Chapter Text
I am not the only traveler
Who has not repaid his debt
I've been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met…
When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met
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NPOV
Track: The Night We Met, Lord Huron
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How It Began…
I don’t think either of us really know how long this has been happening. I’ve long lost track of the long nights spent in the kitchen, working in solitary silence, when he shows up like an angel to watch over me.
At first, it hadn’t felt like an angel—more like a demon. Or perhaps more like God himself—watching over and judging endlessly.
We never exchange any words. Instead, every night goes like this:
As one of few nekos in the castle, I am assigned ridiculously long shifts—there are no labor laws to protect my kind, and there is no better work for me to take. So I work long into the night, cleaning up the castle’s many rooms and, most often, doing the prep work that is necessary for the royal family’s meals the next day. By the time he shows up, I am exhausted but not even close to done with my shift.
Normally, when he appears, the moon is high in the sky, and silvery light shines into the kitchens just as if the universe wants to add an extra layer of magic to these nights.
And then the prince shows up, without fail, looking nearly as tired as I do.
His hair could practically be made of gold—it makes me wish I could see it in the daylight. His eyes are a bright blue, and his face is usually tear-stained when I see him. It’s strange because no one else would ever describe the prince as crying a lot, which can only lead me to the conclusion that he reserves his mental breakdowns for approximately three in the morning on his way to the kitchens to see me.
And, like I said, I worried for those first few weeks that he was there to judge my work; he is the prince, after all. Perhaps his father has sent him to weed out the lazy workers in the castle, and they were hoping to rid themselves of the nekos if possible. So for those first few weeks, I worked faster and harder than ever before, fear spurring me along and waking me up. The kingdom is—to say the least—unfriendly to my kind, and if I lose this job, there will not be other work. I thought, at the time, that this was the best I was ever going to get—I couldn’t bring myself to give it up.
After those first few weeks, when the initial fear faded, I realized that the prince was not here as a threat to me or my survival. Instead, he seemed to simply be using this room as a place to collect himself. A safe haven away from the rest of the castle. I supposed that made sense—most of the other rooms on the upper floors face the risk of running into someone more elite than I am, someone who could destroy his reputation if they caught him looking so upset.
But no one in the kitchens is highly ranked enough to touch his reputation, and certainly not a lonely neko who is barely scraping by in this harsh world on his own.
After this realization, I found myself relaxing around him a little bit more. He likely wasn’t going to get me fired or punished if he relies on my presence here rather than someone who might have the bold personality it requires to tattle on the prince.
So we formed a very tentative trust.
And, I suppose, if a great story has to start somewhere, then the royal kitchens at the witching hour make for as fitting a beginning as anywhere.
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The Twenty-Third of March…
It has been so many weeks of the prince showing up in the kitchens that I’ve lost count of the days—if I had to guess, then I would say perhaps it has been four or five weeks, and we are slowly but surely becoming accustomed to each other’s presence.
He mostly tries not to acknowledge that I’m here, so I give him the same treatment—I think he appreciates it, and it means that he doesn’t get in the way of my work, so I suppose this is the best possible outcome of royalty showing up in my working quarters every night.
Tonight is different though—tonight he’s injured.
I notice it immediately. He comes stumbling through the kitchen doors like he always does, trying to wipe away tears—only this time, there’s an ugly bruise forming on his cheek. I’m trying to make the dough for the dinner rolls that His Majesty will eat with dinner tomorrow, but the fact that the prince looks different tonight—and in such a jarring way—has startled me out of my habit of ignoring him.
Nekos aren’t really supposed to look at royalty like this—the rules specify that the only way we’re supposed to look upon the royal family is with “absolute adoration and loyalty, lest the neko wish to be reminded of the hierarchy.” Tonight, however, I am watching the golden prince with a look that edges more on shock than adoration.
He does not meet my eyes, or even look in my direction, so I let myself stare. I’m confident he can’t report me without explaining why he was in the kitchens at such a ridiculous hour anyway, so I watch my fill.
I want to ask him if he’s alright, but that would probably be a step too far over the line of what will get me reported. Another rule for the nekos—do not speak unless spoken to. It’s been so long since I’ve done something like have a friendly conversation with someone. It must have been years.
So I do not risk asking. And, very carefully, I return my gaze to kneading the dough in front of me.
He remains in the kitchen until the sun first begins to bleed over the eastern hills. His breathing is not quite so uneven and scared anymore—by the time I put the rolls in the oven, no one would ever be able to tell that he was crying when he first arrived.
And then, he silently leaves the kitchens again, and I start the fire to bake the bread.
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The Seventeenth of April…
After that bruise, he had seemed to remain mostly injury-free.
Until today.
