Chapter Text
Foolish
When the option had arisen, of being protected by the crown’s guard in return for being the royal bard, Foolish had felt like he’d gotten a lot more out of that deal than the king ever would. There was no obligation to Foolish - all he’d been was the son of a general who was assassinated. That, really, wasn’t any of the king’s business. But Foolish hadn’t even had to ask for sanctuary or protection, because the offer had been placed before him not a day after his father’s funeral rites were complete.
The king of course saw the lute on Foolish’s back, and asked if he performed - which he did, though not often - and suggested a simple trade. His identity would be kept secret, and he would be protected in return for music in the court, and companionship on any travels the crown might need to take.
It had seemed like a no-brainer, and Foolish had agreed without a moment’s hesitation.
Maybe, if he had thought about it, it would have seemed too good to be true. But watching the man who raised you be disemboweled before your eyes did tend to make one feel desperate for any sense of security. The king and the crown guard could provide that, and no matter what they were doing now - they were keeping Foolish alive. And that was all they’d really promised.
Still, Foolish was pretty positive that ‘bard’ and ‘concubine’ were not meant to be synonymous.
Foolish was glad his father was dead, and couldn't see him now. It felt like an awful thing to think, but if anyone from Foolish’s old life saw what he’d let become of him, he was sure he would simply die on the spot out of shame.
But the King’s promise had rung true for the past few years - nobody who would recognize Foolish outside of the guard and advisory to the king had been there, and they were all privy to their agreement. They hadn’t been the ones to kill Foolish’s father, those had been assassins from the rebellion in the kingdom.
They weren’t murderers . But then again, his father had always told him that taking a woman - or man, when Foolish admitted his preference one day as an adolescent - to bed without their agreement was just about as bad as killing them, and he should never do so. Foolish hadn’t. And he certainly hadn’t expected someone else to do as much to him, but here he was.
He watched dully as the King stood, business finished, and moved into the washroom adjacent to Foolish’s small quarters.
Part of him wished he’d never taken that deal, that agreement, and that he’d simply risked being killed by the people who had murdered his father. But then again, as bad as this was, Foolish didn’t want to die.
He waited until the heavy door had swung shut before sitting up, shrouding himself in one of the bedsheets to wait until the king was done cleaning himself, and left without a word. As always. Then Foolish could scrub the awful sins away from himself, put on his colorful clothes and get his lute and go out into the court to play music. It would be like this never even happened - just like it always was when this happened.
A bitter kind of amusement welled up in his chest at that thought, but he held back a scoff at the entire situation. It was best to just… not.
Don’t laugh, don’t cry, don’t even talk.
That lesson had been driven home very well, with every stitch that held his lips together.
The door opened, and out stepped the King. He barely cast a glance Foolish’s way, before disappearing out into the corridors.
Once his footsteps faded, Foolish pulled himself up and over to the washroom, cleaning himself as quickly as possible before getting dressed and retrieving his lute, then the golden mask that hid the ghastly sight his face had become.
Tuning the lute as he walked, Foolish followed the familiar pathing toward the main hall, one eye on the area in front of him and one eye on the instrument. If there was one good thing that came from all of this, he had improved greatly at his craft - playing for hours upon end would do that.
“Hey!”
The foreign voice made him stop in his tracks, a dull spike of confusion running through his chest. A glance upward showed a soldier - not in the armor Foolish connected with his own land, but that train of thought was cut off quickly, as a sword was leveled toward his chest.
Ah. that wasn’t good.
“They don’t have any weapons, Roier,” the second soldier said, coming up the corridor. “It looks like a bard, you don’t have to kill a simple bard.”
“What it looks like and what it is may be different,” the first narrowed his eyes.
Who were these people? Foolish slowly slid the lute into its case on his back, hands held out empty. He didn’t really want to die - and he wasn’t sure what exactly was going on.
“Who are you?” the second asked, seeming exasperated.
Well, Foolish would love to answer that. But with the state of his mouth at the moment, that would be impossible. He just shook his head, moving one hand to the part of the mask over his mouth.
“ A mute bard ?” came the skeptical response, though Roier did lower his sword. “You must be damn good with the lute, then.”
