Protocol Charity Fic
Jan. 2nd, 2005 01:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Yet another charity fic. This one for ms_smith who asked for "a 2000 word Protocol universe fic that shows how Lorne and Andrew are fairing at Council HQ without Wes" in exchange for a donation to the Red Cross, and also for
kitane who also donated to the Red Cross in honor of any word overages that might occur in any Protocol related stories. This one clocks in at 3700 and change, so I still owe her some extra in another story. ;)
Other charity fics can be found here
Other parts of Protocol can be found here.
They didn't have a proper good-bye.
They *did*, in their way. Not that Wesley had been particularly into it. He'd been still, calm, and his eyes had had that haunted look that they always got when he'd come out of the tail-end of a panic attack. The look that said he knew that all he could do was grit his teeth and wait to start suffering again.
Still, good-byes were good-byes. Lorne's was brief, and filled with false hope. Andrew's had been longer, but more realistic.
"I made it extra strong," he'd promised Wesley, patting the leather top of the trunk that contained potions and magic supplies. "Like you asked, your highness."
"Thank you, Andrew," Wesley had said. His voice was rough, which made Andrew wonder if he'd gone through an attack the night before and not told them. "I am sorry about this. You were - *are* - a good servant. I only wish my recommendation would be of any help to you."
"We'll be fine," Andrew promised. "Lorne and I will land on our feet."
Which was a fairy tale more than anything else, but Wesley didn't argue it. Instead he said "Thank you." again, then left to wait for his transport.
Andrew and Lorne watched him from the balcony above the front entrance.
"Didn't sing a note," Lorne complained. "Not a fa, a la, a hum, or a me-me-me. Not even in his sleep."
"I can't believe we're not going with him," Andrew said.
Lorne lowered his voice. "Considering Big Daddy and his temper, believe me I believe it."
"We're supposed to be *with* him," Andrew said. "We're supposed to *help*.
"His Royal Stick-up-his-assness doesn't want his only son having help," Lorne said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was around to hear him. "Or anything else, for that matter."
Andrew watched as Wesley stood in the sunlight. He knew the prince was savoring the warmth and the fresh air while he still had a chance. "They say the vampire lives underground."
Lorne's jaw set in a hard line. "I heard."
"If his highness - "
"I know."
"He won't be able to *breathe*. "
"I know."
"It's not *right*," Andrew wanted to kick the railing. "We can't let him do that to Wesley!"
"Not up to us," Lorne said. "It never was."
Andrew's shoulders slumped. "I wish there was something we could do."
"There is," Lorne said. "We can pack our things."
Andrew forced himself to look away from the view. "I wonder what our new rooms are going to be."
"All things considered," Lorne said, "I'm afraid to ask."
***
"Do *not* ask questions," Andrew's mother told him. "And stop tugging at your shirt."
Andrew dropped his hand from where it had been tugging at his collar. He didn't like the shirt. It was starchy, and itched around his neck. "I'm hot."
"Don't complain," she said. "Don't complain, don't ask questions, and do *not* talk back."
Andrew looked up at her. "What if they ask *me* questions?"
"Answer as best you can, and remember to say 'sir' or 'sire'," she told him. Her eyebrows furrowed together as she looked down at him. "Is that dirt on your face? Hold still."
Andrew tried not to squirm as his mother spit onto a handkerchief and began to rub a smudge off of his cheek. "I want to go home."
His mother's face fell. She squatted down properly, looking him right in the eye. "Andrew," she said, her voice quiet, "we can't. You *know* that. I know it's very sad but it's not safe where we are. Just think - if the Council takes you you'll have hot meals, a warm bed, there'll be no vampires or demons - "
"I want to stay with you," Andrew said. He brightened as an idea suggested itself. "Why don't you stay with me? I'll share my meals."
His mother blinked very rapidly. "They - it's only for you, darling. It's a special position. Only a young boy can have it. Now do you remember what we talked about?"
Andrew nodded. He quoted what his mother had drilled into him. "A spouse's servant must have three qualities at all times: he must be loyal, he must be dutiful, he must be discreet."
"Perfect," his mother hugged him. "I'm very proud of you."
"What's discreet?" Andrew asked.
"Being quiet," she said. "Spouses are very important people who do very important things. Their servants mustn't ever talk about that."
"Okay," Andrew said, but he wasn't entirely certain that that made sense.
The door opened. Andrew's mother stood up, quickly smoothing out her one good dress as a group of men came in, all wearing blue uniforms. In the center of them was an older man, with grey hair and a sour expression.
"Is this the boy?" he asked.
Andrew's mother nodded. She executed a quick curtsey, her hand holding Andrew's so tightly he thought it might break. "Yes, sire. My son, Andrew."
