The Little Prince

The Steward turned his gaze upward, the air warm and damp against his flushed skin. He sighed heavily into the slight breeze as he continued to peer at the sky, hues of blue unhidden by clouds and unhindered by the storm that plagued them only days before.

Rarely did he know of the Captain's intentions and normally would never have thought to question them. But what use would the Captain have for a young man - no - a mere boy who appeared to be even younger than the Steward's nineteen years? The boy made his appearance suddenly, abruptly, intruding upon the conversation between the Steward and the Captain; landing ungracefully at their feet with a forced hand from the Captain's First Mate.

The Captain only smiled in response, a shine of something almost sinister in his eyes that the Steward had only seen a few times before and something he preferred not to see at all.

And though the Steward had the upmost respect for the Captain, there was apprehension quickly building in his mind as he began to first doubt the actions of the Captain. Circling the boy cautiously, the Captain taunted him in his native tongue, which the boy didn't seem to understand. Though, the Steward thought it was in the boy's favour.

The Stewart cringed, brought out of his musings by a horrid scream as he lowered his head to peer at the scene before him; to the boy curling into himself as the Captain began kicking the him once more.

The Captain did not remove his boot, but did lessen the pressure upon the boy's back as he turned to the Stewart. He spoke absently, accent heavy through his almost broken English. “Do my actions bother you?" The Captain paused, removing his boot slowly from the boy, who was now still, the only sign of life attributed to the slow rise and fall of his chest.

The Steward sighed heavily, maintaining eye contact and hoping his eyes would relay what his unwonted inability to speak could not.

Ryan moved to the side, allowing the boy entrance into the small room. He watched him sympathetically, the boy's movements vulnerable and betraying his trepidation of the sudden relocation as he took in his surroundings.

Not able to truly discern much from first appearances, Ryan took a closer look at the other male, hoping to infer something by his apparel at the least. Judging the material of his clothing, it was obvious the boy was not a stowaway. And while the fabric was soiled and there appeared tears in various places, Ryan could still recognise the fine material, inured to pilfering such goods under the wiles of the Captain.

The boy had to be of nobility or of a wealthy family of sorts. However, it still did not explain his presence on the Ship. The Captain had never been an enthusiast for the business of ransom, too impatient and somewhat more compelled for his avarice for immediate reward.

Ryan squinted when he saw the boy holding his hand to his chest, fingers absently fondling something in his hand; obscuring a metallic sheen, hardly visible in the dim light from the oil lamp. Curious, he moved closer, standing directly behind the boy as he peered over the other male's shoulder.

It appeared to be a small, gold chain, stark against the dark clothing the boy was wearing. The chain itself wasn't particularly thick and didn't warrant much notice, but what drew Ryan's attention was the elaborately decorated plate in the boy's hand and part of him wondered how the Captain was unaware of it. It was encrusted with what appeared to be diamonds, small yet seemingly real and surrounding the embossed word Hojem, which Ryan assumed was a name. Though, it was one he'd not heard of and did not appear to be part of a language with which he was familiar.

It wasn't until the boy - now Hojem - turned around suddenly did Ryan realise he'd spoken aloud. Ryan stepped back carefully, slowly raising his hands in a gesture of amity as he watched Hojem hurriedly place the plate beneath his shirt, necklace now hidden by the fabric.

There was a brief moment of silence, in which Ryan inwardly cursed himself for forgetting once more that Hojem didn't know English.

It was a soft sound, almost imperceptible, but it was all Ryan needed to hear.

His name was Greg.

Or Gregory, but the boy admitted that he preferred Greg. And in the two months since Greg had first arrived, Ryan had made a friend in the other boy, someone to call companion and someone he'd never had before.

And while Greg did speak English, it was heavily inflected with his native language, which Greg revealed to be Norwegian, something Ryan held little if any familiarity with. It was with this information that Ryan wondered how Greg was found near a small port in England, where they last docked, if he hailed from Norway. Greg would only reveal that he was visiting with a friend from America, but had become lost and subsequently taken by the Crew.

It made little sense to Ryan, but whenever he tried to approach the subject, Greg would not comply. And accordingly, Ryan eventually no longer made the effort to ask.

But the lack of information was easily forgettable, replaced with Greg's stories of his home in Norway, his limited travels and tales of his grandfather, whom he referred to as Papa Olaf. They were stories Ryan would listen to covetously, each word a painful reminder of the life he didn't have, the life he wanted to have, and the life he was afraid to pursue.

No is what Ryan wanted to say, knowing his personal obligations would never be enough to excuse the actions of a man as Eric Delko, such a man as the Captain. But he'd grown more than simply complacent in this atmosphere and was reluctant to leave the only place he'd truly known.

It didn't take much to realise that Greg disliked it here on the Ship. And Ryan could see clearly through the forced smiles and intermittent bouts of optimism that seemed to be more energy consuming than beneficial. But he had long ago accepted his position serving the Captain and the voyages on the Sea as his life.

