And in the spring of his twentieth year, the crown prince shall choose his bride, whom he shall marry in the fall of that same year. His bride must meet the following requirements: she must be of an age less than that of the prince; she must be of noble birth to parents in good standing with the kingdom; she must be well educated in matters of court etiquette and social behaviors; she must be of childbearing age. A spring festival shall be held, to be attended by all, and exclusively, the eligible ladies in the kingdom. After one month, during which time the prince shall become acquainted with all ladies attending the festival, he shall choose the lady whom he thinks is best equipped to serve the kingdom and himself.
~~~~
Charles sighed as he he set the ancient manuscript back into its carrier. He was not looking forward to the festival, and he was even less excited at the prospect of a hundred or so young women following and fawning over him every second of every day for a month. The heat in the luxuriously decorated carriage was beginning to become unbearable, and the overwhelming amount of velvet certainly was not helping the situation. He sighed a second time as he unbuttoned his suit, careful not to snag any strings or stain the fabric with his greasy fingers. Made by the best seamstresses and crafters in the royal city, the entire suit was made of a soft gold silk to bring out the flecks in his eyes, with accents of pink to match his lips. Charles had been reminded his entire life of just how handsome he was, with his dark, curly hair, brown and gold eyes, full lips, and strong cheek and jaw bones. Men tended to become very nervous and protective of their wives when near Charles, perhaps worried the women would notice how plain their husbands were when compared with this striking young man. Court women, who often had their own riches and estates, were notoriously treacherous when it came to swaying their affections towards the most attractive bidder. He, however, had never been very absorbed with appearances, and had rarely found any of the gorgeous women attending the royal balls and frequenting the halls of the castle very attractive, much less himself. He sighed yet again as he thought of everything that would take place over the next two fortnights, and especially what he would have to do on the final day. He just couldn't picture himself liking any of the upper class, often snooty, noble girls he would be forced to meet, and he most definitely did not enjoy the thought of marrying one of them. He had asked his father if there was anything that could be done, any way he could wait to find a wife, but his father had told him no in the form of a long, boring, rather annoying speech on the importance of customs, how old these rules were, how he and Charles' mother were very happy together, and the necessity of finding a suitable woman to give him many heirs. The last part bothered him especially. Charles did not enjoy the thought of raising children, or sex, or any part of the married life his parents were arranging for him. He would rather let his younger brother be king.
Augustus was the perfect prince; he was regal and handsome, with a slightly haughty attitude befitting of royalty. He was also unbothered by the long list of customs the royal family was expected to follow, although he may have thought they were outdated. However, even though he was only a year younger than Charles, he was the second born child, and therefore would never become king except in the event of his older brother's death. Several unentitled princes in the kingdom's history had murdered their older brothers for the crown, one had even been so desperate that he murdered all seven of his older siblings in order to secure his place as king, but Charles and Augustus had never held anything except love for each other. Though Augustus would have liked to be the next king, he did not blame Charles for having been born before him, and had accepted his place as a duke. Charles thought on how Augustus would have been excited at the thing which now filled his older brother's mind with dread, and Charles couldn't help but feel a bit of self pity. The unfairness of it all! He, the next king, was still bound by rules written two hundred years ago by the high priests, who were now turning to dust in their graves, simply because past kings had chosen to follow them. He decided that, when he became king, he would abolish all the old customs and create a new, much shorter list. Though he was still upset, the prospect of burning the old parchment he now had clasped between his hands helped to lift his spirits ever so slightly. He turned to gaze out of the window, watching as the kingdom, his kingdom, slid by. It was a beautiful place, and the rolling hills, forests, and abundance of sheep made him wish he had been born to a peasant family rather than royalty. He loved to watch the people go about their business, buying food, selling livestock, striking up conversations with friends they happened to pass in the street and inviting them to supper. He had even sneaked out of the castle several times, dressed in the plainest clothes he owned, in order to mingle and become familiar with the lives of his future subjects. He had worked in a forge for a day when he was sixteen, selling knives and tools and helping the blacksmith however he could by bringing cups of water and bowls of hot soup as he worked. The shaping of bricks of metal into ornate, beautiful objects had fascinated Charles, and he hoped to learn the craft one day, though it was extremely unlikely he would ever be able to. Royalty did not work, and they most certainly did not take up "commoner" jobs.