The man looked down at him. Andrew felt as though he were being stared at by an ogre. "Not the other one, then?"
"He's as clever as his brother," Andrew's mother assured him. "More. Why his skill with potions is leaps and bounds - "
The man frowned. "How old is he?"
"Nine," Andrew's mother said. Andrew did as he'd been told and did not correctly state that his actual age was seven.
"He can spend the night," the man said. "If he performs acceptably, he may get the position."
Andrew's mother curtseyed again. "Thank you, sire. That's very kind of you, sire. I -"
"Take the boy to the prince's quarters," the man ordered. To Andrew, he said, "stay there until I get you and do your job. I assume you know how to do your job?"
"Yes, sir," Andrew said. Off his mother's look he added, "Sire. A spouse's servant must have three qualities at all times: he must be - "
"Yes, yes, yes," the man waved him off. "Not until I come for you."
***
The prince's quarters were large, and mazelike. Andrew wandered around, marveling at room after room dedicated to books, clothing, magic supplies - even one room which seemed to be nothing but mirrors and shoes. Still other rooms had things Andrew couldn't identify, and he decided they were part of being a prince, or a spouse in training, or maybe both.
What he did not find, however, was the prince.
Andrew wandered from room to room, wondering if this was a test. Was he supposed to wait? Was he supposed to prepare something? Was the prince already there, but perhaps invisible due to a horrible curse laid on him by a wandering warlock in the disguise of a tree?
"Sire?" Andrew called. He didn't know if that would produce the mean-looking man or the invisible prince, but his mother had said when in doubt, it was the word to use, so he said it over and over again. "Sire? Sire?"
Nothing. Andrew kept looking. If nothing else, maybe he was supposed to learn to find his way around.
On his second pass through the rooms he discovered a turn he hadn't noticed before. Beyond it were more rooms, these ones plainly decorated with wooden chairs and beds with thin mattresses. Andrew wondered if that was where he was meant to sleep.
Past those rooms was a door. Andrew opened it, and discovered a steep staircase made of rocks and mortar that twisted down and vanished into darkness. Andrew opened the door as wide as he could to let light shine in, then carefully climbed down the steps.
At the bottom, he found a table with candles and matches. Deciding that his mother would rather he use a match than hurt himself in the dark, he lit one of the candles and held it up so he could see.
To his left was another door. This one made of thick wood planks and metal, and no taller than he was. There was a bar across it, held in place by a padlock bigger than Andrew's hand.
Somehow, Andrew knew this was where the prince was.
He found no key, nor was there any answer when he knocked on the door and asked if anyone was there. But he heard sounds of movement, and breathing. He tried talking some more, but there was still no response.
Andrew sat down. If he was supposed to wait in the prince's quarters and this was the prince, then that was what he would do. He carefully placed the candle in a puddle of wax on the floor and talked to himself about castles and ogres and princes and kings.
***
Later, when Andrew had many times walked up the stairs to use what he hoped was the servants' toilet, and when he had nothing but water from the bathroom sink to fill both his thirst and his hunger, and when he'd fallen asleep on the cold stone floor and woken with a start of fear that *he* was the one on the other side of the door, unable to do anything except be trapped and unable to fulfill his basic needs, the stern-faced man appeared again, this time coming down the staircase entirely by himself.
Andrew stood up. He tried to bow. "Hello, sire."
The man ignored him. He pulled a key out of his pocket and undid the padlock. He reached inside and pulled out a young, thin boy who couldn't have been older than ten. He wore rich, though dusty clothing, and a pair of glasses was knocked out of place as the man shook him.
"Have you learned your lesson?" the man demanded.
"Yes, father," the boy said.
The man threw him down onto the ground. "You dare think you are smart enough to tell me what you do and do not know?"
The boy scuttled back against the wall. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"You are an embarrassment to me and this family," the man said. "A *shame* to our reputation."
The boy kept his eyes on the ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't - "
"Speak, *up*, child!"
The boy winced. "I'm sorry, sir!"
The man advanced. "You would shout at me? Is that the attitude I have raised you to have? Is that what you think is proper behavior for someone of your standing?"
The boy shook his head, then scrambled to push his glasses back onto his face before they fell. "No, sir. I don't, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"You are a waste of a child," the man said. "A pathetic excuse for a son since the moment you were born. You will never amount to anything."
The boy seemed to be struggling not to cry. "I'm sorry, sir."
"And *you*," the man said, turning his gaze on Andrew now. "You who would be a servant to this burden I am forced to call by my own last name. What have you seen here, tonight? What will you say if anyone asks you about it?"
It was then that Andrew understood the reason for the third quality that every spouse's servant had. He swallowed, and forced himself to speak past the sick feeling in his stomach. "Nothing, sire. I saw nothing."
