Hello! First and foremost this is a RW/YST fic but I sort of put them in another world entirely? 18th century France! SO if my history is very wrong or I said someone was wearing something that wasn’t around until some other year, I apologize! Also, I want to thank Mink, Jink, Tenshi and Llamajoy for all of their help, I can’t write a thing without their advise, ideas, editting and patience! Lastly, thank you Adam for writing half of this!-Evan-
The Grand One
part 1
By Evan
Well you're the grand one
Have you noticed
When you walk in all the fairy boys are pale and nervous
Well my starship doesn't want me And neither does his world
I'm glad I caught you on my view screen, Sailor
You're the grand one
Come and court me
'Cause this wooing
Is what I'm wanting
When my spaceship comes to orbit
Then hold me like a girl
I am the captain of the gravity, Maxwell
Everywhere I see your faces
-Hot One-
-Shudder to Think/Velvet Goldmine Sound Track-
1780.
Rowan felt the year suited his manner. Its subtle fierceness was belied by the shining gold of the chair legs and frescoed ceilings. The King was daft but loved, at least, by the people. An inept monarch tolerated by his cabinet of advisors governing behind the veneer of his decadence.
The lands that bordered their own were watched with care or at best considered faux lovers one should never turn their back on. Paris flowed like the coins into the coffers, and to walk the mirrored halls of the palace one could dream that all of the city sparkled like its chandeliers.
This was of course rubbish.
Rowan had seen his share of the poor that died unnoticed, and the sick that would soon join them. The filthy prisons lay far from his walls of beauty and stoic indifference.
But that had nothing to do with nobility. The weak were crushed under the mighty gilded wheels as surely as spring shoots submitted to plow in every surrounding province. It was a tidy system that he readily accepted.
Rowan tugged at his lace cuff to free it from his embroidered sleeve as his footsteps clicked down the deserted halls. Rowan's purpose became very clear despite his title. He had been an advisor to an advisor's advisor. He had been an aid to the aid of another aid. Rowan had been many things but never once lifted a plume to paper, or run an errand of the state.
After so long, his presence among the powerful and mighty was understood. He was there the way fresh flowers were replaced everyday. He was to be young and lovely and also readily available. Not all preferred the powdered white arms and scented bosoms of the girls that drifted among them winking painted eyes above lace fans. Some preferred the equally adorned waistcoats of the boys who stood around, languidly ready to offer cigarettes from silver cases.
Life was very easy. Life was bloody near perfect.
Until he came.
Bright and new, the boy had followed the English emissary's grand party before the entire court. His French was soft but perfect and his eyes drifted shyly to the floor whenever someone directly addressed him.
Rowan saw him later that evening drinking from a crystal glass. His lips were wet from white wine, and his smile was as unguarded at the open windows that let in the night air.
"Who is that?"
"Don’t you know anything?"
Rowan heard the young gorgeous sect of his world whisper about him in delighted interest. Sipping at his own wine he pretended to be above the chatter while secretly hanging on to each of their comments.
"He is a darling thing don’t you know."
"Mouri? A cousin of some Lord! From England."
"I heard he’s just been released from prison!"
Rowan felt his eye brows go up before he could stop himself.
"Prison of a Monastery! 18 years of it can you even imagine?"
"At least in prison you are allowed to sleep."
Rowan drifted away from the silly crowd and closer to the fountain that lay in the center of the ball room. He had chosen an unaturally bright turquoise coat and breeches this evening which caught more than a few stares and nods of pleasure. The Lord’s English cousin was in and through the dancing crowds, visible for a moment, swallowed by the music and noise the next. He looked uncomfortable in his dusky blue and silver skirt coat, his pale hand going to his throat again and again to loosen the stiff white collar. Didn’t the English wear only wool cloth?
"Any luck?"
Rowan shrugged to the tall man who had come along side of him. "The usual kind." Seiji was magnificent as usual. His gold coat and soft powder ivory silk trousers were perfect. His exquisitely powdered face, and painted mouth were a serious mask. It was something of a tactful game among the court to make his face change. He carefully bestowed a smile on several of his admirers as they floated by before returning his attention back to Rowan. "I have heard that his family refused to let him pursue his dream."