“See, he’s not a threat,” the second strode forward confidently, pulling a set of rope from his belt. “We can take him to the prince, and see what he wants to do about it.”
A prince? As far as Foolish knew, there was no prince in this land. Just the king, and his evil evil ways.
They were being invaded - with another look over the soldier’s armor, he would say it was from their enemies over the mountains. How they’d gotten all the way to the castle, he had no idea. He knew there had been concerns about the security of a mountain pass, but he hadn’t heard of anyone getting through it.
The second soldier grabbed his arms, pulling the ropes around his wrists to bind them together. There was a moment’s pause when Foolish’s sleeve was pushed up to reveal the bruises, but the ropes were fastened regardless.
“Anyone else down this way?” he asked, giving Foolish a pointed look. Foolish shrugged, shaking his head. It wasn’t likely - these rooms and halls were usually deserted, giving the king and his guard no witnesses to the things they did to him.
“You’re just gonna trust that?” Roier asked.
“Yeah, I think so.” the second guard smiled, pushing Foolish toward the main hall. “Come on, you’re going with the rest of them and Vegetta will decide your fate.”
Ah , Prince Vegetta, that was right. Foolish had heard the name a few times, when talking to his father and then when listening into the king’s conversations. The ruthless prince of the Sevens - a warlord who killed without a care. His chances of survival were far lower than he’d thought, weren’t they?
The sight in the main hall was ghastly - blood ran over the marble floors, soaking carpet, and the clothing of the guardsmen and nobles that had already been killed. The rest - including the king - were bound and gagged against one wall. From here, Foolish could hear the sounds of the siege aftermath.
Had the king really been taking advantage of him while the castle was being attacked?
Foolish felt numbly ill at that thought, tearing his gaze away from them to the attackers. More soldiers in the same armor, all seeming to follow the orders of a man near the throne. He was looking at it with an unimpressed expression, almost disappointed.
“Found one more,” the second - and seemingly kinder - soldier called as he pushed Foolish forward. “A bard, he’s unarmed.”
The prince turned, purple cloak billowing out as he did so. The expression morphed from disappointed to intrigued, and he stalked forward until he was only a few feet away - when the soldier Roier shoved Foolish down onto his knees.
“A bard,” the prince smiled. “You’re dressed well, you must be well-liked in the court.”
Hah. Foolish would have laughed if he could, and he just blinked up at the man. Something about his eyes was friendly, despite the blood spattered on his face. Foolish… wasn’t afraid.
It was odd - this should be terrifying. But he still just felt that numbness that had become so commonplace since his father died. They were going to kill the king and his court - and Foolish… didn’t mind that. He just didn’t want to die, himself.
“Well? Nothing to say?” it was almost teasing, the way he asked.
“He’s ah- mute, sir,” the two soldier’s feet shuffled a bit, and the prince’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Really?”
With no other way to explain, Foolish dipped his head in agreement. And then a hand reached out, fingers hooking on the underside of his mask. His heart dropped, and he closed his eyes to prepare for the inevitable gasp of shock and horror.
It came - from the prince and the soldiers standing around him.
“Hol-y…” the second guard whispered.
“ Mute ,” the Prince murmured. A finger pressed against the scabbed, painful wounds, and Foolish couldn't stop himself from flinching back. “I see...”
This was just… happening. Foolish’s eyes slid open again, dully registering the frown creasing the prince’s face. He was so used to things just happening to him, now. The shame had become normal - but he couldn't really place the expression on the face in front of him.
“You play the lute?”
Foolish nodded carefully, wary of the hand still by his injured face.
“A simple bard has no place in the gallows,” Vegetta hummed. “And I do enjoy music, from time to time. Bad, get him taken care of.”
“Yes sir,” the second guard - Bad - hauled Foolish to his feet, gently slipping the mask back over his face.
What?
This was- in a way, the best-case scenario. Whatever this prince wanted him for couldn't be much worse than what had already happened - and if he really did just want music, Foolish would be very willing and able to provide.
And it seemed he wasn't going to die, which had been his only real goal for years now.
Bad guided Foolish out of the main hall - towards the courtyard of the castle keep, where Foolish hadn’t been in ages. He hadn’t gone outside in months… but now he stepped out into the daylight, over bodies and pools of blood toward a tent being set up by the broken, smoldering gate.
