. “It’s delicious?” he adds.
“Very well.”
James thinks he should be offended by the man’s attitude. Strangely, he is not. “Do you make a habit of following me,” he asks, finishing off the honey cake, “or is everyone with whom I cross paths your spy?”
Without answering, the steward forces a cloth into the prince’s hand with the admonishment, “Do not lick your fingers in front of the court.”
James obliges him, but only because he feels it necessary to prove he is not entirely without manners. Groaning his way to his feet, he and the steward leave behind the dining table. James observes that as they transverse the hall in synchronized step, friendly faces no longer gravitate toward him. He remarks to his companion, “I believe you are frightening off my admirers.”
As if fate means to prove him wrong, a beautiful woman intercepts their path. She says the prince’s name and takes his face between her hands.
Startled, James stands very still while she searches his eyes.
Her hands slide to his shoulders. “We feared you would never return.”
“Oh,” he says, unthinking, and then, “Well, I have.”
She stares at James a while longer before releasing him to make a proper curtsy. “Yes, of course. Welcome home, Prince.” An edge lingers to her voice which James cannot interpret.
“My thanks, Lady…” He flushes. How embarrassing not to know this lovely woman’s name!
“Uhura,” she supplies.
Without warning he is struck by a pervading sense of nostalgia, made worse by the fact that it has no context. It may be that he sways on his feet. The steward unclasps his hands from behind his back, looking vaguely alarmed. The woman takes his hand and squeezes it in concern.
James draws in a steadying breath and decides that where memory fails, pretense must reign.
He executes a very grand and gentlemanly bow and kisses the back of Uhura’s hand. “My lady, such a pleasure to see you again!” After appraising the texture of her skin and the shape of her eyes, he grins. “I see you have fared well in my absence, which might I say greatly upsets me. I would think when a handsome prince of the realm goes missing, the women weep.”
She plucks her fingers from his quickly, but with a laugh. “Ever the charmer, Kirk—and much too bold where common sense urges one to be meek.”
Is her use of his surname deliberate or spoken out of habit? James wishes he knew. He catches her hand again and presses it with his own. “Tell me more about this folly of mine.”
She does not; her expression sobers. She looks to the silent man beside the prince as if for guidance, then gently extricates her hand from James’ grasp.
The lady turns to address the steward. “Will you be available tomorrow? I have a new piece lately acquired from the most wondrous bard and wish to try it.”
James has not the grace to accept rejection without a fight. “Never mind him. If it is music you speak of, I could assist you. I am talented with strings!”
Unexpectedly, Uhura bursts into laughter.
James blinks, and asks the steward, “Have I made a joke?”
“Unwittingly,” replies the man, tone dry. “I am afraid, sire, I must request that you touch no musical instrument in an attempt to prove this talent of yours.”
James straightens, offended. “I am certain I can play!”
“No,” the woman assures him, “you cannot.” She pats his shoulder, eyes sparkling. “Oh but, dearest James, the thought is much appreciated.” With a quick glance at his companion, she leans in to whisper loudly, “Barring music, if you are in need of entertainment, simply ask him for a game of chess. If you are refused, then ask me.”
Still smiling, she dips into another curtsy then glides away from them, the long braid of her hair swinging across her back.
“Huh,” says the prince, not longer quite so envious or peeved. He remarks to his companion, “I have a feeling I would gladly marry that woman, were her affections not devoted elsewhere.”
Rather than confirming the suspicion, the steward retreats several steps in the opposite direction before turning about to stare down James, who is left standing by himself. Almost immediately a flock of ladies and lordlings descend on him.
“Ack!” he cries, discovering extrication is impossible from so enthusiastic a crowd. “Whence did my steward go!”
“Oh, he left,” says a pretty young woman with flouncy curls and an even more flouncy, if dreary-colored, dress. “We were thinking,” she tells her liege, dimples abound, “of color.”
“Color?” James repeats, very much frightened by her effervescent tone.
“Yes, Prince!” She plucks at the sleeve of his tunic, then her dress. “All this drab black. I dare say it’s time for a change!”