When he finds his usual seat in the corner next to the seasonings rack, I am once again surprised to find that he is injured. The cut isn’t bleeding anymore, but it looks like he nearly lost his eye—the wound stretches from the bottom of his forehead, through his eyebrow, and scarily close to his eyelid. He could have lost his vision had that injury gone slightly lower—how on earth could someone have been so careless as to let the prince nearly blind himself? Were there shards of glass somewhere…? Or a sharp rock, or piece of wood, or something? How did he manage to hurt his face with it?
I have an extra roll from my test batch, so—after a very stressful moment of deliberation—I grab a pair of serving gloves, and then I grab the roll off the platter and—very tentatively—approach him.
At first, he doesn’t look up, and I have no idea how to get his attention without breaking any of the rules I must follow. So for a few long, nerve-wracking moments, I just stand a few feet away from him, holding the roll with the serving gloves. This is an awful idea, really. Our careful silent agreement requires that neither of us acknowledge each other, and I am blatantly ignoring that agreement for the sake of giving him a roll? This is stupid. I mean, probably the roll won’t even make him feel any better—the injury looks like it probably hurt, and a roll can’t fix that. I’m being stupid. Jesus, I’m going to get myself fired or killed.
But then his eyes skip up to mine, and those blue eyes pierce right through me—
And I feel even more stupid. He’s a prince. If he had wanted a roll, he would have just ordered me to make one for him. He’s going to yell at me for shirking my duties or for assuming a neko could even begin to help with a prince’s troubles—
“Oh,” he murmurs, and his hand reaches up to take the roll, hesitating only an inch or two away. “Is this for me?”
I open my mouth and find that the fear chokes out my voice. But now I have to respond—ignoring a question from royalty would be suicide. Shit.
“I know it won’t help,” I choke out. “I just… I just thought…” Shit. I’m wasting his time. I’m so dead. I push through the rest of the sentence, adrenaline now coursing through my veins in an awful, sickening way: “I was hoping perhaps you might enjoy a snack, as you must be hungry from working hard every day to provide so perfectly for the kingdom.”
(It’s a lie—the royal family is tearing the kingdom to pieces, but I’d rather lie than die, so.)
He gives a dry laugh at that, the humor not reaching those eyes at all. But nevertheless, he takes the roll, using his other hand to wipe tears from his eyes. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I nod, and then I remove the serving gloves and set them aside to finish my next batch.
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The Eighteenth of April…
I get answers in, of all places, the bathroom as I clean it. I’m washing the floors when I hear hushed voices outside the door.
“Did you hear what happened to Prince William yesterday?” comes the whispered voice of a servant, and I immediately become still. The injury?
“I heard he was thrown from his horse,” comes the bored reply.
“That’s what the Family is telling everyone—but the stable boys told me that he wasn’t thrown from his horse at all—and doesn’t it make sense that this can’t be an injury from that, as wouldn’t that have been a rougher injury than a clean cut?”
The reply is only a slightly curious humming sound, so the gossiper continues: “The red-headed stable boy—what was his name? James? It doesn’t matter—said the king brought a knife to Prince William in a most violent way…but even James wouldn’t tell me what His Majesty was so upset about.”
“Curious,” answers the other servant, and the conversation fades as the two walk further away.
The King?
I try to shake off the unease that that leaves me with, trying to dismiss it as gossip, and continue scrubbing at a spot on the floor.
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The Third of May…
It happens again.
The prince settles in at his spot next to the spices, pulling his legs close to his face and trying to control his breathing. The skin below his ear is bruised tonight, and I swear there’s a bit of purplish brown peeking out from underneath his shirt at the neck.
And, feeling sick once again, I realize with a start that the rumor that the king is responsible could very easily be true.
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from asking if he’s alright. Instead, I look down at the dough I’m working on—once again providing the king’s daily dinner roll supply—and try to convince myself that there is nothing I can do.
And then, heart beating quickly and hoping to God that this isn’t a bad idea, I split my dough in half and approach the prince. (Though, if one were to look at this objectively, one “half” of the dough was significantly larger than the other—I’m not sure I trust a royal to do this properly, so a smaller amount for him is probably for the best.)
He looks up warily, sees the dough in my hands, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
Not allowed to speak, I set the dough on the edge of the counter closest to him, give him a meaningful look, and then return to my own half.
He watches me work, and I swallow nervously, hoping very much that he’s not going to get mad at the implication that he could join me in my work. I mean, he’s royalty. He likely believes he is above this sort of work; it might be offensive that I even—
He slowly rises and approaches the dough.
He reaches out to knead the dough, and I tense and give him a sharp look.
He freezes, watching me and trying to piece together what he’s done wrong.
Jesus. He really is sort of clueless about work like this.
I glance over at the water basin and soap, hoping my message will get across since I still haven’t been invited to speak.
“Oh,” the prince says, and he goes to wash his hands. When he’s done, he returns to his dough and—to my surprise—moves it closer to mine. He’s stopped crying by now. Maybe this is helping after all.