“We’ll be executing the king and nobles,” Bad explained to him. “Will you get in the way of that?” The way he asked made Foolish think he already knew the answer, but he shook his head anyway. “Good.”
Off came the ropes, leaving his hands free as he followed the soldier into the tent. It was filled with injured men - soldiers - and Foolish felt awfully out of place. He’d heard all the war stories in the world, growing up with a general, but he himself had never been in a situation like this.
A healer bustled over to them, and Bad pushed Foolish to sit on a cot while explaining the prince’s orders.
Foolish looked around, while his mask was again removed and his face examined.
There were dozens of men here - and he could hear the sounds of hundreds outside, corralling citizens into their homes as they seemed to finish their takeover of the city.
Safe to say - when he’d woken up this morning, this wasn’t what he’d expected.
But he couldn't say he was very upset by any of it, either.
In the end, the strings were cut and his mouth was freed. That was nice - though it did reopen the wounds in his lips when the string was pulled out. The healer gave him a clean strip of cloth to cover them, saying it would help to prevent infection while they healed, and that if the bleeding didn’t stop, or pus started to come out, to return and get it cleaned again.
“Do you have any other injuries?” Bad asked, eyes darting down to his arms. “Open wounds?”
Foolish shook his head, tying the cloth around his face. Even if it didn’t hurt to talk - he wasn’t sure his voice would even agree to work with him, after so long being silent. Bad seemed to accept this, just watching him curiously as he put the mask back on over the loose bandages.
“Good. I’m… not sure where the prince wants you, but I’m meant to be at his side.” Bad hummed. “So just stick by me, for a while, yeah?”
Foolish hauled himself off the cot and nodded, ducking out of the tent after him.
“Can you write?” Bad asked idly, leading them through the carnage back toward the main hall. Foolish nodded again. “Good, I’m sure one of Vegetta’s scribes can spare some ink and paper so we can get your name.”
Ah, that’s right. Foolish nodded along idly, looking over the bodies that had begun to be collected, arranged with the bare minimum of respect along the walls of the keep, hands over their stomachs and eyes closed.
Most of the people lying there, Foolish didn’t know. The ones he did had abused him or looked the other way.
He felt numb, taking in the amount of death around him.
It wasn’t like when he saw his father murdered, he wasn’t horrified and filled with sickness and fear and he doubted he would have nightmares about this day like he did that one.
The main hall had been emptied of bodies - though the blood remained to dry on the floor. The prisoners were absent, and Foolish wondered idly if they’d already been killed.
Bad must have seen him look around, because he laughed softly.
“They’re probably brought down to the dungeon,” he explained. “You have one here, yes?” Foolish nodded. “The execution will be public, in the town square tomorrow. This land has been claimed by the Sevens.”
Ahh. Of course, what had Foolish thought was happening? A public execution was the most popular way of showing you’d conquered the land. It was intimidating to the people, and they’d follow the orders of the new guard and ruler easily.
“And-” Bad hesitated, seeming to weigh his options before sighing in defeat. “The king did that to your mouth, yes? Or was it someone else?” Foolish nodded, though it wasn’t exactly a yes or no question. “Figured. We caught him coming from the corridors we found you in - but we hadn’t thought anyone else was there. He hid like a child when the keep was attacked… what a coward.”
So he had known. And rather than even try to fight for his land, he’d found it more prudent to take advantage of Foolish one more time.
“There you are!” the prince seemed to appear from nowhere, purple flashing in Foolish’s eyes before he blinked, finding the man in front of them. “How was it?”
“No other open wounds, he just needs to let it heal,” Bad reported simply. “If a scribe arrives or we can find paper here, he can give us his name and anything else you want to know about him, I assume.”
“Excellent!” the prince beamed. “I’m sure we’ll find something to write with soon, little bard.''
Something about the nickname was surprising, and Foolish felt his face grow warm at the sight of Vegetta’s grin. Obviously, the prince didn’t know his name and had to call him something.
Foolish just didn’t know what to think about any of this.
But they weren’t killing him.
That’s what was most important.
The castle was filled with the invaders - guards and scouts and soldiers - and Foolish was sure that the rest of the territory was the same. And out of all the residents of the castle keep, he seemed to be the only one that wasn’t killed on sight or taken to be executed.