"Good lad," the man said. "You can stay."
***
"Has my son contacted you?" Roger asked.
Andrew stood in front of Roger's desk. In all his years of living with the family, he'd never before been summoned appear before Roger directly. On the other hand, in all his years of living with the family, Roger had never been inclined to have long and friendly conversations with the help. "No, sire."
"If you are lying to me I can have you punished," Roger said. "Cast out into the world without any of the Council's protection."
"With all due respect, sire," Andrew said, "I am a spouse's servant. I *have* protection."
"Wesley is gone," Roger said the words as though spitting out rotten fruit. "Which means you are nothing, save one who lives by my own charity."
"My oaths are for my life and his," Andrew said. "To break them you'd have to kill me. Which… okay, is possibly something I shouldn't have pointed out."
"You will be reassigned elsewhere in the castle," Roger said. "You will serve at my discretion and the *moment*, the *moment* I learn of you hiding any communication between my son and you -"
"I won't betray him," Andrew said.
Roger didn't blink. "Young man, you should be more concerned with what shall happen if I find out you are betraying *me*."
***
Mauro was the large, Italian man who worked in the kitchens. He was also currently glaring at Andrew. "No!"
"Please?" Andrew asked. "It won't be any trouble. I can do it myself and everything."
"I said no," Mauro sent a large cleaver slicing through a leg of lamb. He raised the blade, waving it in front of Andrew's face. "Now stop bothering me, before I serve *you* for dinner."
Andrew tried not to flinch. "You don't understand. My mom doesn't have anything. All I'm asking is if I can send her some of the food we normally throw away. You know, the extra stuff?"
Mauro grabbed him, thankfully putting the blade down but holding Andrew painfully by the scruff of his neck. "And *you* don't understand that I don't care about you or your mama. I serve the royal family, who have better things to do than care about snot-nosed whiners like you."
Andrew rubbed the back of his hand across his face. "I am *not* a whiner."
"Nor are either of you a member of the royal family," a new voice said. All the work in the kitchen stopped as Wesley appeared. "I am, so perhaps I can settle this."
Mauro sketched out a bow. "Your highness, I was just telling this gnat - "
"This *boy* is my *servant*," Wesley said, his voice crisp and commanding, even for an eleven year old. "Which means he is to be taken care of."
"Forgive me, your highness," Mauro said. "I did not realize he was yours."
"I won't have people go hungry," Wesley said. "You will make sure Andrew's mother and family do not go without. Is that understood?"
Mauro bowed again. "Yes, your highness. Right away."
"Thank you, that will be all," Wesley said. He gave a practiced nod of greeting to the rest of the room before leaving.
Andrew followed on his heels. "Sire, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."
Wesley smiled at him. "Don't be silly. I was happy to help."
"But if your father finds out you were in the servants' wing - " Andrew warned him.
"You should have told me your mother was hungry," Wesley said.
"Sire, even still," Andrew said. "Your father won't be pleased to know about this."
Wesley's face became more serious. "My father is never pleased, Andrew. But at least now you won't have to worry about your family."
***
Andrew held a tray of canapés aloft. He worked his way through the crowd, stopping to offer food to the various clusters of people. He kept his sight on the bar, however, and once there hissed to get Lorne's attention.
"Any word?" Andrew asked.
Lorne shook his head. He went through the motions of setting up a drinks tray for Andrew to take. "Nothing. I thought maybe there was a spell tapping at my window last night, but turns out it was just a tree branch. You?"
Andrew shook his head. "Nothing."
"Well keep a chipper thought," Lorne said. "No news is good news, right?"
"Usually," Andrew said. "Except with him, no news is usually *worse* news."
Lorne grimaced at that, and couldn't disagree.
***
Wesley was curled up in bed, a tight bump underneath a pile of blankets. He faced the wall, though for the moment it didn't matter.
"He just made you do it?" Andrew asked, peering down at the large, white bandage that wrapped around Wesley's head and effectively blindfolded his eyes.
"My father felt it was time," Wesley said.
"But I thought the spell was still an experiment," Andrew said. "Didn't Mr. Giles say they hadn't worked all the kinks out?"
"It corrects vision," Wesley said. "It doesn't have to do anything else."
"I don't know," Andrew said. "It could make you grow an extra head. It could restore your eyes but take out your lungs. It could - " Andrew trailed off. For the first time he noticed Wesley's hand, which had a white-knuckled grip on his pillow case. " - really hurt."
"Twelve years old is too old to be wearing glasses," Wesley said, his voice lightly echoing Roger's accent.
"Sire, can I get you anything?" Andrew asked. "Some ice? Or - or some ointment maybe?"
