Eighth Crown

The sun is already long set and gone when the carriage finally goes through the high gates of the castle, both Hyukjae and his private tutor onboard, and stops close to the staircase leading up to the principal doors. The dark night feels a little too cool on his exposed skin when the younger man steps out, and he distractedly tightens his robes around him as a faint shiver takes him. Kangin soon reaches his sides, sparing him a short, unreadable glance, before they both climb up the stairs in complete silence.

The chateau is warm and welcoming when the two men walk inside; there are candles lit up almost everywhere, roses put into pretty vases in the corridors, and the soft tune of an old classic is playing in the background – his mother’s favorite, Hyukjae knows –, while delicious smells of simmering stews float around. But they don’t waste even a moment to revel in it all – although he fervently wishes he could, and immediately head towards one of the farthest studies of the ground floor.

“Well,” Kangin deadpans with a monotonous tone and a raised eyebrow, as soon as he has closed the door behind them. Folding his arms over his chest, he sternly eyes Hyukjae, who has the clever decency to look away. “Well, this was a complete disaster.”

The other winces silently, before he slumps into the nearest seat and starts nibbling sheepishly onto his lower lip. He briefly opens his mouth, in a vague attempt at defending himself, which promptly fails when his tutor sends him one of his most dangerous glares – and then quickly closes it again the moment he realizes it is probably useless to even try.

This day has been a complete disaster, after all. There is no use in denying it.

A long, weary sigh slips through his mouth, before he dramatically drops his head down into his open hands, albeit childishly wishing he could let his forehead hit the table in front of him instead. He thankfully restrains himself on time, however; first, because it wouldn’t be right and appropriate for a Noble Son of Solemnée to do – Bull, he wants to retort –, and second, because he still wants to look handsome for Donghae.

Ah, he muses – all the things he would do for that man, really.

“I am sorry,” he repeats, yet once again. The whole ride back home had been torture; his tutor never stopped glaring at him, seated too stiffly in front of him and lips pressed tight as he tried to apologize over and over again. It wasn’t quite conclusive, obviously.

“I really am,” he continues sincerely. “Trust me, I don’t particularly enjoy looking as stupid as I was today; especially when in company of –… in company of His Royal Highness.” A small grimace twists both his features and his tight insides at the embarrassing recollection, until another deep sigh rumbling from the back of his throat steals all his strength away. He slumps lower into his seat, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. “But, Hyung, you have to admit it wasn’t entirely my fault. You never taught me those kind of arts.”

“It was still a disaster.” Kangin narrows his eyes at him, looking so exasperated the other feels almost proud of it. “I’ve never felt that much embarrassed because of you in my whole life. And – believe me – you did a fair lot of embarrassing things until today.”

Hyukjae lets out a moody sniff, then pouts a little as he defiantly looks up at his private tutor. “Stop nagging me so much, old man,” he almost whines, exaggeratingly jutting his lower lip out. “At least I got some of the arts in the gallery right! That Joys of Winter painting, and the Angels in Cataract one! It wasn’t that bad, right, Hyung?”

A half-derisive, half-offended scoff is his immediate answer. “Do not think for even one second that I didn’t see His Royal Highness the Crown Prince whispering all the right answers to you, young brat. You’re incredibly lucky none of the courtiers didn’t notice anything.” He pauses, then tightly grits out, “And it’s Angels in Catarh, you absolute idiot.”

“Yes, well,” Hyukjae grumbles a bit dejectedly, a bit stubbornly. He remembers the encouraging smile Donghae sent him earlier, back when they had been wandering around the Gallery of Arts of the Royal Palace, and the urgent whispers of unfamiliar names he discreetly uttered out to him whenever he had the chance, and the beautiful smile that always lit up his whole face whenever he quietly thanked him. He remembers the way he absentmindedly played with his small silver charm, the one that is still safely hidden underneath his collar. He remembers his borderline perfection, and realizes he enjoys it all – even the flaws. “If even my own Sweetheart wasn’t going to help me, then who would have?”

For once, Kangin does seem to agree with him.

*

Donghae shudders uncomfortably as he stares up at his private tutor with his most pleading look, round brown eyes shining so bright it could have blinded unfortunate souls. His thin fingers are nervously fiddling with the fish charm that is resting beneath the collar of his heavy robes, tracing and retracing its small shape, until he starts worrying it might damage the precious silver. He lets go of it – reluctantly, grudgingly, and curls his hands into tight fists instead.

“But I cannot do that, Leeteuk hyung,” he utters weakly, biting hard onto his lower lip. “I just cannot. What sort of cruel Sweetheart would I be if I personally chose the knight that will have to fight the one that is Courting me? Hyuk—Sir Eunhyuk would hate me if he ever knew.”

“A proper one, Your Royal Highness,” the older man retorts, though not unkindly. “You would appear as a proper Sweetheart. It is, after all, clearly stated as the next Favor in the Courting – all Sweethearts in the country when through this, Donghae, not only you. Sir Eunhyuk would gladly understand, I am sure.”

“But,” the Crown Prince tries to insist again, indignantly straightening up in his seat.

In front of him, the three best knights of the Solemnéean army are neatly lined up a few meters away from him, diligently waiting for his orders. Their face are almost entirely covered by the helmet of their armor, as to let him choose in complete ignorance of their names and status. And he loathes the mere sight of it – he hates the constant reminder that soldiers and wars and death are always present in the country, even as of that day.

“They all seem so strong,” he mumbles.

Leeteuk softly bows his head down, taking his horrified tone as a personal compliment. “They are the best knights of the country, Your Royal Highness. I personally chose those three.”

“But what if they kill him?”

The older man gives him a reassuring smile, glancing at the three knights with a proud look. “They certainly won’t,” he promises him confidently. “T