Everyone nods or makes noises of assent.
Resigned to an earful, James says politely, “Tell me,” and the woman does.
“I feel exhausted!”
The prince’s manservant pauses while fussing with a blanket on the bed. “Sire?”
James splashes his face with the cold water from a small basin and looks at his reflection in a gilded mirror. “I’m tired, Pavel—but a good kind of tired.” He pauses. “Did you know I have no colorful clothes in my wardrobe?”
He had checked after being informed by several nobles that his mode of dress was no better than theirs.
“Of course not, sire,” Pavel says. “No one has worn a dye other than black or a trimming not in gold since you went away. The black symbolizes our grief. The gold symbolizes you.”
For a moment James is too astonished to speak. Faced with Pavel’s lack of guile, he manages at last, “But how long would you have worn it if I had never returned?”
“Forever,” the young man answers, voice serious.
James turns back to study his reflection more thoroughly and is disappointed to find the mirror holds no answers. There is no understanding such devotion, he concludes later as he slips into bed.
His manservant extinguishes every candle except one before quietly removing himself to the antechamber. Time passes at a slow crawl while James stares into the semi-darkness above his bed. He is still tired but too uneasy to sleep.
Near to dawn, the feeling fades and he dreams. In his dream, he is on a path away from the castle. The people at his back have tears on their faces. Ahead of him, alone, waits his steward.
When James passes by, the man asks, quite contrary to the lack of emotion on his face, “How do I not feel this?”
James cannot think of a proper answer no matter how far he walks.
The next two weeks fly by, the autumn days growing shorter and brisker as the season advances.
“This is nice,” compliments James, walking the length of a large room to study the intricate patterns inlaid across the floor. His soft brown boots meet with a dais at the very end, and he retraces his steps.
“The road will become impassable with the change of seasons,” says his steward, who waits for him in the middle of the room. “It is tradition to hold a celebration before the first snow, when those who travel here can do so safely.”
“And is there to be a celebration this year?”
“If you approve it.”
James turns to the man, surprised. “Amazing! I did not think you knew how to ask permission.”
The man’s mouth twitches. “Much falls within my purview which requires no approval other than my own, as your acting second. This—” His gaze sweeps across the floor. “—is not one of those details.”
The prince laughs, delighted. “Permission granted!”
“Good,” replies his companion at the same time a lady in a plain silk dress appears across the room. “I have taken the liberty of acquiring you a dance instructor.”
James stops laughing at this news. “I can dance,” he says, indignant. “Come here!” he calls out to the blond-haired woman, as though she were not already moving in his direction. “This person insults me! Let us prove my skill!” James clears his throat and tugs at his embroidered gold doublet. “Do I look all right?”
“I fail to see how your appearance has relevance.”
“With the approach of a beautiful woman, there is always relevance. Besides, you are as vain as I am.” He gestures at the man’s outfit. “Of all the dyes possible, you had to pick blue for your new tunic? It doesn’t seem your color.” Glancing at the woman’s dress, he adds, “Although I think blue must be popular these days.”
As the prince’s gaze transfers to her face, he stills. “Do I know her?”
“You do,” his steward says. “She attended you in the healing room upon your return.”
James steps forward and addresses the woman. “Forgive me the lapse, my lady… I do not recall your name.”
“Christine, Prince.” She curtsies briefly, tone light and any evidence of simpering absent. “We will practice your basse danse and minuet.”
“Not the waltz?”
“You are proficient at the waltz.” At his puzzled look, she adds kindly, “You have had dancing lessons with me before, sire. What the mind may forgot, the body often does not.”
She lifts her arms, taking the proper promenade stance. James steps into the embrace.
“Will there be no music?”
Christine smiles. “On the second or third lesson.” But she does begin to hum under her breath.
It is only later, as the dance instructor corrects the alignment of his shoulders for the tenth time, that James realizes his steward left the room while he was occupied.
“He believes in you,” the woman in James’ arms says softly, seeing the question in his eyes.