He’d heard of the Seven’s ruthlessness - they didn’t take prisoners. They took new citizens, sure, but they were left in their homes just under new leadership, and anyone who stood in the way was killed.
Maybe that’s why the soldiers sent curious looks his way, why Bad shifted uncertainly on his feet, keeping one eye on Foolish and the other on his prince. Though Vegetta seemed oblivious as he instructed his men, walking through the main corridors of the castle with that same unimpressed look on his face as he surveyed the different paintings and collections lining them.
“No wonder he didn’t fight,” came a disgusted murmur at one point. “Nothing here is even worth it - honestly. The nicest gold in this place is a mask for a bard…”
The mask felt heavy on his face, and Foolish glanced sideways at Bad, who just shrugged.
“What songs do you know?” Roier asked abruptly, breaking the silence he’d taken since Foolish last saw him. “You must be good if you were what the king was defending when we attacked.”
Ah, yeah, right. That’s what he’d been doing. Though- maybe that’s why they hadn’t killed Foolish like the other workers here. They thought there must be something special about him.
Hopefully, they didn’t dispose of him when they found out he was just… him.
“What the- Roier!” Bad protested.
Foolish just rolled his eyes, pulling the lute from its case and idly finishing the tuning that had been interrupted the first time. He went into his usual warm up piece, some folk song he’d known for his entire life. A verse in, and the smirk on Roier’s face had slipped away, and he seemed idly impressed.
Even Foolish’s father - who had wanted him to join the guard - had admitted after a few performances that his talent was good, and something pursuable. His father had always encouraged Foolish, in his own odd combat-metaphor way. Foolish didn’t really get why people liked his music so much, but if playing songs could make people want him around - alive - he would do so until his fingers fell off.
“Ah…” Vegetta’s grin returned. “That’s beautiful… where did you learn to play?”
Foolish wasn’t sure how to answer that. It was more complicated than he could explain in charades, and he hadn’t gotten ahold of any paper and ink yet so he couldn't write it down. The old man who had given him his first lute - long broken, nowadays - had been a stranger. But he’d shown Foolish the chords and how to pick and strum, and the rest he’d just learned on his own.
“You can tell me another time,” the prince waved a hand dismissively. “You’ll come back with me, once we have the new duke set up here.”
Was the prince not taking control of this land for himself? Foolish watched him curiously as he spun on his heel and kept walking, looking around the halls with a frown. Though, maybe he was meant to inherit the entire kingdom - which would now include this territory, being conquered. Foolish didn’t know much of the family matters of the Sevens, just that they were a very old, powerful family ruling in the center of the continent.
His father had always feared it was only a matter of time before they took this kingdom as well, and it seemed he was correct.
Now, Foolish trailed along after the ruthless prince as he criticized the castle that had become his home, and then his hell. He played idle, simpler pieces - it was harder to play while walking, and he usually took to sitting for more complicated things. But eventually, they circled back toward the courtyard.
“When did you last eat?” Vegetta asked suddenly, footsteps faltering. “With what they’d done to you, it wasn’t in the past few days.”
“Oh my gosh - I didn’t even think of that,” Bad realized under his breath. Foolish pondered the question for a moment, picking idly at a string on his lute.
How long had it been- a few days, maybe closer to five? They usually re-did the stitches every week or so and let him eat then, and other than that he lived on water and broth. With a shrug, he held up five fingers and the prince frowned but nodded.
“Bad, go find something.” he gestured to a large group of soldiers, set up around campfires they’d set in the courtyard. “You, come with me,” he gestured Foolish over to another tent that had been set up, and Roier followed them closely.
The tent was nice - clearly, the one Vegetta was saying in, if the plush bedroll and the various bags of supplies said anything. Foolish couldn't help the wariness that came over him, stepping inside with the prince.
Was he to be used in the same way, for this man and his guard? He wasn’t sure. They’d freed his lips and seemed to be kind enough…
“Paper, ink,” Vegetta pulled them from a pack, putting them on the rickety traveler's table that was in one corner. “I’d like to know your name, Bard, and how old you are?”
Some voice in Foolish’s head told him the prince wanted to know if he was of age - he knew he looked young, though he was twenty-four this year.
