Chapter Text
Khaotung’s breathing was shallow, punctuated by desperate intakes of air. His vision was foggy, covered by tears and smoke, and as he looked down at his hands, squinting in order to focus his sight, he noticed they were dirty with dust and ashes and blood. There was a constant ringing in his ears, overpowered only by the sound of his heartbeat, pulsing quickly in his chest, reminding him that he was still alive.
Whose blood was this? Why couldn’t he remember?
“Khaotung!”
The little prince’s head snapped toward the source of the voice calling his name. There was a figure in the distance, reaching out for him. Khaotung looked around and found himself home. But everything was different—wrong. The tall walls, previously white and golden, now stood covered in coal and bright orange, burning. He could feel the heat emanating from them, flames rolling down to the marble floor and threatening to take him away. Just like they’d taken—“Khaotung!”
He watched, frozen, as the walls of the room he was in collapsed, and then he was trapped, beneath rubble and fire and death. “Khaotung!”
Khaotung jolted awake, panting as he sat up and brought his hands to the center of his chest. He swallowed around his panic, trying to regain control over his breathing, but it took him a few minutes to calm down. Once his heart stopped racing, he dropped his hands to his lap and stared at his palms, frowning slightly—there was no blood or ashes on them.
Khaotung flexed his fingers slowly, matching his inhaling and exhaling to the opening and closing of his hands. The nightmares weren't so frequent anymore, but the memories from that day, eighteen years prior, still haunted him. The ghosts of his past hung over his shoulders, weighing him down. Three names sat on the tip of Khaotung’s tongue, but he dared not speak them, too scared of remembering.
Glancing toward one of the windows in his chambers, Khaotung watched as the dark blues and purples of the night sky slowly gave way to soft hues of pink and orange. It was still too early for him to get up, but he didn't feel like going back to sleep. The smell of burnt flesh and the sounds of wailing were still fresh in his mind, and Khaotung had to get up from his bed and pace around the room for a while, trying to will those thoughts into the back of his head.
As the single remaining heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Siamkantha, Prince Thanawat Ratanakitpaisarn was expected to maintain a tight schedule, while also fulfilling his royal duties as future king. His mother, crowned Queen Regent after his father’s death, had taken it upon herself to raise Khaotung under her close watch, ensuring he received the best education to one day become a great king.
While he was thankful to her for all she did, he sometimes wondered, in the quiet of the night, what life would be like if he were just Khaotung, and not Prince Thanawat.
He stopped before a tall mirror resting against one of his chambers’ walls and sighed at his reflection. His hair was getting long again, falling over his eyes and reaching the back of his neck. He ran a hand through raven flocks of hair, brushing it back and watching, resigned, as it fell back to the same spot. In the fleeting moments he could see his face, he noticed the dark bags under his eyes, from the lack of sleep he’d been getting in the past days. Perhaps he should ask the court physician for a sleeping draft.
Giving up looking at the person in front of him, Khaotung’s gaze travelled across his room, and past it, out the big window in one of the walls. As a means to ensure his safety, the queen had ordered the construction of a royal town inside the walls of the castle, so that Khaotung would never have to step outside of them—so that danger would never follow him back home.
At such an early hour, the markets were still closed, and the streets were mostly empty, but Khaotung could imagine the life that would unfold soon, the sounds of people and horses walking through the ground paved in stone, and of coins being tossed onto wooden counters. Sometimes, he could imagine himself down there, in the middle of all that life. He pictured walking through the busy streets, buying an apple from an old merchant and offering it to a horse. The thought pulled at the corners of his lips, up and down.
The castle was oddly quiet in the early hours of the day, when most people were still asleep and the guards were out patrolling the main entrances. Khaotung often used this information to his advantage, to sneak out of his royal quarters without causing a commotion. Grabbing one of his robes, he quietly turned the knob of his door and made his way down the spiral staircase at the end of the hall, careful not to alert anyone of his presence.
He was light on his feet, having prioritized stealth over strength during his formal training. His masters-at-arms had always told him that a king should be imposing—he should have wide shoulders and an intimidating stance, so no one would dare to threaten him. Yet, Khaotung preferred strategy over war, which had always frustrated his instructors.
A couple of guards rounded a corner of the hallway Khaotung had just reached, and he hid behind a pillar, pressing his back against the cold stone, and going unnoticed by the pair of twins, who were busy chatting with each other.
He watched carefully as the guards disappeared behind a closed door, before he kept moving down another set of stairs to get to the castle’s kitchens, where life never really stopped.