“Sometimes I wonder about that,” James murmurs, pulling her close to lay his cheek upon her hair. “…How it is that he can care for both castle and prince without tiring of it all.”
“Because he considers it his duty, not his chore.”
James quirks a corner of his mouth. “On the contrary, I have been told I am a great and onerous chore.”
But Christine does not laugh at the joke. She frowns, wanting to know, “Told by whom?”
James thinks to answer but discovers he cannot. “By whom, indeed?” he muses, his humor gone, and sweeps his dance partner into a jig he can perform admirably.
“Stop, stop!” she cries between laughs as they stomp madly across the floor.
James grins, secretly glad there will be no further questions. It is too difficult to explain, even to a sympathetic soul, how it feels to know something without remembering why.
He can ponder later, in privacy, who would have dared called a prince a chore.
The ring of metal on metal is a resonance left in his head from a particularly vivid dream, prompting James to visit the guard house one morning. Only briefly he has been out in the open since acclimating to the castle life, once through the gardens and once down in the stables to inspect the horses (who did not respond as skittishly to him as he did to them). But he has not been this far, nearly to the drawbridge. From where he stands now, he can see it. The prince has to look away.
Men are practicing their swordwork in the weapons yard. The first to notice James’ approach is a dark-haired fellow in leather and chain mail, who crosses the yard to meet him. He bows, the calm in his eyes startling.
“Sire,” the man greets, matter-of-fact, “I understand you do not remember me.” For a moment he looks like he might extend a hand in introduction, but instead dips his chin in deference. “I am Sulu.”
“Arms master and captain of the Royal Guard,” James adds readily, for he has been schooled in the various positions and titles held within his domain. “Sulu, well-met. I believe you were my personal guard at one time.”
“Sire,” says the guardsman, bowing again, sounding pleased. “I was.”
James skims the yard and the barracks beyond it, freely admitting the truth as he sees it. “It seems a gift to know that much. I have been told I may never recover my past.”
“Perhaps there was some part of it that is better forgotten.”
“It could be,” he says, “but not the entirety of it, I think.” He releases a breath and squares his shoulders, flicking a smile at the guardsman. “No more talk of what cannot be changed. What say we spar?”
Sulu lifts his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Is that wise?”
Ah, a challenge!
The prince declares, flexing his fingers inside his gloves, “It is entirely wise! Mind you, my grip may be a little weak from lack of practice—which happens to be no fault of my own. I only recently convinced my mother hen of a steward that I would not die from fresh air.”
Sulu breathes deeply, as if to taste the quality of the air himself. “It is chilly today, sire.” He smiles slightly. “But I am no mother hen.”
“Excellent!” exclaims the prince. He points to the barracks. “There is small armory inside, correct?”
Sulu nods. James has to wonder how long Sulu was his personal guard, for there is a deep sense of familiarity that accompanies them as they cross the yard together, side by side.
“The men?” he asks on a whim.
“Well enough,” responds the prince’s companion. “Restless, perhaps. The coming of winter always has an odd effect on the ranks, but while the practice grounds remain unfrozen, we will cope.”
James unthinkingly shudders. Hearing about winter causes his bones to ache. “I suppose if we had to fight…”
Sulu’s smile is thin but genuine. “No man in his right mind thinks of fighting this time of year, Captain.”
“Captain?” James stops walking.
The guardsman draws in a small breath and clears his throat, a hint of color rising up from beneath the neck line of his chain mail. “My apologies, sire,” he begins, “I forgot…”
James waves away the rest of the explanation. “Apology unnecessary. I know it was not so long ago that I captained the guard myself.”
He had been told that as part of a lesson but, just now, he knows it to be true.
The prince throws out an arm on instinct. His companion catches it, holds onto it, grounding them both.
“So I was your captain before I left.” James almost laughs and, straightening, pulls his arm away out of the guardsman’s grip. “And now here I stand, your prince. Is that not odd to you?”
“You are who you were trained to be since the day of your birth. There is nothing odd about it, sire.”
James shakes his head slightly. “Yet if I could give it up, I would.”
“Why?”
“For a purely selfish reason. My princedom and I do not suit.”