Still, he put his lute in the case and walked over, taking the quill from where it had been placed and writing the requested information. He left it at just his first name, ‘Foolish’ as he wasn’t sure if the prince knew who his father was, but it was best not to risk it.
“Foolish,” Vegetta said to himself like he was testing out how the word sounded. He unclipped his cloak and hung it over a chair, then reached out to pull Foolish’s mask off again.
No, god, please no not again not again today- Foolish froze, letting the metal be removed, eyes darting to the entrance to the tent, where Roier was still standing.
“How long have you been a bard of this castle?” Vegetta seemed oblivious to his anxiety, putting the mask on the table beside the paper.
That, as was the question of his diet, was a hard one to answer. Ever since they’d sewn his mouth, and only let him eat every few days to a week, the days had hazed together sometimes. But no, Foolish could count the summers and the winters since his father died, couldn't he? Almost six, this fall.
So he wrote that as well, and Vegetta hummed curiously.
“Some for all of us!”
Bad’s voice made Foolish jump, turning to see he’d arrived with a pot of stew, and a basket of rolls balanced in one arm. Vegetta retrieved some roughly hewn bowls from yet another pack, and as much as Foolish wanted the familiar weight back he couldn't eat with the mask on, so he left it on the table.
“Start slow-” Bad glanced at the paper, then smiled. “Foolish. You don’t want to get sick by eating too much after so long.”
And this time, Foolish couldn't hold back the huff of dull amusement. He knew about refeeding syndrome well enough, he’d dealt with it enough times he knew how to pace himself. Bad just shrugged, handing over the food before sitting on the ground with the other two men.
Not sure what else to do, Foolish joined them.
Vegetta
“You’re actually taking him back with us?” Maximus asked incredulously. The bard had fallen asleep on a gifted bedroll, and Vegetta was checking in on the wounded men with Max and Roier, while Bad stood watch to make sure Foolish didn’t rob them.
Vegetta didn’t think he would, but it was best to be safe.
“Yes,” he hummed, casting a glance back toward the tent.
What could he say - the bard intrigued him. Even before hearing the music he made with a simple lute, Vegetta had been curious. A mute bard, for one, wasn’t common - though not unheard of. And then there was the question if he was naturally mute, or if he’d been able to talk and sing once upon a time, before coming to work in this pigsty of a castle.
Obviously, the soon-to-be executed king of this land had recognized Foolish’s value. That’s why he’d been hidden away in some back passage, why his face was donned in an intricate golden mask that would hide the mutilation done to him.
“Why?”
“You haven’t heard him play yet,” Roier answered before Vegetta could. “You’ll see. It's… something else.”
“Must be,” Max muttered. “I don’t mean to question you, Vegetta, but this is unusual.”
“Unusual,” Vegetta hummed. “Yes, it is.”
Unusual, how a man with a blank stare and tired movements could play a song that seemed to illuminate the world. Unusual how when his home was ransacked, and his employers and friends were taken to be killed, the bard watched on dully, not seeming to care at all.
It was a crime to the world, whatever had been done here. A crime to mar a beautiful face with scars, a crime to steal whatever voice Foolish had used to have.
“I’ll be doing the execution myself, I think.” He decided aloud, and both soldiers seemed surprised. “And then we will begin the renovations before the duke arrives.”
“You and your renovations,” Roier laughed. “You should’ve been an architect, not a warlord or a prince.”
“I am all three,” Vegetta shrugged. “And this castle is a mess, an eyesore . We’ll fix it up and the duke will have a proper seat of control.”
“Whatever you say, I’m sure Q will appreciate it.”
“Do you think the bard knows of any secret stores of value?” Maximus wondered. “He’s been here for a while, right?”
“He might…” Vegetta frowned. “We’d find it anyway, eventually, but I’ll ask him in the morning.”
“They had to have something hidden somewhere,” Roier agreed. “He can’t be their only valued secret.”
Vegetta hummed along, frowning as he glanced into a tent of wounded men, most of whom were asleep.
They’d expected more casualties - and Vegetta wasn’t sure why it had been as simple as it was to take the land they’d been trying for, but any wounded were unfortunate. It still felt too easy, it was strange.
There was a lot about this that had been strange.