Rowan turned despite himself. "Dream?" Seiji always seemed to know just a bit more than everyone else did about just about everything.
Seiji’s careful mouth curved in gentle disdain. "A man of the cloth. Jesus knows his family could afford to make him a bishop but they refused."
Rowan turned back to the crowd in wonder. "Following God, now of all times!"
"He’s to be a Lord." Seiji finished.
"A Lord bred in a Monastery." Rowan snorted, his eyes intent on the shifting masses. "Poor thing should need a friend then."
"It seems he has many." Seiji faded away with a hushed crowd of gentlemen in need of his company.
Rowan watched the many hopefuls greet and bow to the young Lordling with a scowl. Grabbing two elegant flutes of champagne, he quickly sought to out do them.
Tragedy.
The Exotic had gotten to the new Lord Mouri first.
The Exotic had been a member of His Majesty’s military counsel. An imperial trader vessel, months on the seas, brought the most wondrous silks and other treasures Rowan had ever seen. Strange spices and incense were not all the ship had born. The exotic had traveled back among her crew seeking a new world and had found only Europe.
He was knowledgeable in the art of war but even more and fabulously so in the art of story telling. For hours, he would enchant his court in a broken soft language which made him indispensable to the bored.
Door latches had confounded him.
He drank his soup straight from the gold lipped bowl.
He did the oddest things with a gentleman's sword out in the garden at dawn.
Everyone was just a little bit in love with him.
The Exotic’s outlandish charm had kept him in what he was heard to call, The France.
He didn’t powder his dark skin like the dandies did. His curiously almond shaped eyes were never painted. Nor did he cover the hair as black and shiny as the ebony keys of the harpsichord with the sea shell pastel wigs. He always choose dark red waist coats and maroon silks without the glitter and flash the other boys liked.
Not that it mattered much at all.
Rowan crushed the delicate brocade of his lace cuff in a frustrated fist. What chance did he have against this!
A distraction was very necessary. "Here!" Rowan summoned a young woman who was vainly searching for a more interesting conversation. "Lord Sanada must receive," Rowan thought briefly, his sky blue eyebrows furrowing"..eh.."
"Anyone?" She offered, twisting at a stiff white curl that fell from her elaborate wig.
"Yes! Exactly right!" Rowan smiled. "Would you be so kind as to tell him? It is quite impossibly urgent."
With a perfumed flutter of her fan, she gladly went about her task, happy with a reason to speak with the reputable young foreigner.
Lord Sanada cast his dark look towards Rowan in disgust as the lovely young lady chirped away her message.
Rowan busied himself with a plant.
Lord Mouri bowed politely as the exotic took his hesitant leave to meet with whomever the young lady had dreamt of.
At last! Rowan abandoned the plant and made to take up the glasses of champagne. But they were gone.
"Thank you Rowan." Seiji was walking past him, offering a chilled glass to the young Lord Mouri before Rowan could even protest.
Seiji had chosen his most innocent of faces as he handed the glass to the young man.
It made Rowan want to snap his newly acquired, and much needed, wine glass in two.
"Merci beacoup." Mouri murmured taking the glass with a trembling hand.
"You are welcome."
"You speak English?" The young man wasn’t as surprised as he was pleased.
"Have you seen His Majesty’s collection of art?"
"No not yet?"
"There are many magnificent renditions of the Blessed Mother I am sure only one such as you could hope to appreciate."
"Most here find my education to be something of a joke Monsieur." The boy said quietly. "It is kind of you to suggest."
"Perhaps God has sent you to us to do his work." Seiji gently and with a bit of reverence took Lord Mouri’s hand and kissed it.
The young Lord blushed furiously under his white powder but smiled warmly up at him.
Seiji tilted his head mid-kiss just enough to give Rowan a very satisfied wink.
Rowan growled as he swung about and left.