“You should not say that,” Sulu admonishes, frowning.
James drops a hand to the man’s shoulder. “You are right, of course. Forget my words—and please do not tell any of this to the steward. He has been trying his best to shape me into the legend I used to be or am foretold to be. Honestly, I am not quite certain which it is,” he finishes wryly.
Sulu argues, “I do not think you understand.”
But James has no desire to listen further. “I want you to know I have no regrets over your appointment, Sulu. You are a great captain.”
Resigned to the end of the discussion, Sulu makes a fist and places it over his heart. “You do me too much honor.”
In silence they continue to the armory.
Once inside the building, James admires the many and varied kinds of weaponry mounted on the walls. When he sees a rack of bows and arrows, he has the best of ideas.
Sulu intercepts him, saying, “Not those.”
Bows do not look particularly deadly to James. “Why not?”
“A sword would be better,” insists the guardsman.
James hears more than this in the man’s tone of voice and narrows his eyes. “I can handle a bow and arrow, Sulu.”
Something which is very like amusement crosses Sulu’s face. “It would be best not to tempt fate, sire.”
James’ eyes narrows a little more. He pushes past the man and outfits himself with the largest bow he can find. Then he stalks from the armory to the range. His very offensive friend follows, head shaking. James pretends not to notice the way the other people in the area abandon their swordplay upon seeing his approach; but rather than coming along to watch their prince’s glorious display of skill, they either raise shields or hurry to find shelter.
As it turns out, James does have a peculiar talent with bow and arrow. He can make his arrows go in the wildest directions without adjusting his aim.
“That isn’t a skill,” Sulu tells him later on, while they sip ale in the great hall.
“But I did almost hit that donkey,” James argues.
“And likely the beast will have his revenge on you when you least expect it.”
James considers that possibility. “True… He did look somewhat vengeful.”
Sulu lifts his mug. “A toast to the beast, then, who nearly avoided death at the hands of our great Prince James.”
James drinks to that. “Tomorrow I’ll try the sword.”
Sulu smiles. “You’ll be good with that, sire—and better still with a short blade.”
“A short blade,” echoes the prince, seeing no reason not to disbelieve his friend.
In his chamber mirror, James has watched his face change with the passing weeks. The hollows have flattened, the lines etched about his mouth disappeared; even the color of his eyes is clearer. His court does not lie when they compliment him, commenting that his recovery from misfortune has been remarkably swift.
Today, he feels, his face is a lie.
An early morning practice session with the dagger under Sulu’s tutelage had left him sweaty and wondering where the bones in his arms and legs had gone. He had bathed then fallen on his bed, intending to close his eyes only for a moment. He slept instead. Pavel had woken him when he began gasping for air like a drowning man. The dream which had terrified him so, although hardly remembered, has left him shaky.
James finds himself knocking on a door in a part of the castle he seldom frequents. A voice bides him enter from within.
The steward is at a table, quill in hand, looking up from a massive book. For the briefest moment, his eyes are full of numbers; then he lays the quill down and gives the prince his undivided attention.
James doesn’t know what he came to say until he says it: “I am in no mood for tonight’s celebration.”
Nothing changes in the steward’s expression. “Shall I cancel the affair?”
That would disappoint so many. “No, I suppose not.” James paces toward the table and back to the door. “But is it necessary that I attend?”
“You always have that option.”
The prince tangles his fingers in his hair. “Damn you, I wanted a yes or a no, Spock!” He stops short, says again, “Spock,” and twists around to stare at his steward.
Spock only tilts his head in his customary way, looking at James as if nothing is amiss. “Why would I give you a definitive answer when the choice is not mine?” He picks up his quill. “I will advise you, however, that a brief dance with Lady Marcus would appease her father, as well as the woman herself.”
James drags a high-backed chair to the table and sits down. “Never mind Marcus’ daughter.” He leans forward on his elbows. “How long have you known me?”
“Since before the original date of your coronation,” Spock answers readily. “One year and two months, to be exact.”
