A Royal Mess

[Dewey]

They had reverted back to their name calling.

Prince Alain stared up at the cloudless afternoon sky as he lounged on a bench, today's issue of the Enquirer clutched so tightly within his fingers the paper was starting to tear at the edges. His other hand reclined over his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sunlight, casting a shadow upon his face that darkened his already brooding features.

His personal advisor had said it best. The public media was like an unfaithful lover. They doted on you in good times; they even enjoyed singing accolades about your strength of character, or your dedication to a cause. The moment you fell from so high a climb, though, they encircled you like vultures, ready to rip apart your flesh piece by piece. They became violent, rude, uncouth. Abandoning any earlier affection for you, they now highlighted your inadequacies and sought solace in the arms of another.

Alain closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt the onset of a migraine. Why were his popularity ratings so unpredictable? Just months ago, the public loved him! Adored him. They were excited, young and old, about his future assumption to the throne. Now they abhorred him. All because of a speech! A speech about social justice and class equality, of all things. Was it truly so uncalled for? Had he erred in thinking the issue pertinent and imperative? He had thought his people would be thrilled by his concern for a marginalized population, but instead they were appalled.

Perhaps what hurt most was that, little did they know, he was among that marginalized population. He bore a triple helix DNA. He was able to perform the same supernatural acts French citizens were repeatedly filing complaints against. He'd lost count as to how many impossible feats he could master; since his DNA was in a constant state of evolution, the number multiplied daily. Each morning, he awoke, wondering what skills would be afforded him that day. It was a curse to him. He uttered feverish prayers in the middle of the night, demanding the Lord to take away his powers, to make him normal, and to above all make him a D'Aubigne.

That's what it came down to, after all. He was not a D'Aubigne. If he was, his father the King would simply pat his shoulder, assure him every prince had his bad day, and work with him on bettering his popularity ratings. Ever since King Frederic discovered the truth about Alain, such niceties had been abandoned. An adopted son, let alone a bastard child, could never assume a royal throne. It would be an affront to the House of D'Aubigne. A bloodline centuries old would be discontinued. Alain understood the logistics, and as unfair as he believed it to be, and as indignant as he felt in his heart, he knew the throne would have to go to Philippe.

He held no ill will against his younger brother, though. Perhaps jealousy that Philippe could lay claim to a familiar tradition that was rich in his very blood. Alain could not. Alain was born to a French prostitute, and reared in the auspices of a disease-infested brothel. He therefore had nothing. His entire life had been waved together with lies; they very palace in which he lived was no more than an illusion, a pale imitation of all the things that didn't truly belong to him after all.

Was this what Moses felt like when he was finally told he was not a Prince of Egypt, but in fact the child of slaves? Did he feel this same betrayal? This same heartbreak, this same loneliness? Alain had no one. Jackie was kind and gentle, yes, but she had a world to save, and a new relationship with which to be concerned. She didn't have time for her obsessive-compulsive, manic-depressive brother (especially when he wasn't her brother at all!) Alain knew she'd do anything for him, but he was beginning to feel like a burden. It was time to do things on his own and for himself.

He was fresh in his twenty-first year. As tempting as the Enquirer's advice had been for this Phantom Prince to return to the shadows, Alain simply would not do so. He would not let this deceit paralyze him in fear. Why should he be humiliated of a genetic mutation that enhanced his abilities? Why should he dread the day when the nation discovered he was adopted? Was there any shame in either of those things? No! Of course not.

Alain opened his eyes and glanced at the newspaper in his hand. Crumbling it into a ball, he tossed it into a trash bin and stood up. It was time to embrace the facts. He wasn't a D'Aubigne, and that made him a stranger in his own home. Nothing would ever change that fact. Nothing he could do would make him his father's son. Jackie couldn't baby him forever, and it was time to grow up. It would've been nice to have a friend, but it looked like this upward struggle was going to have to be a solo act. At least for now.

[Dewey]

((Perhaps this occurred before the phone call to Ara. I meant for it to be more light-hearted and humorous, but Charles didn’t seem at all pleased with Alain, so I let him have his soap box so that he could rant lol))

“Why was I not informed that my personal bodyguard is a trained assassin!”

