Preparing to meet with Maron’s suitors was nothing new. As the heir to the throne, he was valuable politically, and being one of the prettier royals in the family certainly didn’t hurt. There was plenty of interest, both for strategic and selfish reasons. Some attempted to begin their courtship attempt with romance, declaring affection and desire. Some used reason, assuring the man that they were a good fit logistically; they had power, their kingdom was wealthy, they would surely be able to carry a perfect heir. Regardless of the route they chose, Maron always went about it the same way. He was polite, displayed a reasonable amount of interest, asked appropriate questions, ensured that the visiting nobles and royalty had a pleasant hour with him, and then, when all was said and done, asked Finneas to draft a rejection letter on his behalf.

It had been a running joke within the palace walls for quite some time that the man would never find a partner. Servants, when they believed him and Finneas to both be out of earshot, or when they were too caught up with their chatter to mind if anyone heard, often muttered about it being a waste of time to even attempt courting him. Finneas was sure the same must be said within the circles of those who tried for his hand. They weren’t wrong.

Finneas secured a clip in Maron’s hair, letting out a soft sigh. This process was the same regardless of the suitor, but it did feel odd to be making such an effort to dress Maron up and ensure that not a hair was out of place when they were to meet with him. For anyone else, it was just what was done. It was a process, a routine, always the same regardless of who was waiting in the meeting room. But knowing Damon Altrusia would be there, that Maron was adorned in delicate jewels and dressed finely for his eyes made the air in the room feel too thick to breathe.

“Thank you for your help,” Maron said, glancing over his reflection. “We ought to get this over with quickly.”

There wasn’t much they could do to make the time pass faster. An hour was an hour. Or, in this case, an hour was an eternity. “If you feign illness and leave early, I won’t say a word,” Finneas said with a soft laugh. His hands moved idly over Maron’s shoulders, smoothing his shirt. “I’ll be so overcome with worry for my prince that I’ll need to rush him out of the situation immediately.”

“Mm, a decent plan.”

It wasn’t. With the dignitary dinner in the evening, missing a meeting with Altrusia would be risky in terms of optics. If they saw one and not the other, it would be seen as choosing sides and voicing opinions without speaking. And to miss the dinner was out of the question–tensions at the border were too high to ignore. Finneas sighed. It had been weeks of this, desperately wishing to find something they could miss without some external party taking offense. If he believed anyone else could possibly care so much about Maron’s schedule, Finneas might begin to think the series of meetings were coordinated on purpose to keep the man running on nothing but fumes.

Maron rose, eyes scanning the room until they hit an armoire. He reached inside, retrieving two crutches, settling them securely on his forearms. Finneas watched carefully. If they weren’t at such a massive public event, it would be alright to have a more visible aid. “Let’s be done with this,” he said, glancing at himself in the mirror one more time.

Finneas nodded, reaching for the door. “Yes, Your Highness.”

There were a variety of meeting locations that were appropriate for audiences with suitors. Generally, if they were held inside the palace, a small library or particularly nice office was chosen. It was odd, Finneas thought, that Lord Altrusia had been so specific in his choice of library, requiring that the meeting had to take place in the one in the south wing. It wasn’t terribly far from Maron’s series of rooms in the east, but he had been so insistent that Finneas found himself wondering what possible motive he had.

It wasn’t until they passed through the hallway leading toward the library that it began to come together. From the way Maron looked at him, he also had his suspicions. This had been, for a period of time, one of Finneas’s own favorite libraries within the palace. The corridor that led to it had been called the Hall of Queens, where each of the previous matriarchs’ portraits hung in frames leading to a beautiful reading room. The art was stunning in its own right, crafted by the best painters. But the thing that stood out about them, beginning about halfway through the series, was the change from strict and serious portraiture to laughing, smiling women. For the last two hundred years, the portraits made for that hall were filled to the brim with personality. The one that hung directly beside the door to the library was of Maron’s own mother. Though Lenore wasn’t as blatantly laughing or cheerful, she still smiled, head in hand and looking like the picture of calm.

As Finneas and Maron approached the doorway, his eyes drifted over that portrait as they had a thousand times before, but for the first time, it made him a bit uncomfortable. His own mother had told him ghost stories when he was a child, saying the spirits of those who passed could see into their former world through the eyes of their portraits. For the late Queen’s sake, Finneas hoped that wasn’t true.

Just before they reached the door, a tall, imposing figure stepped out from it. Lord Damon Altrusia was as Finneas remembered. Broad, with sharp, angular features and striking blue eyes. Golden hair was pulled back tightly to show off his harsh jaw and lips were stretched similarly to show lines of too-bright teeth. If he had been anyone else, he might have been handsome. However, with the haughty way he carried himself and the barely concealed ego that seemed moments from bursting forth, he was instead unsettling.

“Lord Altrusia.” Maron stopped and nodded in greeting. Finneas stood behind him, keeping quiet.

“Your Highness. It is an honor to meet you again.” The man bowed low, and then rose. “I am sorry to see you in such an unfortunate state. Are you injured?” His eyes fixated on the crutches on Maron’s forearms for a moment too long before he met his eyes once more.

Maron blinked, and Finneas grit his teeth. Perhaps Finneas was expecting too much from the man, but it seemed as if this wasn’t the hardest puzzle to solve. To see the prince with a mobility aid, given what was certainly the most famous political event in recent history, should not have been such a shock.

“I am fine. It’s just an old injury acting up. Please don’t worry yourself.” Maron spoke calmly, keeping himself pleasant. That he was so good at it didn’t surprise Finneas anymore, but he couldn’t help but be impressed. It was easier to fade into the background and ignore the situation than to continue to act sweet in the face of these things.

“I see. Do you often have trouble with walking?” It wasn’t as though Altrusia was asking anything out of the ordinary, but it still rubbed Finneas the wrong way that he asked it so immediately during what was meant as a courtship meeting. A piece of him worried that it was part of the courtship, a way of assessing whether Maron was worth his time. It wasn’t the first time his injuries had resulted in rejection from those who initially approached him for his hand.

“Only when I’m overly tired.” It was irritating to hear him answer. This man wasn’t worth his time of day, let alone worth giving personal details to. “Let’s not focus on that. I’d like to enjoy your company during our meeting.”

Altrusia’s eyes finally moved away from the crutches, and he nodded with a snake’s grin on his lips. “Of course. It’s a pleasure to have you make time for me. I was very excited that you’d meet me here, too. I wanted to be able to pay respects to Her Majesty before meeting you personally.”

There it was. This was not the first time some sleazy suitor had attempted to gain Maron’s favor by bringing him to some site in the palace tied to his mother. It had been just long enough to allow Finneas to forget about the tactic until it was too late to turn around. He didn’t roll his eyes or sigh, insead opening the door of the library and hoping that the man would walk through and the topic of conversation would change. Granted, his only two attempts at conversation thus far had been about Lenore and Maron’s crutches, so any new subject might follow down the same treacherous path.

“Thank you, Finneas,” Maron said quietly before passing through the threshold. Altrusia followed him without a word, not even noticing his presence. That was for the best. The less Damon Altrusia thought about him, the better.

Author's Note!

Thanks for readng! The continuation of chapter 2 will be up momentarily! So excited for you all to meet Damon. He's my nasty, awful, favorite little guy.