"No, Andrew, thank you," Wesley said.
"Or a potion," Andrew said. "I learned a new one. It'll make you sleep and - and okay, not thirsty, but sleeping's good, right? Maybe you can sleep, and heal?"
Wesley's hand twitched against the pillowcase. "I can't."
"That's what I mean," Andrew stood up eagerly. "I'll go get it. You'll be well-rested and your throat won't have a dry spot in it and - "
"I *can't*," Wesley said, then sucked in a breath as his body spasmed in pain. "I'm not allowed to have anything."
Andrew sat back down. "But I'm your servant. I'm supposed to take care of you."
"My father said - " Wesley took in another breath, this one shuddering. "He said I am not allowed. That this is a learning experience."
"Sire," Andrew said, "you're in *pain*."
"Spouses do not feel pain," Wesley recited, his voice a whisper. "They have no needs, they have no wants, they make no demands of their wives or husbands."
Andrew's eyes widened in horror as a drop of blood slipped out from underneath the bandage, and fell down Wesley's cheek. "Sire - "
"No one would ever want a spouse with imperfections," Wesley's voice was choked. More blood seeped down, the new drops tinged pink as they mingled with tears. "No one would ever want a spouse who is weak, and must be taken care of, and can't - "
Andrew rubbed Wesley's arm, feeling the tension in it even through the blankets. "Sire…"
" - can't even *see*," Wesley managed to gasp out, then curled into himself even tighter.
Andrew watched him, feeling helpless. He was supposed to take care of Wesley, to be at the ready with something brewed up or prepared to help make him feel better and maintain the illusion of spouses living only to serve. But Roger had his own interpretation of Council lessons, and frankly Andrew wasn't certain the Council lessons were all that merciful to begin with.
He decided to help the only way he could.
"You'll get a husband," Andrew said. "He'll be a king, the strongest and bravest in all the land. He'll rule over an enormous kingdom, filled with beautiful gardens that hold flowers of every color of the rainbow. The castle will be made entirely of windows, and sunlight and air will sweep through it every hour of the day."
Wesley's breathing began to steady. "Not - not very private."
"There'll be curtains," Andrew assured him. "And your husband - "
"The king."
"The king," Andrew confirmed. "He'll make proclamations. All must avert their eyes when Prince Wesley is dressing, for surely he is the finest prince in all the land, and there are none worthy of looking upon him."
"Except for him," Wesley said.
"Right," Andrew said. "Because *he* is the finest king. He will be handsome - "
"Tall?"
"Not obnoxiously so," Andrew said. "And he'll have broad shoulders, and muscles, and maybe dimples when he smiles. Do you like dimples?"
"I will like whatever my husband has," Wesley said. "Whatever he is shall be perfect to me."
Andrew noticed that Wesley wasn't shaking as much anymore. "Then I think he has dimples. Dimples, and brown eyes - "
"Not blue?"
"You have blue," Andrew said. "He can have brown."
"All right," Wesley said.
"He will be renowned for his generosity, and kindness," Andrew said. "His subjects will adore him, babies will cease crying once they are in his arms, and small animals will flock from far and wide just to be near him."
"Quite a crowd."
"But he'll ultimately care only for you," Andrew said. "He will love you with all of his heart and all of his soul. He will find you to be perfect. He will notice and tell everyone how surely you were the finest student, who passed all of your classes with the highest marks, and how no spouse could be more wonderful than you are."
The bandage over Wesley's eyes was stained with blood, but fortunately the flow seemed to have stopped. "He'll be proud of me?"
"No husband could be prouder," Andrew said. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, gently dabbing it across Wesley's face. "And he'll protect you. He'll take you away from here, and you'll never have to be afraid of demons, vampires, or - or anyone ever again.."
"He sounds wonderful," Wesley said.
"He will be," Andrew promised.
***
"You don't think - " the thought was almost too horrible for Andrew to contemplate.
"I don't know what to think," Lorne said.
Andrew began to tear up a piece of paper in a nervous habit. "It's been so long. Months and months and we haven't heard anything. What if he - "
"I'm sure they'd tell us."
"But what if he - "
"I'm *pretty* sure they'd tell us," Lorne took the paper from him, dropping it into a waste bin. "After all, they'd want to have a funeral."
Andrew double checked that the door to their shared bedroom - a tiny room, deep in the heart of the lowliest servants' quarters - was closed. "With *Wesley's* dad? Are you sure about that?"
"No," Lorne admitted. "But it's better than thinking about the alternative."
"Maybe he's okay," Andrew said. "Maybe - maybe he ran away. Or maybe he never got there, and now he's living in some wonderful town with wonderful people and - "
"Yeah," Lorne said, "and maybe he didn't actually get sent off to the worst vampire who ever lived as a not-so-virgin sacrifice."