James frowns. “And before that, the place from whence you came—it is far away.” He can see it in his mind’s eye: somewhere the earth is not green or cold, instead a plain of fine dust where stars fall, burning white, into small red flame. The detail of his imagination startles him. “Have I been there?”
“I do not know.”
“But I’ve been somewhere,” the prince remarks glumly. “You also know nothing about that.”
Spock does not react to the accusation.
James sighs through his nose, and apologizes. “Forgive me. I woke feeling not like myself. I know you would not keep a secret from me.”
“There are no secrets here,” Spock assures him, “no threats or duplicity.”
“I could not be safer,” James guesses that Spock might say next.
“Precisely.” The man dips the nib of his quill into ink and scratches out a line in the book in front of him.
James accepts the dismissal wordlessly, replacing the chair by the wall and leaving the small study. If he lingers in the empty corridor against the closed door, thinking for all that he might be safe, he certainly is not happy, that is no one’s business but his own.
The dinner before the dancing is the most extravagant James has encountered yet. An array of shimmering silk and flashing jewels make a tapestry of color under the mellow gold light of a thousand candles. Expertly made centerpieces grace each table, a menagerie of animal shapes, some beasts James has seen, and some too fantastical to believe they exist. Halfway through the meal, Uhura and Spock move to a raised platform and provide music, the latter strumming a soft tune on his lyre which the former lends a sweet melody of words.
James’ heart aches.
One of the visiting noblemen stands, holding his wine glass aloft, and proposes a toast to the House of Kirk.
James stands as well and after the accolade honoring his royal ancestors adds, “A House is nothing without family. Though we may not share blood, we share a heart. To my Court!”
Everyone cheers at that.
As he sits down again, he hears somewhere farther along the table voices snide in their commentary, saying an entire court cannot replace an heir. If the great Prince James Tiberius Kirk does not find a bride soon, he’ll have to contend with war. And it wouldn’t be the first time, they whisper, that an arrogant man has been ousted from the throne because of his own folly.
His fingers clench around his goblet. He remembers some of Spock’s lessons in diplomacy and spends the rest of the meal picking and choosing carefully with whom to converse. No one calls him a careless ruler outright to his face. For that he is grateful; he knows there would be nothing diplomatic in his response to such an insult.
In time, the feasting is finished and they all move on to the ballroom. James makes certain to claim Lady Uhura’s first dance.
As they move through the courtly maneuvers, hand over hand, he compliments her. “Red is clearly the best color for you.”
She smiles, her lips a shade of ruby to match her dress. “And you, my Prince, who is covered in gold from head to toe nearly blinds me.”
James laughs. “It’s like looking into a sun,” he agrees cheerfully. “Blame it on my manservant. He swears gold is the color of command.”
The lady in his arms laughs and cuts her eyes slyly to the side. “What do you make of Spock’s attire?”
“Oh no,” groans the prince. “The person who convinced him he looks royal in blue should be murdered. Honestly, I preferred him in black.”
“Remind me to show you the traditional garb of his homeland.”
“Oh gods,” James says, “what is it? Yellow? Purple?”
“Easter egg.”
They both pause, look each other in the eyes, and burst out laughing.
Tears try to leak out of the prince’s eyes. “What is easter egg?” he asks while trying to calm his reaction.
“I have no idea,” his partner replies, and they keep dancing.
He could not spend all his time with Uhura, so he grudgingly hands her over to the next waiting lord and dances with other women whose company he enjoys. Then he dances with the less desirable partners, the last of which steps on his toes no less than three times and tries to tuck his face into her bosom.
He finally escapes upward, climbing stairs to the second-floor gallery where the music swells to bursting, and leans against a balustrade to watch the event below. The ballroom is alive with color, noise, and movement. Footmen dart in and out among the swells of people like bright fish, bearing wine or answering summons. At the very heart, men and women create elaborate patterns of blues, yellows and reds with their dancing.
He begins to relax. Everyone appears so happy. He wants to soak in that happiness for himself.
“Tired already?”
James looks aside. He had not heard the approach, but then soft slippers make hardly any sound on the floor when their owner walks lightly.
