"Hey dad, who's that?"
Igneel follows the five-year-old's fixed gaze and pointing finger to a portrait hanging in the long hall. There are three people displayed, all sharing some of the same features, but his son is locked on the smallest in the painting. The huge frame is probably four times the boy's size, and his neck is craned at almost an unnatural angle just to see it. It must be quite uncomfortable, but he's still looking anyway, Igneel realizes with some humor.
Everything around the palace is grand and extravagant, but of course, that's only fitting for royalty. It's a lot for a kid who's only ever seen countryside before to take in. Being raised in a clearing in the middle of the forest, hidden away in a cottage, free to run around barefoot without a care in the world—he feels a bit remorseful, because all of that is about to change.
Natsu shifts uncomfortably in his new boots and tugs on his confining shirt collar. Igneel is sure that he's probably curling his toes under the leather. He presses a hand to his son's head, ruffles his wildly-colored hair, and smiles.
"That is the princess."
The girl in the frame is still a child, with sparkling eyes and a smile that isn't supposed to be there. Igneel knows this because he's had his own portrait painted before, and it's normal to keep a firm expression. She's different though, in her pretty blue dress. In fact, she almost always has a smile on her face. Perhaps the painter thought it wouldn't be right to portray her otherwise.
Igneel glances down at his son, whose brows are drawn together. There's a frown on his face as he studies the girl in the picture. Natsu huffs and crosses his arms.
"Princess, huh? Dragons are cooler."
He looks at the girl in the portrait and then back down at his indignant son and thinks, heaven help us all.
"That may be, but she is still the princess. And you, my son, will be her Lord Protector."
Yes, heaven help them all.
.
.
.
x
"Do I have to wear this?"
Natsu stress as he flails a hand in the general direction of the tie around his neck. He's eleven, honestly, not twenty. It's like one of those boa constrictors from her books, wrapping around his throat and crushing his windpipe. He'll never say it aloud because it sounds dumb, but he's extremely grateful they don't have those in Acalypha. Or in Fiore, period.
Lucy huffs and straightens the cursed piece of fabric around his neck. "Yes, you do. This is a gala and as my Lord Protector, I order you to look presentable. Also, I'll beat you up if you try to take it off."
Alright so, she may not be able to best him completely, but she would still be more than able to land a few less than pleasurably hits.
"But Lucy," he whines, dragging out the 'u' in her name, "it's strangling me! How am I supposed to protect you if I blackout and suffocate because I can't breathe!"
The princess turns on her heel, blonde curls tossing behind her. "Well then, at least you'll look nice when you die."
She purses her lips at the bouquet of white roses on her bureau and twines her gloved fingers together. She looks extra pretty tonight, in her sunny sky dress with capped sleeves and a frilly skirt that falls to her ankles. Cream-colored gloves and bouncy golden curls, all she's missing is her crown.
It's been six years, and although he's grown accustomed to wearing shoes on a daily basis, he does not appreciate being forced into a stifling black coat and starchy white shirt. Or a demonic necktie, of all things. He likes his pants loose and tucked into his boots, and waistcoats that don't smother him. At least he doesn't have to wear gloves, because that would just go over the line. The necktie is pushing it already. And all the food at the gala is sort of a consolation for the hours of dancing and socializing he's forced to endure.