Andrew's face fell. "I can't believe they did that."
Lorne's expression mirrored his own. "Yeah. Me neither."
***
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Other charity fics can be found here
Other parts of Protocol can be found here.
They didn't have a proper good-bye.
They *did*, in their way. Not that Wesley had been particularly into it. He'd been still, calm, and his eyes had had that haunted look that they always got when he'd come out of the tail-end of a panic attack. The look that said he knew that all he could do was grit his teeth and wait to start suffering again.
Still, good-byes were good-byes. Lorne's was brief, and filled with false hope. Andrew's had been longer, but more realistic.
"I made it extra strong," he'd promised Wesley, patting the leather top of the trunk that contained potions and magic supplies. "Like you asked, your highness."
"Thank you, Andrew," Wesley had said. His voice was rough, which made Andrew wonder if he'd gone through an attack the night before and not told them. "I am sorry about this. You were - *are* - a good servant. I only wish my recommendation would be of any help to you."
"We'll be fine," Andrew promised. "Lorne and I will land on our feet."
Which was a fairy tale more than anything else, but Wesley didn't argue it. Instead he said "Thank you." again, then left to wait for his transport.
Andrew and Lorne watched him from the balcony above the front entrance.
"Didn't sing a note," Lorne complained. "Not a fa, a la, a hum, or a me-me-me. Not even in his sleep."
"I can't believe we're not going with him," Andrew said.
Lorne lowered his voice. "Considering Big Daddy and his temper, believe me I believe it."
"We're supposed to be *with* him," Andrew said. "We're supposed to *help*.
"His Royal Stick-up-his-assness doesn't want his only son having help," Lorne said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was around to hear him. "Or anything else, for that matter."
Andrew watched as Wesley stood in the sunlight. He knew the prince was savoring the warmth and the fresh air while he still had a chance. "They say the vampire lives underground."
Lorne's jaw set in a hard line. "I heard."
"If his highness - "
"I know."
"He won't be able to *breathe*. "
"I know."
"It's not *right*," Andrew wanted to kick the railing. "We can't let him do that to Wesley!"
"Not up to us," Lorne said. "It never was."
Andrew's shoulders slumped. "I wish there was something we could do."
"There is," Lorne said. "We can pack our things."
Andrew forced himself to look away from the view. "I wonder what our new rooms are going to be."
"All things considered," Lorne said, "I'm afraid to ask."
***
"Do *not* ask questions," Andrew's mother told him. "And stop tugging at your shirt."
Andrew dropped his hand from where it had been tugging at his collar. He didn't like the shirt. It was starchy, and itched around his neck. "I'm hot."
"Don't complain," she said. "Don't complain, don't ask questions, and do *not* talk back."
Andrew looked up at her. "What if they ask *me* questions?"
"Answer as best you can, and remember to say 'sir' or 'sire'," she told him. Her eyebrows furrowed together as she looked down at him. "Is that dirt on your face? Hold still."
Andrew tried not to squirm as his mother spit onto a handkerchief and began to rub a smudge off of his cheek. "I want to go home."
His mother's face fell. She squatted down properly, looking him right in the eye. "Andrew," she said, her voice quiet, "we can't. You *know* that. I know it's very sad but it's not safe where we are. Just think - if the Council takes you you'll have hot meals, a warm bed, there'll be no vampires or demons - "
"I want to stay with you," Andrew said. He brightened as an idea suggested itself. "Why don't you stay with me? I'll share my meals."
His mother blinked very rapidly. "They - it's only for you, darling. It's a special position. Only a young boy can have it. Now do you remember what we talked about?"
Andrew nodded. He quoted what his mother had drilled into him. "A spouse's servant must have three qualities at all times: he must be loyal, he must be dutiful, he must be discreet."
"Perfect," his mother hugged him. "I'm very proud of you."
"What's discreet?" Andrew asked.
"Being quiet," she said. "Spouses are very important people who do very important things. Their servants mustn't ever talk about that."
"Okay," Andrew said, but he wasn't entirely certain that that made sense.
The door opened. Andrew's mother stood up, quickly smoothing out her one good dress as a group of men came in, all wearing blue uniforms. In the center of them was an older man, with grey hair and a sour expression.
"Is this the boy?" he asked.
Andrew's mother nodded. She executed a quick curtsey, her hand holding Andrew's so tightly he thought it might break. "Yes, sire. My son, Andrew."
The man looked down at him. Andrew felt as though he were being stared at by an ogre. "Not the other one, then?"
"He's as clever as his brother," Andrew's mother assured him. "More. Why his skill with potions is leaps and bounds - "
The man frowned. "How old is he?"