The room was busy with cooks and servants as they carried food and pans around the kitchen counters. Khaotung slowly scanned the room, smiling once his eyes found a familiar face. One of the castle’s head chefs was working on the royal and nobles' families’ breakfast, too focused on his task to notice the young man strutting towards him with a pout on his lips, “Mix!” He called, throwing his arms around the cook’s back, and propping his chin on his shoulder.
Mix barely flinched, used to the prince’s nagging, “Good morning.” He greeted, nudging his hip to bump lightly against Khaotung’s.
Khaotung chuckled and let go of him, turning around to find an apron and going over to the sink to wash his hands. “What’s for breakfast today?”
“I’m making bread.” Mix said, showing him his fingers, glued together with raw dough.
Khaotung grinned, “That looks fun.”
The cook had long since given up trying to stop Khaotung from making a mess of himself, instead showing him how to help in the kitchen. Khaotung couldn't be sure, but he figured Mix had gotten used to having him around as much as he’d gotten used to joining Mix in the mornings, before his day clothes dragged him back to the throne room.
Their routine was well orchestrated, where Mix showed him the correct way to perform a task—currently, kneading dough—and Khaotung tried his best to mimic the cook without ruining the food completely. Over the years, he’d learned to prepare various dishes, even though none were ever served at the royal table. Khaotung still enjoyed cooking, it brought him a sense of peace he seldom found during the rest of his day, a task he could do for others, one he wasn’t expected to excel at.
Nevertheless, the prince was beginning to regret offering to help with today’s main dish.
“I take it back,” He panted, using the full weight of his body to press down on the dough, “this is not fun.”
Mix snorted at him, ready to shoot back a snarky remark, probably about how he was doing it wrong. However, his laughter was cut short by a loud, ringing noise, as warning bells echoed through the castle’s corridors. The cook sent him a disapproving glare, “Again?”
Khaotung shrugged, “It could be something else.” He reasoned, but the pout on his lips said otherwise. He cursed under his breath, keeping his eyes locked on the counter even as the doors to the kitchen burst open.
“Have you seen—?” The words died in the guardsman’s mouth as he stumbled hastily into the room. The sudden stop made Khaotung curious, and his eyes betrayed him as he looked up at the newcomer.
First Kanaphan was the head of the Prince’s Royal Guard. He had been assigned to serve under the queen's orders at the mere age of nine years old, and he hadn't left the prince's side ever since.
Brown locks of hair fell over First’s forehead, revealing the distress he had been trying to hide. Big, sharp eyes locked in on Khaotung the second the guardsman walked into the kitchen, scanning him from head to toe for any wounds, making sure he was safe. His lips, full and parted open, said nothing—they didn't have to, Khaotung already knew he was in trouble.
First allowed his gaze to linger on the prince for another moment before he straightened up, wide shoulders stretching the black leather of his uniform. Khaotung’s eyes followed the movement before he looked back at his face. His hands sank into the dough on the balcony, fingers flexing as he tried to unwind his stress on the food.
The prince tilted his head, trying for a lopsided smile, “Good morning.”
A tired sigh escaped First’s still parted lips, and Khaotung rolled his eyes, taking his hands out of the ball of dough, and turning to the sink, “Did you even try looking for me before making all that ruckus? It is still rather early.” He commented, dipping his dirty hands into a pot of warm water, trying to loosen the remaining dough stuck to his fingers.
Since he had his back turned to him, the prince didn't know what kind of expression First was making, but he imagined it was something along the lines of displeased and annoyed, “I’m afraid that is not something I can do.” said the guardsman. “My priority is your safety, Your Highness.”
“Khaotung.” He corrected, craning his neck to look at him, “We have this conversation every day, First.”
“And yet,” First stepped forward, spurred on by the impudent tone of Khaotung’s voice. The prince watched with a growing smile as First strode over to him, not slowing down as he picked up a hand towel and halted next to him, “I have to come looking for you every day.”
He held the towel up to him, countering Khaotung’s grin with a calculated, stern expression.
“Her Majesty is asking for you.” First informed, bowing his head slightly as the prince took the towel from him to dry off his hands. The guardsman moved his hands as well, bringing his left one to rest over the hilt of the sword hanging on his belt, and his right one to the center of his lower back.
Khaotung’s posture changed immediately, his smile falling off his face, “Is everything alright?”
Still refusing to meet his eyes, First replied, “It is not my place to tell you.”
“That does not sound very promising.” Khaotung sighed, neatly folding the hand towel before dropping it on the counter.