Charles Hainsworth looked up from the thickening pile of papers upon his desk, and found himself staring at the former crown prince of France, Alain D’Aubigne. Beside him, an exasperated secretary shook her head, wide eyes searching her supervisor’s for a reprieve. In any other situation, it wouldn’t have been granted. However, where it concerned the Royal Family of France, certain exceptions were constantly made. Besides, Charles suspected Alain had let himself past the agency’s state-of-the-art security.

The 68-year-old Chief-in-Command of France’s secret service agency waved off his secretary. “It’s all right, Mildred. Alain is always welcomed in my office.” Even when it inconveniences me. Once the two were left alone, Charles pushed his reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose and returned his attention to the pile of work before him.

“Do you realize how—?”

Charles held up a hand to silence the twenty-one year old. “Give me just a moment to finish this report, Alain.”

Unused to being interrupted, much less silenced, Alain could only stare at the man. Realizing his royal affiliations meant nothing in this office, he cleared his throat, embarrassingly, and strolled about the premises, hands clasped behind his back as he admired Charles’ library and framed achievements.

“I didn’t know you were in a war, Charles.”

The man didn’t look up. “Briefly, yes. Unfortunately, an injury brought me back home, I’m afraid.” His pen swirled across the bottom of a page, as he graced it with his signature. Finished, he closed the manila folder that contained the paperwork and set it aside. Only then did he truly acknowledge Alain’s presence. “Now, what is your concern?”

Alain approached the desk, drawing forth a chair before sitting down. “Why was I not informed of Ara Levenworth’s past? Her involved with mercenary work?”

“All of our agents are licensed to kill, Alain. That’s what qualifies them to their position, quite frankly. Surely you’re not surprised by this.”

“Clearly I am. There’s a difference between acting on behalf of this agency, and killing for one’s own sick pleasure. She’s practically a murderer!”

Charles watched the young man for a moment. “You’re referring to Agent Levenworth’s involvement with Michel Scarselli and Nicolas Capritti.”

“They’re criminals, Charles.”

“You certainly are outspoken on the issue. Why should it matter what business Agent Levenworth’s engages in outside of her work? I certainly haven’t found any err in her ways. When she starts robbing banks, crashing planes into skyscrapers, and drowning children, you’re more than welcome to file your complaints. Until then, your highness, I advise you simply mind yourself.”

Alain scoffed. “And that’s it? You’re simply going to allow her to fraternize with criminals?”

“You may have forgotten this,” Charles said, “but Nicolas Capritti was among those who successfully rescued you from the hostage situation in China. Michel Scarselli is the very one who investigated your suspicions against the D’Alassio family. It cost Mr. Scarselli his affiliation with the Familes, and now his life, well-being, and privately owned business are all daily at stake. Both of these men risked quite a lot for you, Alain, and certainly not because they wanted to, mind you.

“Allow me to be frank,” he continued. “You see, had I put any other man on that job, a man from the justice system you so desperately seek to believe in, you would be as good as dead right now. Many times over, really. Men like Mr. Scarselli and Mr. Capritti, however, do their job—and do it well—for more than just a salary at the end of the day. They do it because they want to make things right in society, because they feel a sense of higher duty. No, it’s nothing Romantic. The work is hard, the hours are long, and the very idea is criminal. You’re judged by those who know about it constantly. Some even work up the gall to call you a ‘murderer’ to your face.”

He looked at Alain pointedly. Alain glanced away.

“But someone has to do it. Someone has to clean up the messes in our world, Alain. As devout a Catholic as you claim to be, I’d get on my knees and thank the Lord every night, if I were you, for such people. As much as you whine about not being a D’Aubigne and having been robbed of your precious crown and your precious throne, I still receive more death threats every day against you than anyone else in all of France. A simple ‘thank you’ would have been sufficient this afternoon. Do I place deadly assassins on assignments that revolve around you? You’re damn straight I do. And I’m not apologetic about it in the least. I trust in their abilities more than I trust in the abilities of the overweight sycophants your advisory board employs, and I will not tolerate the temper tantrum of a twenty-one year old bastard child who thinks he’s entitled to royalty simple because he was raised within the walls of a palace, who has the audacity to question the judgment calls of the man who protects his life every second of the day. Do I make myself clear, Alain?”

He had. The young man sat before him, in utter shock and despair, with no sharp wit to throw back. Instead, he slowly stood from the chair, turned around, and showed himself out of the office.