Work Text:
York tried not to think of it too much, as someone came to tilt the crown resting on his head, pushing it a little further to the side, letting it balance precariously utop him. They didn’t spare him a look, as they leant back, checking the angle before they shifted it a little further, and he could feel it starting to slide. Neither of them reached for it, just watched as his hair settled, and waited to see where it would land.
In the end it held its place, tugging his lightened forelocks with it and tangling with his longer hair at the back of his head. He just stood there, patiently, while the woman in front of him gave him another once over, plucking a single fallen hair off his cloak and walking away, dragging a small step ladder with her.
After that, they began, pointing him and moving him, posing him like a doll as photographers moved around the space. He was told where to look, and how to hold himself, something the orcish prince had never had to do before. He knew when to submit, when to be trained and taught, when to learn and listen, but he had never been told what to do, least of all with his crown atop his head.
That simply wasn’t how things worked in the orc tribes.
He knew what it was like for others, he had spoken to Grandma often about their training and conditioning, and the way they had been raised to be seen as the heir to the Highforge name, and how hard they had worked to overcome that. Watched what it meant for them to unpack their role in their family, now that they had abandoned that life, now that they had become someone new.
But that only made York more aware of his difference as he stood there, staring too intensely into the lens of a camera until he heard his name, and looked up to his friends.
A smile softened his features for a brief moment, and the camera’s flickered quickly all around him, catching the second his gaze hardened again. He was the prince, and he knew now that that meant he was supposed to hold himself somehow even more rigid, even more stoic, and yet, even more compliant.
He was supposed to be the orcish prince, bark and bite in equal measures, a bad boy, dangerous, and yet still royalty as ‘decent society’ dictated it. They wanted him covered in blood and mud and rain, and yet they draped him in velvet and silk. They showed his scars, brushing dark pigments into the barely there creases in his skin, just to sell whiskeys and watches.
That didn’t matter to him though; or at least it normally didn’t. Sitting on a draft horse, half naked in the snow, surrounded by people just doing their jobs was one thing, but standing there, crown januting off his hair, fur heavy down his back, and a woman walking over to paint something red onto his skin, felt a little too far.
His eyes shot to the woman, finally looking at someone as if they were really there, and not just another part of the system he was in, and she offered him the same look of sudden recognition. This was a man. This was a real man, painted like a tragic version of himself. But this was work, and they needed to do it, so he stood still as she climbed onto her little step and started painting the runny substance across his face.
She took a handful and smeared it over his cheek, sloppily, and he felt the warm liquid dripping down his face, running down the front of his neck and onto the front edge of the cape. He didn’t ask her about it, just let her do what she needed to, before she pulled away, and gave him a once over.
“We’ll be done soon.” She whispered to him, as she climbed down, trying to offer him at least some relief from the strange sensation growing in him, and he gave her an appreciative nod, even offering a hand to her as she got back onto the ground, and wandered off. He watched her for a moment, staring too hard at her eyes, the ones on the back of her shoulders, that seemed to scrunch up as if smiling at him. And then he was being commanded once more to look a certain way.
He passed the rest of the day quickly, if not miserably, until the cast called it a day, and York did what he always did, and walked into the arms of his family, who took him home.
They didn’t wait for someone to take off all his makeup, or his clothes. At this point, everyone knew he was just going to take it, so as often as they could they finished a day in something they didn’t mind him taking, because there was no way they could stop him. So he walked out onto the street, taking the worried looks, the ones he got most days anyway in the city with so few orcs, and took his family home.
It wasn't until long after he had gotten home, that he understood the specific nuance of their looks that day. Long after they had eaten dinner, and settled in for the night on the couch, Rosé settling onto the floor with her laptop to work on an assignment for school, while Grandma laid a head in York’s lap, reaching up to untangle the crown from his hair finally, and pulling it to their own chest as York tried to find something to watch.
He smiled down at the dwarf in his lap, watching them turning the prop over in their hands, before smiling at York and holding it up to their own head.
“How’s it look?” They asked, pushing themself up to let it sit properly on them, puffing their chest out in a display that seemed to fit the Highforge heir.
“Very pretty.” York replied, pulling a few strands of Grandma’s hair forwards over their shoulders. “You should keep it.”
“Are you sure? I have a bunch already.”
“I’ll take it if you don’t want it.” Rosé chirped up beside them, taking any distraction from her work as she walked over and sat on York’s other side, waiting as Grandma reached over to put it on her, laughing as it slipped straight over her head, and hung around her neck.
