Nearly a week passed without anything out of the ordinary happening. Each day was more or less the same. Quent would accompany the prince day and night, following him to meetings, councils, lessons, meals and receptions. The only moments he had some time to himself were whenever the prince was bathing, which he liked to do for quite a considerable amount of time. Quent would wait outside the bathhouse, which was always securely guarded, enjoying the peace of not having to do anything for a moment.

Whatever the prince did in those hours was his own business. He had a personal attendant to see after him. Quent practised a bit of his magic, making sure no one was watching. Myriam had taught him a couple of new spells and he was just starting to get the hang of them when the personal attendant came storming out.

Quent got to his feet with a speed he didn’t know he possessed. “What’s wrong?!”

“I’m done! I’m not going back! Forget it!” the man’s face was a reddish hue.

“What-?”

“That damned pervert! I’m stepping to the Archsorceress. She warned me, I should have known. That man can’t keep his dirty hands to himself. Well screw him, I’ve always been in favour of the Archsorceress anyway. Good luck.”

Quent quickly ran into the bathhouse, careful not to slip. He wasn’t planning on ending in a pool again. Frantically he searched for a sign of the prince. His panic had been needless. The man was sitting on the stairway leading down one of the warmer baths, a towel floating in the water next to him.

Usually, Quent wasn’t all that uncomfortable being around others who were naked. The bathhouse in the Citadel was a shared one after all. Yet there he knew everyone, this was different in a way. His eyes were pulled to look at certain parts by some strange force, rather than glancing over it automatically. He needed to put actual effort into not staring. Luckily, or not, the water was distorting his view and he managed to fix his gaze at an imagined point on the prince’s chest.

“Ah, mage. Good you came by. My servant seems to have left me in a frenzy.”

Quent thought back to what the attendant had said and how he had mentioned the Archsorceress. Did he have her special protection from the prince too? Or did she simply say that to anyone under the prince’s rule? And then the matter of “keeping his hands to himself.” A colour rose to Quent’s cheeks as he imagined all kinds of possible scenarios that could have transpired.

“Well what are you staring at? I can’t wash my back by myself.”

Was his majesty suggesting that he…?

By the looks of it, he was. Hastily Quent scurried over, not sure what to think of the situation. Part of him was telling him how ashamed he should be right now. The other part however… To make physical contact with Oweahen again, it had been on his mind ever since that day. What was worrying was the fact that he had even been longing for it. Him, who did not long. Contact. Touch. Even a slap would be good. He had caught himself almost making mistakes in an attempt to provoke the prince for a chance of corporeal contact. He had held himself together however. Composure was key to survival. He wasn’t going to risk his life for some odd new desire that had been awoken in him.

“Be careful not to fall into the water.” Oweahen joked as he followed Quent with his eyes.

“What product should I use my prince?”

Oweahen chuckled. “Pick one you like the smell of.”

Quent randomly grabbed a bottle that seemed to be appropriate for washing someone’s back. Honestly, he didn’t know what he was doing at all, yet he found himself being driven by something that allowed him not too think too much. A peculiar determination had taken over.

He stared at the back of the prince for a moment, who was waiting patiently. Quent walked over and kneeled down on the wet floor, just inches away from the step the prince was sitting on. He rubbed some of the ointment into his hands and smelled it. Patchouli.

For a second Quent’s hands lingered in the air, not sure how to proceed. He had never done this before.

“Well?”

The voice of the prince made him jump slightly, especially when he realised how close by it was. He quickly put his hands on the other’s back, palms against the well-shaped shoulder blades. The prince’s body was warm and Quent felt a strange fluttering around his heart. Following his instincts he just rubbed the oil onto the skin, drawing circles, rolling his knuckles. It was ridiculous.

“I didn’t know they taught you massage at the Citadel. Though I should have suspected it…” Oweahen huffed slightly.

“Uhm… I… I’m sorry… I don’t know what I am doing. If it isn’t to his majesty’s liking I can see if there is a regular bathhouse servant to-”

“Not necessary. Hmm.” The prince rolled his shoulders, leaning back into Quent’s touch.

Was the monarch actually enjoying this? The idea seemed impossible to Quent, but he decided to go on anyway, trying to put his thoughts on zero, just focussing on what the prince seemed to like.

He couldn’t help it however. Images were forming in his head. He felt something stir in his loins. What was this craziness? He had never been particularly aroused by any of these thoughts before, leave be in the presence of another. Yet this was…

“Did Taz say anything as he left?”

“Who?”

“Taz. My personal attendant. You must have encountered him, he was heading for the exit.”

“Oh,” Quent realised he had never really registered the name of Oweahen’s servant, even though they had been colleagues, working together for days. He had always just taken his presence for granted, like the prince did. What was he becoming?

“Well?”

“Oh, yes, uhm. He was clearly distraught and said he was going to see her Magnificence the Archsorceress.”

Oweahen bent over in laughter.

Quent sat back a bit, watching the prince as he put the lid back onto the bottle. “He was really upset.”

The prince turned around, looking at him with a faint smile on his face. Quent felt his heartbeat accelerating again and quickly stared at his hands.

“Do you question my actions?” The sudden gravity to the tone of the prince’s voice made Quent shiver.

“N-no my-”

Once again Oweahen burst out into laughter. “You’re so uptight, mage.”

“I’m sorry your majesty,” his heart was pounding like crazy. “I just don’t think non-consensual acts of touch are funny.”

Had he actually just said that? Had he just spoken up against the prince?

Oweahen was staring at him.

Now that the words had left Quent’s mouth he wished he could take them back, reverse it all in order to avoid whatever the consequences would be. On the other hand, a part inside him was burning with anger and a strange feeling of justness. Where at first his heart had been light, it was now heavy with outrage, being torn apart by guilt over actually having longed for the prince for a moment. He did not want to like this man, especially not in that way. He could not like a man who lacked morals. Who abused his power.

Oweahen was still staring at him, or rather, through him. The prince’s eyes were bigger than usual, his lips slightly parted, as if he wanted to say something but was suddenly interrupted.

Quickly Quent looked over his shoulder to see what the prince was staring at. He concentrated his powers in his hands, ready to blow away whatever was behind him. He didn’t know he could summon it so quickly but decided not to think on it as he prepared himself for the thing that had managed to frighten the prince so much.

There was nothing behind him.

Whatever Oweahen was seeing, it was not something of the present.

“Your majesty…?”

At the sound of his voice, Oweahen snapped back into reality. All traces of his shaken expression were gone within a split-second. “Really mage, you people ust don’t know when something is a joke.”

Oweahen got up, walking past Quent as if he wasn’t there. He grabbed a towel and started drying himself off. “Besides, Taz is not my type. Too boring. I don’t know what’s true about the Citadel rumours but I’m not like those mages. Sorry if something happened to you.”

Quent felt the urge to protest and tell Oweahen that it wasn’t like that at all, but then realised he shouldn’t have to justify himself to the man in the first place. Oweahen was dressing himself brusquely, his actual thoughts clearly still somewhere else.

For the first time, the silence between them was awkward.

“Get to your feet mage,” Oweahen broke the silence. “I have decrees to sign. If I don’t finish them before dinner you’re going to sign them for me with your best imitation of my signature until you drop. And I’m very immaculate. If they’re off, you’ll have to do it again.”

With those words the prince strode away, leaving Quent to hurry behind him, closing the doors on whatever had made his eyes widen with distress shut for now.