They’d slowly been taking land through the mountains, pushing back the borders through farmland and small communities that didn’t really care that much which dictator was ruling them anyway.
And then the news had come that their armies were in disarray, following the death of a skilled general. So, Vegetta had made the decision to strike.
But it still shouldn’t have been so easy .
He sighed, turning away from the wounded men and waving off his companions.
“Get some sleep, we’ll be busy tomorrow.” both nodded, going off to their own tents nearby, and Vegetta ducked into his own.
Bad was sitting cross-legged by the entrance, looking bored as he watched the bard sleep.
“Welcome back,” he said drily. “How is it out there?”
“Calm.” Vegetta frowned. “For now, at least. I’m not sure what to think. But the night watch is out, you go rest like the others.”
“Are you sure?”
“If I’m killed in my sleep by an unarmed musician, I deserve to die.” Vegetta scoffed, glancing over to the bedroll Foolish had fallen asleep on. He was still there of course, flat on his back with his hands on his stomach.
Like a corpse.
Vegetta didn’t like that thought, but he could see the rise and fall of Foolish’s chest and brushed it away.
Bad sighed and stood, ducking out of the tent and letting the flap fall shut behind him.
Vegetta kicked off his boots, then pulled off his armor and set it to the side as he fell into the bedroll on his side of the tent.
And then, with no one to judge him but the angel, devil, and himself, he let himself stare at the bard in the corner.
He wasn’t sleeping in the mask, though he had the loose bandage over his mouth. That was fine, Vegetta figured it had been instructed by a healer that he wear it and who was he to question a healer? Most of Foolish’s face was still visible, and Vegetta had to admit he was handsome, though a bit worn down.
There was a weariness there even in sleep, and Vegetta didn’t miss the bruises along the neck and jaw, probably continuing beneath his clothing. The dead look in Foolish’s eyes - the first thing Vegetta noticed about him after the golden mask and lute - had been a huge giveaway that something was very wrong. But he hadn’t expected the sight of the swollen, scabbed lips held together tightly by string.
If he’d cared to look closer, Vegetta thought they might have been spare strings for the very lute the bard carried so religiously. He didn’t care to look closer.
It looked better already, he’d seen them again when they ate that evening. The scabs still bled a bit, but didn’t seem to be infected, and Foolish seemed unbothered for the most part. Foolish seemed unbothered by nearly everything, as if he was a statue that could move and play music and eat.
But he was a man - one who’d been here since he was a mere nineteen years old if Vegetta’s math was correct. How much of that time had been painful? He couldn't be sure, but he doubted much of it was very happy.
Despite all of that, the prettiness of Foolish’s features wasn’t lost on Vegetta at all. He could imagine dressing the man in purple silks, maybe velvets, giving him the freedom he hadn’t seemed to have here to go out into the sun and develop a lovely color to his face, and a smile. Vegetta could almost imagine that, though he hadn’t seen it. He wished he could imagine a sparkle to his eyes, but the dead, dull glaze over them was too present for that.
Maybe he would be able to fix that, too.
Only time would tell, and none of this would be done in one night.
“You’re staring,” the angel noted, a soft light appearing over one shoulder. Vegetta frowned, not turning to look.
“I can stare at whoever I like,” he huffed. “I’m Prince Vegetta Sevens.”
“Oh, right,” he could imagine the eye-roll even without seeing the angel’s face. “That’s my bad, your highness.”
“What is he?” Vegetta asked - though he doubted he’d get any answer.
Sure enough, the angel was silent.
“When he played, it was… there was something about it. He uses a simple lute, I wonder if he’s ever used another instrument. Or sung, I wonder if he used to sing.” Vegetta sighed. “I wonder if he’s ever used a holy instrument, what would that sound like? Just his lute playing took my breath away… I’m not usually so touched by music.”
“He’s a bard.” the angel finally said.
“I know that,” Vegetta snapped. “And you know that’s not what I was asking, I-” he cut himself off, horrified, when Foolish stirred momentarily. But he didn’t wake up the rest of the way, thank goodness.
“Go to sleep, prince.” the angel said, light fading. “Stop being a creep.”
And then he was gone, and now the only one left to judge Vegetta was himself. He stared a moment longer, before turning to settle down and sleep.