“Okay, don’t worry, it's yours.” She laughed brightly as she pulled it off, and returned it to its rightful place on Grandma’s head. “But I don't think you’ll suit all the blood.”
“Oh, not at all, you can have that.” They laughed together as York just looked at them. What blood? The bloodshed of colonialism? The blood of a warring warrior? Is that how they saw him?
“Thanks Grandma.” Rosé teased, leaning over to press her cheek against Yorks, “Red’s my colour anyway.”
She smeared her face against his, and he pressed back against her, confused but never one to deny her an ounce of affection, until she pulled away, and he saw what she meant. The bright red paint that he had been wearing had transferred to her cheek and he stared, transfixed, at the image of his bloodied friend. Then over to Grandma, the crown resting beautifully on their head. Their hair was a little longer than his own had been when he had left for human society, but the image wrung him dry.
“Wait.” He said, suddenly stilted to their conversation as he stood straight up, and walked out, both of them spilling off his sides as he moved towards the bathroom, not even closing the door behind him as he rounded the corner to stare into the mirror. He just needed to see, just needed to know what he looked like, blood smeared on his face, his scars darkened to the way they had looked when they were fresh.
His eyes were bright and fearful when he met them in his reflection, staring too deeply into himself as he saw what he might’ve looked like a lifetime ago, back when he had last been bloodied like that, back when he had enforced his rightful claim to the throne.
Was this what his brother had seen, looming above him, before he finally succumbed? York closed his eyes, biting away the memory he didn’t realise he was still holding so tightly, but it persisted behind his closed eyes. His own face in the mirror becoming his brothers, the young man, a full orc unlike himself, with sharper tusks and a stronger core, but still his younger brother. Still too young to demand the prince's birthright from him.
He couldn’t remember how the fight had started, but it was messy and desperate, and for better or worse, very public. His own people had watched as his brother had thrown him to the ground, grabbing what might've been a rock and breaking York’s nose with it, gouging a line through the center of his face. A line that was now collecting eyeshadow and fake blood.
York shook his head trying to dislodge the memory, but he couldn’t get it to stop as he watched himself grab his brother by the throat, tossing him away and pouncing on him, honouring the other orc enough to fight him back. He straddled his brother and punched down, again and again, muscles heaving until his brother managed to buck him off, struggling onto his feet to stare him down.
They looked at eachother, faces broken and bleeding in the middle of the street, as their subjects gathered around them to watch, waiting to see what would become of the crowned princes. They had become a morbid display as all the orcs, supporting either the rightful heir or the true orc, started to cheer for them.
The sounds of their shouts still echoed in Yorks ears as he stood in his bathroom, and he slammed his hands up against his ears to try to block it out, but without the sound of the distant tv and the streets and Rosé and Grandma and their neighbours and the whole world, he was trapped with just the shouts. The choir calling for his death, or to see him kill.
But that was better than when it was drowned back out by his brother’s knuckles breaking against his cheek, his own rib cracking against a knee, soft flesh squelching as it was torn through. It was better than his brother's ragged gasps, coughing blood onto the ground as York had stood above him, swaying unsteadily on his feet, unwilling to kill his brother but unable to stop.
He took his hair in his hand, yanking his head back to meet his eyes.
“Why?”
“You’re not good enough to lead, you won't even kill me.” His brother had taunted, even as blood dripped from his mouth from a wound York knew was fatal. But that wasn’t what he had meant, and with a hidden grimace, he had taken his brother's face in both his hands.
The loud crunch of bone was replaced with Grandma’s voice behind him, and York startled like a deer, shouting as he turned, arms up to defend himself, unable to register what was happening as Grandma and Rosé both stood in the doorway, watching him, hearing him panting in the tiny room, tears streaking his face.
“York?” Grandma asked softly, reaching a hand towards him like he was a frightened dog, holding it away from him as he watched.
They stepped forwards, and when York didn’t respond, they did it again, until they had closed the small space, and were touching his hand, taking it in their own, swiping their thumb over the back of his scarred knuckles.
His breath hitched and he looked up at Rosé, meeting her gaze, his own still fearful, still guilty, and hurt. There was no time for him to feel shame as tears hit his cheeks. Her face was still bloodied, and now Grandma’s hands were too. He couldn’t help it as he slid his back down the wall and curled in on himself, releasing Grandma’s hand and wrapping both his arms around himself as if he were hurt, as if it still hurt to breathe past his broken ribs.