He watches me closely and tries to mimic the way I knead and fold the dough. He works with it like he’s scared he’s going to break it—like it’s glass instead of dough. I try not to roll my eyes.
The next time he glances over at me, I emphasize how much force I’m putting into it, and he laughs a little.
“I’m being too gentle?” he asks.
“I would never criticize royalty,” I say, because I’m not allowed to criticize royalty.
He laughs again. “Yeah, alright. That was just the most conveniently timed judgmental look and extra-strong-bread-kneading I’ve ever seen in my life, then.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand, your Highness. The royal family is perfect and incapable of error,” I say, trying to keep the irony from seeping into my tone.
He just giggles a little at that, apparently finding it very funny that my words apparently do not match my personality at all. “Right, right, that’s very convincing.” He pauses to knead the dough harder, and then he looks up at me for approval. “In a hypothetical scenario where I wasn’t a prince, would you believe that this is an acceptable amount of force to use?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. It’s not often that royalty open up the gates of criticism and allow someone to provide potentially negative feedback on their work.
“Hm,” I say. “If you were not a prince, and I were…let’s say… training a new employee to serve Your Highness, then in order to ensure the absolute best quality of bread for the royal family, I would say that you’re still not doing it right.”
He laughs brightly, and I fight a smile as he doubles over. I continue working as he nearly cries from laughing so hard—if I had to guess, he is terribly unaccustomed to honesty. I must have caught him off guard.
“Alright,” he says as he finally tries to get back to work. “Alright,” he repeats again, trying to get his laughter under control. “So I’m still doing it wrong. Show me how?”
I pause. If my visual example isn’t enough to show him, I’m not really sure how to show him how much force to use.
After a brief hesitation, I wash my hands at the basin, and then I retrieve my serving gloves from the counter and stand next to him. My gloved hand hovers just over his, and I wait there for permission to close the distance and physically move his hands until he knows how to do it right.
William looks perplexed, but he says, “Um…yeah, alright. Sure.”
So I let my gloved hand lay on top of his own, and I guide his hand, showing him how to knead the dough correctly. He’s blushing deeply—I pretend I don’t notice that.
When he seems to understand, I remove my hand and watch for a moment to ensure he understands this time. When I’m satisfied with his work, I remove my gloves again and put them away again.
My dough is nearly finished now. Will keeps working on his while I start a fire for the oven.
“Why did you use gloves to touch me?” he asks.
I freeze. He doesn’t know? Or is he just the type that finds it funny to make nekos explain exactly how unequal we are?
“Because,” I say, “nekos are unclean and therefore not allowed to touch humans.”
Will doesn’t respond. I figure that’s the end of that conversation. The fire is done, so I stand up and turn around—
And find that Will is staring at me like I just killed a puppy.
I startle. Did I do something wrong with the fire? Fear spikes immediately, and I turn around to check my work. The fire looks completely normal. I check over myself then to make sure there’s nothing on me that might raise a concern—but there’s nothing.
God, I wish he would just tell me what I’ve done wrong. Stomach roiling, I decide to just get back to work. If he first notices something I’ve done wrong and then also notices that I am not doing my job very quickly, I would be as good as dead.
I get my dough onto a tray and—
“You’re not unclean. Who told you you’re unclean?” he asks, still looking terribly upset.
I freeze again.
So he really didn’t know?
“The…royal family believes I am unclean,” I answer, “and I would never criticize royalty.”
“My father, then,” the prince concludes, now much less amused by my artificial loyalty to the crown. “You can just say it’s him—there’s only two people in the royal family, and it wasn’t me.”
I swallow deeply and stare down at the dough while I try to figure out the safest way to answer that.
“The royal family is a brilliantly unified front,” I say slowly. “I admire deeply how these laws are upheld by each nobleman and each branch of the Family. It is respectable that even your most distantly related family members have adopted these beliefs so unquestioningly.”
Will has stopped kneading his dough entirely, so I take it from him and place it on the tray too, splitting the dough into many smaller segments and laying them across the tray in rows.
“Is that the respectful way of telling me that even if my king made the law, I am also at fault as I have done nothing to stop it?” the prince asks me.
“I would never—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs. “You won’t criticize the crown. I get it.”
I finish up splitting the dough, and then I bring my tray to the oven.
“I am sorry,” the prince tells me. “Really—you’re not unclean, and it’s awful that my father has forced you to behave as if you are.”
I slide the tray into the oven, the fire cooking it from below. I hesitate there for a moment because I don’t really know what to say. I’m not allowed to say anything that would imply I agree with him, but he’s also right. The king is a shitty leader.
“Perhaps,” I say slowly, “upon your coronation day, you might choose to change the way your kingdom works. Until then…” I straighten again and glance briefly in his direction just long enough to see that he is still watching me carefully. “...I can never criticize royalty.”