"Nine," Andrew's mother said. Andrew did as he'd been told and did not correctly state that his actual age was seven.
"He can spend the night," the man said. "If he performs acceptably, he may get the position."
Andrew's mother curtseyed again. "Thank you, sire. That's very kind of you, sire. I -"
"Take the boy to the prince's quarters," the man ordered. To Andrew, he said, "stay there until I get you and do your job. I assume you know how to do your job?"
"Yes, sir," Andrew said. Off his mother's look he added, "Sire. A spouse's servant must have three qualities at all times: he must be - "
"Yes, yes, yes," the man waved him off. "Not until I come for you."
***
The prince's quarters were large, and mazelike. Andrew wandered around, marveling at room after room dedicated to books, clothing, magic supplies - even one room which seemed to be nothing but mirrors and shoes. Still other rooms had things Andrew couldn't identify, and he decided they were part of being a prince, or a spouse in training, or maybe both.
What he did not find, however, was the prince.
Andrew wandered from room to room, wondering if this was a test. Was he supposed to wait? Was he supposed to prepare something? Was the prince already there, but perhaps invisible due to a horrible curse laid on him by a wandering warlock in the disguise of a tree?
"Sire?" Andrew called. He didn't know if that would produce the mean-looking man or the invisible prince, but his mother had said when in doubt, it was the word to use, so he said it over and over again. "Sire? Sire?"
Nothing. Andrew kept looking. If nothing else, maybe he was supposed to learn to find his way around.
On his second pass through the rooms he discovered a turn he hadn't noticed before. Beyond it were more rooms, these ones plainly decorated with wooden chairs and beds with thin mattresses. Andrew wondered if that was where he was meant to sleep.
Past those rooms was a door. Andrew opened it, and discovered a steep staircase made of rocks and mortar that twisted down and vanished into darkness. Andrew opened the door as wide as he could to let light shine in, then carefully climbed down the steps.
At the bottom, he found a table with candles and matches. Deciding that his mother would rather he use a match than hurt himself in the dark, he lit one of the candles and held it up so he could see.
To his left was another door. This one made of thick wood planks and metal, and no taller than he was. There was a bar across it, held in place by a padlock bigger than Andrew's hand.
Somehow, Andrew knew this was where the prince was.
He found no key, nor was there any answer when he knocked on the door and asked if anyone was there. But he heard sounds of movement, and breathing. He tried talking some more, but there was still no response.
Andrew sat down. If he was supposed to wait in the prince's quarters and this was the prince, then that was what he would do. He carefully placed the candle in a puddle of wax on the floor and talked to himself about castles and ogres and princes and kings.
***
Later, when Andrew had many times walked up the stairs to use what he hoped was the servants' toilet, and when he had nothing but water from the bathroom sink to fill both his thirst and his hunger, and when he'd fallen asleep on the cold stone floor and woken with a start of fear that *he* was the one on the other side of the door, unable to do anything except be trapped and unable to fulfill his basic needs, the stern-faced man appeared again, this time coming down the staircase entirely by himself.
Andrew stood up. He tried to bow. "Hello, sire."
The man ignored him. He pulled a key out of his pocket and undid the padlock. He reached inside and pulled out a young, thin boy who couldn't have been older than ten. He wore rich, though dusty clothing, and a pair of glasses was knocked out of place as the man shook him.
"Have you learned your lesson?" the man demanded.
"Yes, father," the boy said.
The man threw him down onto the ground. "You dare think you are smart enough to tell me what you do and do not know?"
The boy scuttled back against the wall. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"You are an embarrassment to me and this family," the man said. "A *shame* to our reputation."
The boy kept his eyes on the ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't - "
"Speak, *up*, child!"
The boy winced. "I'm sorry, sir!"
The man advanced. "You would shout at me? Is that the attitude I have raised you to have? Is that what you think is proper behavior for someone of your standing?"
The boy shook his head, then scrambled to push his glasses back onto his face before they fell. "No, sir. I don't, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"You are a waste of a child," the man said. "A pathetic excuse for a son since the moment you were born. You will never amount to anything."
The boy seemed to be struggling not to cry. "I'm sorry, sir."
"And *you*," the man said, turning his gaze on Andrew now. "You who would be a servant to this burden I am forced to call by my own last name. What have you seen here, tonight? What will you say if anyone asks you about it?"
It was then that Andrew understood the reason for the third quality that every spouse's servant had. He swallowed, and forced himself to speak past the sick feeling in his stomach. "Nothing, sire. I saw nothing."
"Good lad," the man said. "You can stay."
***
"Has my son contacted you?" Roger asked.