Carol Marcus is a vision in silver. The material of her gown is thin enough to sway and shimmer with the tiniest of movements.
“Lady of the moon,” he names her.
“Apropos,” she concedes, coming to stand beside him. “And shall I tell you what you are what?”
“Of course. What am I?”
“The man on the white steed.”
“A warrior,” he surmises.
“No,” Carol corrects, “not even a great king, simply a savior. That, perhaps, is the most important kind of man.”
James turns his gaze back to the ball, jesting, “I see no one who needs saving at the moment.”
Carol comes to stand beside him. “You wouldn’t,” she says, “when your people have already been saved.” Her hand rests on the railing besides his. “James…”
To turn to her now would be folly, when she is so close. From the corner of his eye, he can see the graceful slope of her neck, her collarbone, both unadorned.
A silence stretches between them until the woman sighs.
“Tomorrow,” she says, her fingers daring to trail across his. “I’ll be painting in the gardens. Come there.”
Offer delivered, she leaves.
The side casements overlook the gardens behind the castle. The prince’s hair has grown longer over the weeks, and now the wind is constantly pushing strands of it across his eyes. He will have to remember he needs it trimmed. Maybe his manservant is an expert at such things.
After much searching, he finds an unusual spot of white-gold among the landscape that is Lady Marcus and her attendants. She is indeed attempting to paint.
What would come of joining her there? It would please her father, surely, who thinks to marry her into a royal line. And with the way she touched him last night, the notion would please her too.
He wonders if the man he had been once would have thought well of the union, if not the dalliance itself. It is a question he should ask Spock, who he has lately concluded is the least inclined to lie to him of anyone he knows.
His attention is drawn from Carol to a narrow garden path leading down the back of the hill. It has an abrupt end at the forest and, unlike the road curving away from the castle’s front gate, he has never seen a soul upon it. If the prince squints, lifting a hand against the angle of the sun, he can almost make out the exact spot where the path tapers into the tree line.
Because he is looking, he sees the shadow moving independently of the trees. It is too large to be a hare, he thinks. A doe, more likely, traveling near the edge. Sometimes deer come out of the forest, none-the-wiser that the humans in the castle consider them game.
In the next moment, the shadow is gone. James makes up his mind to go down there and investigate. He has always been curious about the forest.
It does not occur to him until too late that Carol would have someone on the outlook for him, same as he had gone to the casements to look for her. He strides into the gardens at a good pace, disturbing a handful of birds. He is waylaid immediately by a young girl in a yellow dress. She curtsies somewhat clumsily in front of him and says, “I am to take you to the Lady Marcus.”
James opens and closes his mouth, all-at-once certain that he is caught between a rock and a hard place. A slight to Carol (such as rudely walking away) would jeopardize the alliance with her father. The only diplomatic way to make his disinterest known would have been to stay away from the gardens completely.
Why do these things not make sense to him beforehand?
He resigns himself to the fact that his steward will be cross with him.
Accepting his folly, James follows the girl. Carol awaits his approach, eyes shining, looking slightly breathless. Her hands, although they are demurely laced before her, suffer the occasional tremor.
James feels terrible. “I came to…” He trails off, taking in the other attentive women with Carol.
Carol turns to the oldest and says, “I believe I am done for the day.” Her hand indicates the nearby paints and canvas. “Would you please return these items to my room?”
“Milady,” the woman murmurs, “your father has ordered that someone remain with you at all times.”
“I shan’t tell my father,” Carol says, tone at once mischievous but firm. “If he asks, you have gone to fetch a cloak. I find it suddenly chilly.”
The attendant seems resigned to these orders. She herds the other girls from the gardens, instructing them to stay silent should someone ask after their lady. Carol watches them go then returns her attention to the prince.
“I am most pleased that you came, James.”
He cannot say he is here by mistake. He cannot say he forgot. There are so many words that will do him wrong—except for the truth.
“Lady Marcus,” he says in his most formal tone, “you honor me, truly, but I have no intentions of pursuing a marriage not based in love.”