He hadn’t meant to kill his brother, his baby brother, a man he had helped raise. He sobbed, a strange choking sound ripping from his throat as he thought of him. Thought of holding him just minutes after he had been born, kissing his little face, and promising to protect him for as many months as it took before the young orc was strong enough to care for himself. Thought of the way he smiled to him over breakfast the very morning of the day he attacked him.
There was no way York could ever know what had finally broken him, had snapped his composure and pushed him to try to claim the throne, but it haunted him to wonder. What had he done, what had changed?
He looked back up, meeting his friends' eyes, and was forced to ask himself if they would do it too. Would they kill for his title? They had the blood and the crown already, all that was left was to end him, and as he was, he wouldn’t be able to stop them. He was strong enough, but he couldn’t, not again.
He was distantly aware of the sound of running water, and tried to watch, through his gasping attempts at breathing, and his bleary eyes, what was going on around him. Rosé held his cheek and he gave her a miserable smile. It was his turn, was all he could think, as he waited for the snap that never came, and was instead replaced by a soft cloth rubbing the side of his face. It was warm and damp, and moving in soft circles down his face.
Grandma peeled his cloak off him, leaving him bare chested on the floor, as they took it somewhere out of his view, and returned with a warm hand in his own, wiping it clean just as Rosé was, till there wasn’t a trace of blood left on him, and his breathing has slowed to something deep and exhausted.
He knew where he was, knew his friends cared about him, knew they weren’t going to hurt him, but they still had the blood on their cheeks, their hands. He had bloodied them.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered into the room, finally breaking the silence as they finished up.
“You don’t need to apologize.” Rosé said softly, watching as he took the cloth from her hand, as gently as his trembling body could, and reached for her face.
He wiped away the paint in painfully slow movements, scared he would find her face broken under it all, scared to see his brother's dark green skin hidden under the red, but there was nothing there. Just Rosé; just his Rosé, smiling softly at him, and taking the dirtied cloth back from him.
“Are you okay, buddy?” Grandma asked beside him, and his mind, still hazy from it all, raced over to them, taking their hands in his, and rubbing them both clean as well. Less careful, but more fearful. Desperate to see that there were no knuckles broken beneath the paint, no scars and no cuts like he had had on his own hands. But they were clear, they both were.
“I’m okay.” He said weakly, nodding as he did so, but still staring down at Grandma’s hands, just to make sure. Unable to risk them turning into fists behind him and dropping him with a single hit, as if he wasn’t still sitting on the bathroom floor.
“Do you want to get up?” They offered softly, rising slowly to their own feet, and he followed them up without thinking, standing to his full height, but still holding both of their hands.
“Do you want a drink?”
Someone asked, he couldn’t be sure who anymore as a sort of exhaustion overcame him, standing up suddenly proving to be the hardest thing he knew how to do. He just nodded, and followed along as Grandma tried to lead him to the bedroom and Rosé left for the kitchen, but he froze as he saw them split, eyes darting between them both. Would they attack him alone, would they sneak up on him.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Grandma was speaking. “We can go with her too.” They said, and together they went to the kitchen to make warm drinks, something easy to drink, but mostly just something to keep his hands busy, as he took the mug in both hands, and let himself be led into their bedroom, where he sat rigidly in the middle of their bed.
His friends sat beside him, drinking silently as time dragged on, and York seemed to settle to some extent, coming down from panic, and slipping into the deep pit of exhaustion that followed.
He leant back against the headboard as his body started to give in, and Rosé took his cup from him a few seconds before it would’ve slipped out of his hands.
“You guys won’t try to kill me, right?” He asked, looking into the distance with lidded eyes.
“Why would we ever do that?” Rosé asked, setting their cups aside, and moving to sit beside him, letting her shoulder brush his.
“The crown.” He answered, as well as he could through the fog that was creeping up all around him.
“We don’t want your crown.” Grandma said, coming up to sit on his other side, going a little further than Rosé, and leaning their head on his shoulder. “And even if we did, we’d never try to hurt you, York.”
“We love you.” Rosé said, wrapping her arms around his side, as he relaxed a little more into them, yawning as he reached out to pull them both against himself.
“I love you too.” He said, not letting him think anymore about his brother, and the innumerable amount of times they had said that to each other as well. He would just have to trust in his new friends, and the new life he had made for himself. They loved him, they said they did, and that was enough; that had to be enough.