The guardsman blinked, “It is not my pla—”
“Yes, alright, I know.” The prince cut in, waving a hand in front of his face, finally able to make First look at him. When their eyes met, Khaotung angled his chin toward the door, “Lead the way, then.”
First took a step back, nodding curtly. As he moved, his eyes travelled down Khaotung’s form, analyzing his attire. The prince shifted his weight from one leg to the other, adjusting the lapels of his sleeping robes.
Khaotung opened his mouth, ready to question the act of such blatant treachery, but First didn't give him a chance to, turning on his heels and marching out of the kitchen. The prince chanced a glance back at Mix, who had been quietly witnessing their exchange, and rolled his eyes at him.
The cook didn't try to hide his amused smile, “Stop making his life so hard, Your Highness.”
Khaotung smacked his lips, “It is not my fault he’s so uptight.” He said, following after First before the guardsman rounded the corner of the hallway, “And don’t call me that.”
Mix didn't reply, shaking his head at him as Khaotung chased after First.
Queen Kaeo Thanawan was a woman who possessed both the respect and love of the people of Siamkantha. Having risen to the throne immediately after the murders of her husband and two of her children, the queen maintained an austere, if still benevolent, demeanor, having brought peace and abundance to a kingdom that had otherwise been deemed lost.
Khaotung’s mother was a kind person, and a gentle educator, and still, the prince couldn't help but feel a sense of emotional dissonance whenever she called for him. He never knew what to expect, which version of her he would meet—his mom, or the queen. With that thought in mind, as well as the judging pair of bright brown eyes that had made him feel slightly self-conscious, Khaotung took a detour to his chambers, hastily changing into a set of royal clothes before making his way into the throne room, where his mother was waiting for him.
It didn't help that the two of them could not possibly be more different. Kaeo possessed facial features many considered exotic. Her eyes were a faded shade of blue, and her hair, which had once been blonde, fell over her back in long, graying curls. Khaotung looked nothing like her. The same applied to their personality—where she was rational, Khaotung was passionate, where she was pragmatic, Khaotung was idealistic, where she was strict, Khaotung was easygoing—which often led to disagreements between them. The queen often told him Khaotung reminded her of the late king, even though she had always refused to tell him about his father, no matter how many times Khaotung had asked her about him.
At the end of the day, the prince knew his mother wanted the best for him, even if, at times, what she thought was best for him wasn’t quite what Khaotung wished for.
His eyes widened as the queen finished her sentence, unable to keep his shock hidden, “What?” He looked around toward First, who was standing in front of a closed door. The guardsman didn't meet his gaze, but he shook his head slightly as if telling Khaotung not to yell at the queen. Khaotung sighed, frustrated, and turned back to his mother, “I am not getting married.”
The words echoed through the throne room, reaching the high ceiling and making their way back to him. They didn't seem to get through his mother, however.
“We have talked about this, son.” She said, her eyebrows pulling together—the same expression she used whenever she thought Khaotung wasn’t being rational. An expression she used often.
The prince’s mouth fell open in disbelief, “No, you’ve talked.” He countered, knowing he should not be addressing the queen in such a manner, but finding it impossible not to protest.
Used to his shortcomings, Kaeo didn't acknowledge his complaints, instead trying to reason with him. She raised her hands from where they’d been resting on the arms of the throne, and gestured toward the entire room, “The Kingdom must live on, Thanawat.” She declared, in the same tone she used when addressing her subordinates. “This is bigger than yourself. You cannot be selfish.”
Khaotung knew she was right—knew this wasn’t a choice, but a duty he must uphold. And yet, “I’m… not ready.” He confessed, staring down at his own hands, balled into fists, nails digging into the skin of his palms.
He heard the sound of his mother standing up, and his eyes found her face again, noticing, for the first time, hints of sorrow and understanding in them, “I know.” She nodded, stepping down and lessening the distance between them. She reached for Khaotung’s hands, which grew pliant under her touch, and turned his palms toward herself, smoothing over the half-moon marks with her thumbs, “You will be.” She said, closing her hands around Khaotung’s, “When the time comes.”
Slowly, Khaotung pulled his hands back from her hold, almost in shame, and wrapped his arms around himself, “I don’t want to marry someone I know nothing about.” He uttered out, barely above a whisper.
His mother placed her hands over his shoulders, “I thought you might say that.” She said, prompting him look back up, “Which is why I’ve arranged for a dinner party.”
Khaotung raised an eyebrow in confusion, “You… what?”
