Alexander

Prince

Alexander woke up to a gallon of dirty, freezing water being dumped on his head. He sat up spluttering and swearing, certain that it was still the middle of the night. He'd just gotten to sleep having found a more or less comfortable position on the nasty, bug infested bed.

"Time to get that arse out of bed, Alex! We have a very big day today!"

Waking up to Nicholas's voice brought back several painful memories, and his body decided to stall, earning him a kick in the back. Alexander managed to scramble to his feet before Nicholas could justify giving him another one.

"Good boy," Nicholas said, scratching his dripping head like a dog. "Now, I need you to refill this bucket," he said, extending it to him. "It was our drinking water. Now hurry up! If you take too long there will be consequences."

Alexander took the bucket and hauled his drowsy self up the rickety stairs, the phrase 'too long' playing in his head like a mantra. What did 'too long' mean? Five minutes? An hour? It took the maid at least an hour and a half.

He hurried, but knew deep down that his first beating was to come before the sun had risen above the horizon. It took him a little less than an hour, and Alexander was exhausted and trembling from the exertion of sprinting to the well, filling the heavy bucket, and hurrying back, trying to spill as little as possible. Just as he'd expected, Nicholas stood waiting for him, a thick rod in his hand.

"Took your sweet time, didn't you?" he asked. It felt as if all the bile in his stomach was boiling, incinerating him slowly. The way Alexander stood there, looking so much like Mother it made his heart ache. It was an insult, blasphemy. His eyes were a deep brown, making it seem as if there were no pupils there. The rest of the children had inherited their father's vivid blue eyes. Many people, maiden and man alike, were drawn in by the blue orbs, but Nicholas had always been jealous of Alex's eyes. His frame, like Elizabeth's, mimicked Mother's as well. He knew the only way to relieve the fire was to beat the boy, so he would. But if Nicholas was honest, that's not why he had butterflies.

Alexander said nothing, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would change the way Nicholas was going to treat him. He wouldn't beg either. Never.

The first hit was like a test in Nicholas's mind. Sure, he'd hit Alexander thousands of times, but not like this. Not with permission. He knew he had to pace himself or Father would know that there was something going on— but oh, how good it felt. To Alexander's credit, he didn't cry out. He took it like a man, but Nicholas wouldn't allow himself to feel respect for the boy. With respect would come guilt, and that might take away from the ecstasy he felt when he beat him.

As for Alexander, he was confused by his brother's restraint. He'd never gotten in trouble for hitting him before, so why was he holding back now, when Father all but gave him his signet ring to do so?

But that's all that Alexander got. Nicholas's eyes were glittering as they always did when he got intense satisfaction from Alexander's reaction (which he tried wholeheartedly not to give him), but it didn't make sense. Alexander had a sneaking suspicion that Nicholas wanted him to ask about it, maybe even say thank you for it, but he wouldn't, not yet anyway.

"Now, go and prepare my horse," Nicholas said. "Then come straight back. If you run off, I'll hit you again."

A whisper of a thought intruded Alexander's mind before he shoved it away forcefully. If the hit came like it just had, running off would almost be worth it. He took off towards the stable, praying that the stablehand, Mark, hadn't already seen to it.

The manor's stable was made of expensive, yet old, wood. The previously worked grains were reappearing, the danger of a splinter much higher than when the walls were first put up.