Andrew stood in front of Roger's desk. In all his years of living with the family, he'd never before been summoned appear before Roger directly. On the other hand, in all his years of living with the family, Roger had never been inclined to have long and friendly conversations with the help. "No, sire."
"If you are lying to me I can have you punished," Roger said. "Cast out into the world without any of the Council's protection."
"With all due respect, sire," Andrew said, "I am a spouse's servant. I *have* protection."
"Wesley is gone," Roger said the words as though spitting out rotten fruit. "Which means you are nothing, save one who lives by my own charity."
"My oaths are for my life and his," Andrew said. "To break them you'd have to kill me. Which… okay, is possibly something I shouldn't have pointed out."
"You will be reassigned elsewhere in the castle," Roger said. "You will serve at my discretion and the *moment*, the *moment* I learn of you hiding any communication between my son and you -"
"I won't betray him," Andrew said.
Roger didn't blink. "Young man, you should be more concerned with what shall happen if I find out you are betraying *me*."
***
Mauro was the large, Italian man who worked in the kitchens. He was also currently glaring at Andrew. "No!"
"Please?" Andrew asked. "It won't be any trouble. I can do it myself and everything."
"I said no," Mauro sent a large cleaver slicing through a leg of lamb. He raised the blade, waving it in front of Andrew's face. "Now stop bothering me, before I serve *you* for dinner."
Andrew tried not to flinch. "You don't understand. My mom doesn't have anything. All I'm asking is if I can send her some of the food we normally throw away. You know, the extra stuff?"
Mauro grabbed him, thankfully putting the blade down but holding Andrew painfully by the scruff of his neck. "And *you* don't understand that I don't care about you or your mama. I serve the royal family, who have better things to do than care about snot-nosed whiners like you."
Andrew rubbed the back of his hand across his face. "I am *not* a whiner."
"Nor are either of you a member of the royal family," a new voice said. All the work in the kitchen stopped as Wesley appeared. "I am, so perhaps I can settle this."
Mauro sketched out a bow. "Your highness, I was just telling this gnat - "
"This *boy* is my *servant*," Wesley said, his voice crisp and commanding, even for an eleven year old. "Which means he is to be taken care of."
"Forgive me, your highness," Mauro said. "I did not realize he was yours."
"I won't have people go hungry," Wesley said. "You will make sure Andrew's mother and family do not go without. Is that understood?"
Mauro bowed again. "Yes, your highness. Right away."
"Thank you, that will be all," Wesley said. He gave a practiced nod of greeting to the rest of the room before leaving.
Andrew followed on his heels. "Sire, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."
Wesley smiled at him. "Don't be silly. I was happy to help."
"But if your father finds out you were in the servants' wing - " Andrew warned him.
"You should have told me your mother was hungry," Wesley said.
"Sire, even still," Andrew said. "Your father won't be pleased to know about this."
Wesley's face became more serious. "My father is never pleased, Andrew. But at least now you won't have to worry about your family."
***
Andrew held a tray of canapés aloft. He worked his way through the crowd, stopping to offer food to the various clusters of people. He kept his sight on the bar, however, and once there hissed to get Lorne's attention.
"Any word?" Andrew asked.
Lorne shook his head. He went through the motions of setting up a drinks tray for Andrew to take. "Nothing. I thought maybe there was a spell tapping at my window last night, but turns out it was just a tree branch. You?"
Andrew shook his head. "Nothing."
"Well keep a chipper thought," Lorne said. "No news is good news, right?"
"Usually," Andrew said. "Except with him, no news is usually *worse* news."
Lorne grimaced at that, and couldn't disagree.
***
Wesley was curled up in bed, a tight bump underneath a pile of blankets. He faced the wall, though for the moment it didn't matter.
"He just made you do it?" Andrew asked, peering down at the large, white bandage that wrapped around Wesley's head and effectively blindfolded his eyes.
"My father felt it was time," Wesley said.
"But I thought the spell was still an experiment," Andrew said. "Didn't Mr. Giles say they hadn't worked all the kinks out?"
"It corrects vision," Wesley said. "It doesn't have to do anything else."
"I don't know," Andrew said. "It could make you grow an extra head. It could restore your eyes but take out your lungs. It could - " Andrew trailed off. For the first time he noticed Wesley's hand, which had a white-knuckled grip on his pillow case. " - really hurt."
"Twelve years old is too old to be wearing glasses," Wesley said, his voice lightly echoing Roger's accent.
"Sire, can I get you anything?" Andrew asked. "Some ice? Or - or some ointment maybe?"
"No, Andrew, thank you," Wesley said.
"Or a potion," Andrew said. "I learned a new one. It'll make you sleep and - and okay, not thirsty, but sleeping's good, right? Maybe you can sleep, and heal?"
