Writer Games: Royals

TASK ONE: Male Entries

ARIAN LANCASTER

The boy next to me looks in no rush to leave, and I can't say that I mind. It's nice to feel strong arms around me and a solid abdomen pressed against my back for once. While it's not a secret that some of the less fortunate Sixes and Sevens hire out their... services..., a lot less people know that the men get at least as much business from those who had their rights denied - money buys silence, after all. And in places where such activities are frowned upon as they are, silence is key.

But Oliver doesn't mind. He's a pretty boy - tall, well-built (yet not disgustingly muscular) frame, with pretty, innocent eyes and fiery red hair - and pretty boys get lots of customers. And from what I hear, he pleases them all. He's done it well tonight, anyway, so I've no reason to doubt this statement.

"Arian..."

"Shut up," I hiss. The screen flickers on; I have to pay attention now. The prince and princess await on a staircase, looking as regal as ever, though Prince Calix easily outshines his sister. Tall. Blonde. Well-muscled. More than once, I've dreamed that he'd have some hidden penchant I could use, but at this moment it's obvious my dreams are nothing more than that. He looks so eager to meet all the pretty girls he can choose from - and I'm not one of them.

"Gorgeous."

"Who, your wife-to-be?" Asks Oliver, a teasing smile covering his face. I simply glare at him. Though Father wanted me to watch the announcement with the family, I told him I'd sacrificed enough, that I was going to a friends', and stormed out. Doubtlessly he knows where I am now, but it doesn't matter to him; he's getting what he wants.

Sierra Valentine appears on the television, looking as radiant as ever. "Now, ladies and gents in the provinces, the moment you've been waiting for: the names of the lucky twenty-eight sons and daughters of Illéa who will be battling for the love of our beautiful princess and prince."

Sierra beams at the screen as the first male frame appears. His shadow is the only thing we can see, though Sierra announces that he's a Two from Clermont - presumably, she's trying to build tension. It seems to be working on the crowd, though I couldn't care less.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our first son of Illéa is Arian Lancaster!"

And then I start to cry.

When I say cry, I don't mean pretty little happy tears because I'm excited. No, I mean ugly, violent, wet sobs that shake me and make me feel sick because I don't want this. Out of all the men in Illéa, I must be one of the only ones who don't want this and I'm being forced to take it. If I could, I'd set fire to the grasses of Illéa and laugh as I watched this miserable world - this world that's made me suffer and ostracized and hated and has now made my very identity impossible - burn.

"Arian? Are you alright?"

"Of course not. Now hurry up and do your job while I can still enjoy it."

~~~

DEMITRIUS PELEI

Five months before my nineteenth birthday my father decided I was lonely because the only person I talked to was my pet cat. No wait, that's not entirely true. I talked to my mother and Kai, and the twins, but other than that I never really talked to anyone. In my mind, though, those people were the only people that were absolutely necisery to talk to. The people here aren't exactly 'talkable.' All they talked about is fishing.

Don't get me wrong, fishing is an excellent topic to talk about, but that statement is only true to eighty-year-olds who have been fishing for a long time. For us young people in Angeles fishing wasn't the prime thing to talk about. That's why I didn't neciscerly like going to the beach near the house, because every five minutes some old geezer came up and stared discussing fishing rod material with me thinking I would happily jump into the conversation (all I did was nod my head and smile.)