Her smile falters, and some emotion, too fleeting to be identified, crosses her face. “Who is to say you could not come to love me? I honestly believe I will love you, and you would need never worry I would be unfaithful or un-devoted.”
“And if I were unfaithful to you?” he asks, curious, for it is a common enough occurrence among the high-born.
She lowers her gaze from his. “No woman agrees to marriage with a prince ignorant of her duty.”
James sighs softly through his nose. “Carol, I will be frank. I will not marry soon. Any courtship we began now would be a farce, and it would set your father to scheming.”
She looks at him, then. “My father already schemes.”
James dips his chin in acknowledgment of this truth. “As do many others. I and my court will handle it.”
Carol presents him with her profile. “I should have known you would not be amendable to a game, or a tryst for that matter. Everyone here speaks so highly of you. I thought…” She pauses. “Well, I thought to hold you to the same expectations I have had for every lord or high-ranking noble my father wishes me to pay attention to. I beg your forgiveness, Prince.”
“You have it,” he promises. Making a snap decision, James offers the woman his arm. “I had a mind to follow one of the paths in this garden. Would you care to walk it with me… as a friend?”
Carol’s eyes seem momentarily bright as she winds her arm through his; then she pulls back her shoulders, the hint of vulnerability gone. They soon find the path which he saw from high above.
“Oh,” his companion says when their destination becomes clear, “are we to go into the woods? Is it dangerous?”
“I have not then been there lately,” he replies, when in truth he has not been in the forest that he can remember. “But as I have lived here all my life, I am certain it is safe.”
They start down the hill. Though it is some distance away, he notices that the shadow at the tree line is back and quickens their pace.
“Do you miss them?” Carol asks suddenly, clutching tightly at the prince’s arm for balance. “The other places you have been?”
James stops, his boots skidding slightly on loose pebbles. “I hardly remember where I was.”
“Were you ill?”
“Delirious, mayhap. When I staggered to the gate, I did not know my own name.” Or so he is told.
Her eyes search his, as if looking for some lingering sign of the event. “That is troubling, sire.”
“I know,” he agrees and starts downward again, stopping every so often to survey what is ahead of them. “Now that I consider it, I must have had enough presence of mind to know where I was going.”
Carol begins to reply, but a voice calls out behind them, echoing her name. They turn back to look. One of Carol’s ladies-in-waiting stands at the top of the hill, trying to catch their attention. She seems desperate that they go no farther.
“It will be my father, having surmised we are not chaperoned,” Carol remarks knowingly. “For all that he loves power, he loves propriety more.”
“That seems ironic.”
Carol’s mouth twists. “Doesn’t it, though?”
James sighs, casting a last glance at the forest below. Then he escorts his companion back to the gardens and into the castle, where she is hurried away by nervous attendants. And before he can return to the hill, he too is accosted.
“I did nothing wrong,” James tells his steward.
Spock steers James toward a council room. “I will take care to assure Lord Marcus of that—if he allows me to speak with him between his household’s frantic packing and their soon-to-be departure.”
James suppresses an urge to fidget. “At least I didn’t start a war,” he offers, taking a seat in an elegantly carved chair before Spock shoves him into it.
“With Marcus,” replies the steward, “one can never tell. In the future, please refrain from providing him with an excuse.”
“Yes, sir!” James quips.
Spock looks at him oddly, then secures the attention of the other men in the room. “Our previous meeting identified a need to revisit the controls surrounding the storage and distribution of last year’s harvest during the winter months. Prince Kirk has agreed to lead the discussion.”
Everyone turns and looks expectantly at James.
James mutters, “Your punishments are very cruel and unusual, Spock.”
Spock folds his hands on the table, clearly not one to deny an accusation that is true.
Looking at him, James knows he has lost this battle and, with resignation, smiles most pathetically at the other people in the room. At the very least, they can pity him for his fate.
[ Next Part ]
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- All His Yesterdays (3/3) – from December 20, 2013
- All His Yesterdays (2/3) – from December 14, 2013
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2013] Update Post – from December 15, 2013