“It will happen tomorrow evening.” She informed, with a composed smile, “Five princesses from our neighboring Kingdoms will be attending. They will be your possible suitors, so you must get to know them. Marriage is all about alliances, son.” She said, “I would not wish for you to be unhappy. Take this as an opportunity to make a choice.”
Khaotung didn't know what to reply. He could not refuse her, much less fail to attend the event. In the end, he found himself nodding along, careful to keep his face free of expression, “Yes, mother.”
Pleased, the queen looked over Khaotung’s shoulder, “Kanaphan.”
He didn't have to turn around to know First was bowing his head, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Let my son know about the five suitors, and make sure he arrives on time.” She commanded.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
His mother nodded, “That will be all.” She said, dismissing both the guardsman and Khaotung.
First held the door open for him, waiting for the prince to walk past him before following. Khaotung barely stopped to acknowledge him, lost inside his own head. He knew this would happen, knew this day was coming, and his mother was right—he did have a duty to his people. He knew all of that, and yet, somehow, he dreaded the thought of marrying a stranger. What if that person wasn’t kind, or funny, or intelligent? What if they didn't enjoy music or poetry, what if they didn't understand how Khaotung saw the world? What if Khaotung didn't understand them ? His mother didn't seem to understand his issues with the ways of the world. She always told him he needed to stand upright and do his duty—that changing the way things are was not an option.
First walked quietly behind him, subtly quickening his pace to match Khaotung’s. The prince waited until they rounded the corner to his chamber’s hall to mutter, “I can’t believe this is happening.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, sighing as it fell back over his eyes.
Behind him, First asked, in an equally quiet tone, “What seems to be the matter, Your Highness?”
Khaotung craned his neck to look at him, raising an eyebrow as he dropped his hand, “Really? As if you don’t know.” He said, stopping before a tall door, made out of dark wood and adorned with thin lines of gold.
The guardsman stopped too, so he didn't crash into the prince, expression unchanging as he replied, “Her Majesty is doing her best to protect you.”
Khaotung snorted, laughter pulled out of him in disbelief, “By coddling me for years and then marrying me off to someone I don’t even know? To build alliances?” He closed his eyes in a prolonged exhale, “It sure sounds like she’s very worried.”
“As heir to the throne, you have your royal duties.” First reminded him.
The prince furrowed his eyebrows, eyes wide and pleading, “What about my right to live my own life?”
He watched as First’s mouth twitched, keeping his answer to himself. As though he’d been stricken across the face, Khaotung was suddenly reminded of their positions, and how absurd it was for him, a prince , to complain about anything to a royal guardsman. He looked down for a moment, in embarrassment, “I am sorry. This is insensitive of me. You’ve had a worse life than me.”
“It’s not so bad here.” First was quick to say, his voice taking on a different tone. The change was minute, a mere raise of his voice, a higher note on the final syllable of the last word he says, but Khaotung had known him long enough to catch it. The slight raspiness in the back of his voice was loud to his trained ears, enough to leave him curious.
The ghost of a smile danced on his lips, “Is that so?” He asked, leaning back against the wall, “Do you actually enjoy your life here? Keeping me safe from the dangers of falling down the stairs?”
He couldn't be sure, and First would certainly deny it if questioned, but Khaotung thought he saw an eye roll, and it was all it took for his lips to rip into a full grin, “You do?”
“It is an important position, one which keeps me and my family fed.” First answered, without meeting his eyes.
Khaotung couldn't control the way his body reacted, how he pushed off the wall and shifted his weight from his toes to his heels, “I see, of course.” He nodded.
First refused to look at him, but he walked around the prince and held onto the doorknob. He stopped halfway into twisting it and finally turned toward the prince, “And it is an honor to serve Her Majesty.” He added, riling Khaotung up with his words, even as his expression remained as composed as ever.
Khaotung didn't miss his chance, “And me?” He asked, meeting the challenge behind the guardsman’s eyes. After a few moments of silence, Khaotung took a step forward—closer—and watched with great satisfaction as First straightened up, leaning away from him without moving from his spot. The prince asked him, his voice lower than he'd intended it to be, “Is it an honor to serve me, too?”
Something changed before he could process it, and suddenly First was far away again, opening the door for him without meeting his gaze. Khaotung had tried to understand First so many times, he had lost count. No matter how hard he tried, he could never read him, could never be certain of what he was thinking.
The guardsman held the door open for him, “Of course. It’s a great honor, Your Highness.” He said, voice taut and disciplined—devoid of emotion.
Years of experience told Khaotung it wasn't worth fighting it, so the prince merely sighed, walking past the guardsman and into his chambers, ready to get out of his royal clothes, which had always felt a size too big on him.