Charles groaned and turned from the window, choosing to bury his nose in one of the books he had brought with him in his satchel. They were most likely going to be his only way of surviving the entire ordeal over the next month. He had loved reading ever since he had learned how, and, with the entire royal library at his disposal, had read more books in his twenty years than most did in their entire lives. He'd read tales of romance, volumes of poetry, long essays on religion, histories of the kingdom and all its neighbors, and even stories of horror which kept him up half the night, worrying at every creak and gust of wind he heard. However, his favorite had always been books of adventure, with knights and dragons, pirates and mermaids, wizards and witches, unlikely heroes and challenging quests to save mankind. They allowed him to visit lands far away, meet new people and monsters, experience a life he would never know otherwise. He viewed his books as portals to other realms, and treated them with a reverence most saved for God. His father had never been pleased with Charles' favorite past time, and had tried to make him interested in other activities more befitting of a prince, including hunting, dog breeding, and especially sparring. Though Charles was an excellent swordsman, he had never enjoyed the sport; he would rather have read about battles in his books. His father had finally given up and left him to his solitude, focusing his teachings on Augustus, who took splendidly to every activity presented to him. Again Charles thought of how suited his brother was to taking the throne. He decided to change that rule as well: the next king would be chosen based on his capabilities to protect and care for the kingdom, not the order of his birth. Unfortunately, renouncing the throne was viewed as an act of high treason in the kingdom of Paetahl, and Charles rather enjoyed life despite all its difficulties.
Charles was jerked from his planning by the halting of the carriage, and looked out the window with terror upon realizing they had arrived at the festival. Sure enough, a massive group of girls was pushing and shoving against one another in the most refined way possible in order to be the first the prince laid eyes on. He had to choke down the overwhelming urge to sob into his hands, instead calmly packing away his book and stowing the manuscript in the carriage's compartment, though he honestly did not care if the thing were stolen. He fastened the buttons of his suit and slicked back his hair, attempting to secure the unruly strands as much as was possible in the humid air, which made them stand on end and curl in all directions. All that was left was to sit and wait for his coachman to open the door, upon which time the group of young women would surge forward upon the carriage in order to be the very first to secure an audience with the prince, for surely the first would be the one he chose to marry and make his queen. As Charles sat in resigned silence, he began to wonder what was taking so long. Surely his door should have been opened by now? However, he did not pay much mind to the question, as he was perfectly content to wait as long as possible. Maybe some of them will pass out from the heat and be taken back to their tents until they recover, he thought to himself, then perhaps the crowd will be lessened enough for me to escape suffocation. He didn't have high hopes though; most of the ladies had been here for the past week, some even a month, securing places near the small chateau the prince would be occupying - there he would entertain girls and the kitchen staff would prepare gourmet meals for the prince and whichever lucky woman he chose to join him for dinner each night. They had become accustomed to the heat during the time they had been there, plotting and scheming at how to best woo and win him. As he sat in a slowly growing pool of dread, the door separating him and his fate was suddenly swung open by the coachman and the tide of girls hoping to become queen swept forward.
"My apologies, your highness!" the elderly man panted, clutching the handle for support. "Some of them grabbed me-"
"You are forgiven!" Charles shrieked, sweeping his bag into his arms. "For God's sake, man! Get to the house before they attack you again!"
He scrambled out, no longer caring about his dignity, and all but ran for the door as the wave closed in behind him. He was interrupted in his grab for the handle by a blonde girl who could not have been more than fifteen years of age, and backed away from her in shock upon realizing his hand had landed directly on one of her breasts. She, however, was completely unfazed and rushed towards the retreating prince, chirping compliments and apologies for startling him, all the while batting her long eyelashes and shaping her words in ways that accentuated her rosy lips. Charles was soon set upon by another woman, though thankfully he did not come in contact with any part of this one's body. She used a more sexual form of flirtation, positioning her arms to push the tops of her breasts over the rim of her dark dress, as she trotted alongside the bewildered bachelor, who was desperately searching for another entrance into the building. This woman was suddenly yanked backwards by a third, a redhead with a triumphant grin on her face which she quickly replaced with a simpering mouth and fluttering eyelashes. More and more replaced each other, one young lady even tackled another to the ground in her dash for a chance to speak with the prince, but before they found a chance to corner him Charles was swinging a door shut in their faces, finally safe within the walls of the house.