Wesley's hand twitched against the pillowcase. "I can't."
"That's what I mean," Andrew stood up eagerly. "I'll go get it. You'll be well-rested and your throat won't have a dry spot in it and - "
"I *can't*," Wesley said, then sucked in a breath as his body spasmed in pain. "I'm not allowed to have anything."
Andrew sat back down. "But I'm your servant. I'm supposed to take care of you."
"My father said - " Wesley took in another breath, this one shuddering. "He said I am not allowed. That this is a learning experience."
"Sire," Andrew said, "you're in *pain*."
"Spouses do not feel pain," Wesley recited, his voice a whisper. "They have no needs, they have no wants, they make no demands of their wives or husbands."
Andrew's eyes widened in horror as a drop of blood slipped out from underneath the bandage, and fell down Wesley's cheek. "Sire - "
"No one would ever want a spouse with imperfections," Wesley's voice was choked. More blood seeped down, the new drops tinged pink as they mingled with tears. "No one would ever want a spouse who is weak, and must be taken care of, and can't - "
Andrew rubbed Wesley's arm, feeling the tension in it even through the blankets. "Sire…"
" - can't even *see*," Wesley managed to gasp out, then curled into himself even tighter.
Andrew watched him, feeling helpless. He was supposed to take care of Wesley, to be at the ready with something brewed up or prepared to help make him feel better and maintain the illusion of spouses living only to serve. But Roger had his own interpretation of Council lessons, and frankly Andrew wasn't certain the Council lessons were all that merciful to begin with.
He decided to help the only way he could.
"You'll get a husband," Andrew said. "He'll be a king, the strongest and bravest in all the land. He'll rule over an enormous kingdom, filled with beautiful gardens that hold flowers of every color of the rainbow. The castle will be made entirely of windows, and sunlight and air will sweep through it every hour of the day."
Wesley's breathing began to steady. "Not - not very private."
"There'll be curtains," Andrew assured him. "And your husband - "
"The king."
"The king," Andrew confirmed. "He'll make proclamations. All must avert their eyes when Prince Wesley is dressing, for surely he is the finest prince in all the land, and there are none worthy of looking upon him."
"Except for him," Wesley said.
"Right," Andrew said. "Because *he* is the finest king. He will be handsome - "
"Tall?"
"Not obnoxiously so," Andrew said. "And he'll have broad shoulders, and muscles, and maybe dimples when he smiles. Do you like dimples?"
"I will like whatever my husband has," Wesley said. "Whatever he is shall be perfect to me."
Andrew noticed that Wesley wasn't shaking as much anymore. "Then I think he has dimples. Dimples, and brown eyes - "
"Not blue?"
"You have blue," Andrew said. "He can have brown."
"All right," Wesley said.
"He will be renowned for his generosity, and kindness," Andrew said. "His subjects will adore him, babies will cease crying once they are in his arms, and small animals will flock from far and wide just to be near him."
"Quite a crowd."
"But he'll ultimately care only for you," Andrew said. "He will love you with all of his heart and all of his soul. He will find you to be perfect. He will notice and tell everyone how surely you were the finest student, who passed all of your classes with the highest marks, and how no spouse could be more wonderful than you are."
The bandage over Wesley's eyes was stained with blood, but fortunately the flow seemed to have stopped. "He'll be proud of me?"
"No husband could be prouder," Andrew said. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, gently dabbing it across Wesley's face. "And he'll protect you. He'll take you away from here, and you'll never have to be afraid of demons, vampires, or - or anyone ever again.."
"He sounds wonderful," Wesley said.
"He will be," Andrew promised.
***
"You don't think - " the thought was almost too horrible for Andrew to contemplate.
"I don't know what to think," Lorne said.
Andrew began to tear up a piece of paper in a nervous habit. "It's been so long. Months and months and we haven't heard anything. What if he - "
"I'm sure they'd tell us."
"But what if he - "
"I'm *pretty* sure they'd tell us," Lorne took the paper from him, dropping it into a waste bin. "After all, they'd want to have a funeral."
Andrew double checked that the door to their shared bedroom - a tiny room, deep in the heart of the lowliest servants' quarters - was closed. "With *Wesley's* dad? Are you sure about that?"
"No," Lorne admitted. "But it's better than thinking about the alternative."
"Maybe he's okay," Andrew said. "Maybe - maybe he ran away. Or maybe he never got there, and now he's living in some wonderful town with wonderful people and - "
"Yeah," Lorne said, "and maybe he didn't actually get sent off to the worst vampire who ever lived as a not-so-virgin sacrifice."
Andrew's face fell. "I can't believe they did that."
Lorne's expression mirrored his own. "Yeah. Me neither."
***