Prince's Painter

The black cobblestones were slick with mud and rain, the sound of hurried clogs making a dim alongside the whirring wind. The streets were almost pitch black, mist surrounding the weak light of the lampposts and casting darkness in their place. Outside swung, with ferocity, the sign of the local public house, The Casket Inn, the skull painted on the wood slowly rotting away in a grotesque fashion.

Inside this public house, sat a boy, not yet a fully grown man at nineteen years old. The boy sat at the bar, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he scribbled ink into his diary. He ignored the roars of laughter from the men surrounding him. It was a Saturday night, and men were gulping down beer at ridiculous speeds.

The boy wasn’t much of a drinker; he only went to the pub to write. But it was getting late, so he threw the diary and pen into his satchel and lowered himself off the barstool.

He looked outside the pitch black window and sighed as he watched splatters of hail hit the pub window forcefully.

He had forgotten to bring an umbrella.

"Merde." He swore, and braced himself for the hammering skies above.

Holding his satchel under his coat, he stepped out onto the pavement and started to march toward the direction of his house. The rain fell heavily onto his dark brown hair and he flinched as the cold wet drops started to run down his back.

His footsteps got faster, and in his desire to return home quicker, the boy caught his ankle in the crack of the cobblestones.

He crumpled to the ground, his satchel flying.

His head smacked the ground and he saw black fuzzy dots dance in his eyes. Swearing, he got up to his knees and held his head in his hands, which rested on the concrete. He couldn’t lift it up very well and the pain started to swell as the rest of his body went numb. He wished for the world to stop swaying.

After a few moments, a gentle weight appeared on his shoulder, and the rain stopped pelting down on him.

A muffled voice asked nonsensical questions into his ears which were ringing from the shock of the impact. The boy held a weak finger up to silence the voice, and slowly the ringing stopped. His head was pounding, and the light from the lampposts were still boring down on him. The voice’s mumblings soon formed into words.

“Are you alright? Here, have my umbrella. You must be careful in weather like this, it can be dangerous.”

If the voice didn’t belong to another male, the boy would’ve thought that a mother of children had happened to stumble upon him in worry. The voice that trickled through his ears was full of genuine anxiety as though it wouldn’t know what to do if the young man had hurt himself.

The boy looked up, squinting, and realised that the man had been bending over him, holding an umbrella over his head. The stranger took out a hand, and the teenager reluctantly took it. He stood up and wobbled. A strong arm caught him. “Just look at you.” The man tutted, and he looked at his hand. His eyes widened.

“You’re bleeding. Is it your head? We must sort it.”

Still in a daze, the younger boy didn’t realise he was being led away from the street. He followed the stranger blindly, the pain in his head too distracting for him to think of anything else.

His memories were fuzzy, choppy, disordered...

And then the world went black.

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Claude found himself regaining consciousness, sleepily blinking the sleep from his eyes. His head was not as painful as before, but a dull ache had proceeded to swarm his skull. He touched his head and felt the familiar feeling of a bandage. It was dark, save a small lantern next to his bed, which protruded quite a bit more light than normal. The boy turned to face the ceiling and was met with a hanging chandelier above him, glinting in the candlelight.

Wait. I don’t own a chandelier.

The boy shot up, but his head screamed in pain. He groaned, and looked around the room slowly. His eyes tried adjusting to the dim room.

The bed he was in wasn’t his bed - it was a bed fit for a king, beautiful curtains hanging from the bed pillars and three pillows propped one atop another. The covers were a light baby blue, and the soft moonlight filtered in through multiple French windows. The chandelier clinked above him as a soft wind flowed through the room. He looked at the bedside table, and was startled to see that the lantern had turned into a bedside lamp.

Claude’s heart rate began to rise, with no memories of a few hours before.

Before he could speak, a voice appeared.

“Oh! He’s awake!”

Claude nearly jumped out of his skin, as he’d only just noticed he wasn’t the only one in the room. A man, seemingly a bit older than him, with golden wavy hair and sea-blue eyes glanced at him from across the floor. He clasped the book in his hands shut, and stood up from the wooden armchair in the corner of the room.

“How’s your head feeling?”

There was that honey-sweet voice. Claude started to remember now. This was the man’s house; he must’ve passed out and been brought here. This realisation didn’t help his anxiety.

“W-Who are you?” He asked, his brown eyes landing on the stranger.

The stranger raised his eyebrows. He avoided the question momentarily.

“Is that a bit of a French accent I hear?Mon Dieu!”The man chuckled. He sat down on the bed gingerly, allowing enough space between him and his guest. Proud, the man continued his conversation in almost fluent French, the hint of a British accent sounding bizarre to Claude’s ears.

“Ah, it’s been quite a while since I spoke French to someone, I must say. I’m afraid my accent might sound quite strange now.”

Claude found himself getting more fearful the longer this man didn’t tell him his name. He was alone, and unarmed in a random man’s house. He couldn’t escape if anything happened. Switching back to English, the stranger cleared his throat, holding out his hand.

“I’m Prince, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

In his fear, Claude didn’t hear correctly. His eyes widened.

“You’re a prince!?” He asked incredulously. Given the look of this bedroom, he wouldn’t be surprised if this was the house of the Royal Family. In his surprise, Claude went to jump out of bed and bow toward his superior.

“No!” The man flailed, trying to keep his guest in bed. “Prince is my name! A bit presumptuous I know...”

Claude stopped himself and looked at the man, who was smiling, flustered. He scratched his head and patted the bed.

“Please, make yourself at home. You must rest after that nasty fall... carrying you back here was no small task, now!”

The memories were still coming back, but Claude had not wondered how he got here. Now he realised Prince must’ve dragged him here after he blacked out from a concussion. Heat flushed through his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “You did not have to do such a thing. I am tremendously grateful.”

Hiding his surprise at the French boys advanced English, Prince waved his hand in the air in dismissal.

“No, no. It was the least I could do. Now, would you like some water?”

Regardless of the answer, the man stood up and strode toward a jug of water, decorated with ice and lemon.

Claude thought to himself,I must write this in my diary. What a peculiar situation.Then, he realised, he’d never picked up his satchel.

Fear gripped his heart. His hands started to rummage frantically around the bed, looking under the pillows and the covers near him. His hands glided smoothly around the bed as the diary was nowhere to be found.

Prince saw the boys’ anxiety as he poured water into the glass on the bedside table.

“Oh, yes. Excuse me, I picked up this.”

Prince ducked under the bed, putting the book down, and his long slender fingers wrapped around a familiar satchel strap. He dangled it almost teasingly in front of Claude. The boy gasped in relief.

“Idohope it is yours?” Prince asked, almost taunting him. There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes that Claude couldn’t quite make out.

“Y-yes... Please, hand it to me.”

Claude held out a shaking hand and the satchel was passed to him without hesitation. The boy clutched it close to him, feeling the outline of his diary which was still hidden in there.

If anyone read that... he’d be better off dead. Prince began to walk away.

“You must sleep, now. I shall see you in the morning. Sweet dreamset repose-toi bien, Claude.”

The door clicked shut behind Prince and the boy was left with his precious diary grasped closely to his heart.