He panted against the door frame, still not entirely sure as to what had just happened. His adrenaline had spiked, and running in the heat had increased his heart rate till it was two times faster than its normal rhythm. As he began to cool down, Charles took in his surroundings. The chateau was decorated in light colors, mostly cream and a gold close to that of his attire, and was filled with white velvet lounges, rose gold tables, and a large fireplace with a marble mantel and gold candlesticks. This must be the main room, Charles decided as he stepped away from the wall, finally calm enough to move around. He noticed a staircase to his left leading to the upper floor, and began to climb it in the hopes that his bedroom would be at the top. Sure enough, directly across from the landing a door was open, leading into a spacious room with a large bed in the middle. Still tired from his run, Charles walked to the grand four-poster, unbuttoning his suit jacket and laying it over a chair as he went, and threw himself down upon the soft, cool mattress. Soon he was overtaken by a deep, exhausted sleep.
~~~~
Charles was woken by the sound of running water some time later, and rolled onto his side in order to discover the origin of the noise. The bathroom door had been opened and steam was billowing out into the bedroom, scented with what must have been a lavender soap or oil. He slid his feet off of the bed and walked towards the scent, enjoying the way the warm air washed over him. Inside he found a young man, who appeared to be near eighteen years of age, readying the bath tub, should the prince wish to bathe upon his awakening. Charles watched as the boy gauged the temperature of the water and poured oils and soaps in as the tub neared fullness. Charles had never had his bath prepared by a man before and therefore was confused at the boy's presence, but he soon recalled yet another silly rule of the festival: because only ladies meeting the prerequisites of becoming queen could attend the event in hopes of winning the prince, no young or unmarried commoner women were allowed as members of the staff. Because tending to the prince took a great deal of time and work, it was not possible for many of these older married women to take jobs at the chateaux, because often a child was included as a part of married life. The boy turned off the faucets, placed a stack of fluffy white towels on a small table beside the tub, upon which there was also an assortment of soaps and sponges, and squealed upon turning to find Charles lounging against the door frame.
"Y-your majesty!" He stammered, bowing low to the floor, "I am deeply sorry for waking you. I hope you may find it in your heart to forgive me."
"No need to worry, I woke on my own. Thank you for preparing such a lovely bath for me, I am desperately in need of one after running from those girls earlier." Charles joked, smiling in an attempt to make the boy more comfortable in his presence. He had always found it much more pleasant to have a happy staff rather than a terrified one. "And please, call me Charles. 'Your majesty' is my father."
"Of course, your ma-I mean, Ch-Charles." The young man sputtered, obviously uncomfortable with addressing the crown prince by his first name. "Well, sir, if that is all, I shall leave you to your bath. Is there anything else you require?"
"No, this will do splendidly, thank you. Oh!" He turned as the boy halted in his rush towards the door. "May I ask your name?"
"Oh, umm...S-Sawyer. M-my name is Sawyer, sir." He replied. Charles did not know if he had ever worked for royalty or a noble before, but if he had, he had most certainly never been asked his name - most employers addressed their servants as "boy!" or "you, there!"
"Well, Sawyer, thank you once again. You have done a splendid job." Charles gave another of his dazzling grins, and a ghost of a smile crossed Sawyer's lips before it was replaced by a quick "thank you, sir" and he dashed away.
Charles found he had been sighing very often in the past few days, as yet another escaped his lips. He hated the fear instilled in all workers and the way they shirked from becoming friendly with their employers. He did his best to let his worries slip away as he undressed and lowered himself into the bathtub, a small bit of water sloshing over the sides. It was truly wonderful; the temperature was perfect, the scented oils weren't overpowering, and the soap was already relaxing his skin and washing the sweat away. He could not help but wonder just how many wealthy families Sawyer had worked for in his few years to secure this position, and to become so brilliant with baths.