The boy returns to his quarters, feeling more than a little drained from his strange encounter. But deep within him lies also a curious satisfaction. He rests his head atop a lumpen pillow and drifts into sleep…
It is barely daybreak when he awakens to a start. A kick sends jolting pain into his ribs. Grabbing his side as he regains his senses, he looks up to find the horsekeeper staring back at him, his eyes bloodshot with anger.
“For fuck’s sake, why is the horse not ready?! Do you think this a charity house, stable boy? You’re better off sold to the whorehouse if you like sleeping this much!”
He readies himself for a second wallop. This time he is aiming for the crotch.
“Enough!”
The voice behind the door is gentle but clear and lucid. It booms not, unlike the bells of a tower. Rather, the tone is as comforting as the strumming of a harp.
“You should do well to learn the value of compassion. Yours is not the way of our House.”
It is a young man who speaks. His stately finery befits a princely status.
“Yes, of course,” replies the horsekeeper. A defiantly ugly smile betrays his feigned humility.
The stableboy stands transfixed as he studies the prince in intricate detail. Where his eyes are dark as ebony, the prince’s are light as hazel. A body that is lean and lithe as opposed to sinews hardened from the wrangling of stallions. And that face - kind and graceful, a thing of great beauty.
“Let me help you up, my friend. You do not mind being my friend, I hope”
The stablehand finds himself red in the face, flushed from embarrassment and desire.