But Greg fought every aspect of each day; doing only the minimal of what was required of him.

Beginning to answer, Ryan paused at the sound of steps on the stair, one of the crew and a man Ryan harboured no amenity for.

He staggered in boisterously, the wood of the floor creaking as a response to each of his movements. He laughed heartily, a sound not befitting and betraying the expression on his face as he approached Ryan and Greg. “How old is he, Wolfe?" the man asked, pointing at Greg as he spoke to Ryan. “He looks even younger than you did."

Ryan said nothing, but kept his gaze on the man as he noticed Greg turning his head away.

Ryan held Greg's face in his hands frantically, exploring Greg's mouth greedily, hungrily and afraid the boy was going to disappear from beneath him. One of his hands moved up the side of Greg's face, soft against the calluses marring his palm, almost delicate against the abrasions on his skin. He ran his fingers through Greg's hair, savouring the feel of the strands against his skin.

He knew what occurred behind closed doors, when Greg was called away. It was the same as when he first made his appearance on the Ship. A memory never quite leaving his thoughts, it became the motivation that eventually determined him someone worthy of respect in the Captain's eyes; worthy of being given a second chance, regardless of how perverse Ryan later discovered it to be.

Greg never told him, but Ryan didn't ask, afraid to inquire only to receive confirmation of what he already knew. Yet this - this, he thought as Greg's body bucked beneath him - was the only manner of comfort he was able to offer. But it wasn't until it was too late did Ryan later realise that his method of comfort soon became something else inadvertently contrary from his intentions, in which Ryan quickly lost himself; a source of release at the expense of a friend.

It'd almost been a year, more than ten months since Greg first appeared in his life and the other boy still held onto his hope, belief that he would deviate from the turn life had given him, escape the enclave on the Ship found tightly embraced within the confines of the Sea.

And he was angry; something incensed and infuriated taking over him, intertwining with a kind of envy profound and harboured deeply within him.

Because he didn't want Greg to view him as he did the others on the Ship - the Captain, the Crew - an enclosed society that for the first time Ryan didn't want to acknowledge that he was a part of. He didn't want Greg to shy away from him as he did them. He longed for the endless nights of meaningless conversation held between them; the mindless babble that would elicit from them laughter until they could seemingly laugh no more.

He began to move his body faster, neglecting the pained cries below him, frustration urging him, a sadness seeping inside him as the worn blanket fell from his back; exposing his skin to the cool, night air. Something burned, setting his body on fire as he leaned over, hands securing Greg's arms above his head. He was taken, overwhelmed by the sensation, the flurry of emotions and how susceptible he was to them.

And then Ryan stopped, suddenly falling onto the warm body below him, hands now curled into Greg's hair, clinging to the strands desperately as the legs around his waist tightened.

He knew Greg wouldn't look at him; would never look at him after moments like this. Ryan didn't like his mind to dwell o it too much, not wanting to consider the possibility that he was as fault. But it still didn't stop him from wiping the tears that would mar Greg's cheeks.

But he wasn't selfish enough to risk Greg's sanity.

Greg took hold of Ryan's forearms, grip almost painful as he continued to tighten his grasp. “Then come with me - leave this..." He paused, closing his eyes and opening them slowly. “Leave this place, leave your captain and start over again."

Ryan couldn't believe Greg could still stand to look at him.

with me. I'm sure Papa would help you...if I tell him what you did for me."

The question was so simple and Greg's voice so innocent, even now, and seemingly unaware of the secular responsibilities of those around him. It was something Ryan couldn't answer when Greg first asked it of him, and something he still wouldn't be able for which to give a concise response. It was hard for Ryan not to become nostalgic about a time so long ago, his mind briefly travelling to a place where he, too, was sheltered, untainted by the realities of the world.

He turned away, unable to hold Greg's gaze as the young man finally released his grip on Ryan's arms. “He saved my life - took me in from the streets...and I...I couldn't leave him, can't leave him now."

Greg only gave Ryan a soft smile, a sorrowful sort of smile that made Ryan regret meeting Greg at all. His expression was defeated, as if he somehow knew it would be pointless to try to implore his cause any further; realise that it was fruitless to attempt to change Ryan's mind. He moved his hands carefully, tentatively along Ryan's shoulders until he held Ryan's face in his hands.

Ryan closed his eyes, relishing in the soft skin from someone still unaccustomed to the labour of the Sea; smooth against the coarseness of his cheeks, the stubble on his chin. A pair of lips were pressed firmly to Ryan's, desperate, a final plead that would hold no merit. And they were gone as quickly as they had come, chaste, and Ryan knew he would never see Greg again.

He didn't open his eyes when he heard Greg turn away, footsteps quiet against the wooden floor; the swish of the thick cloak Ryan gave him almost inaudible if not for the silence. His mouth parted slightly, words tempting the tip of his tongue and the first sounds of Greg name beginning to fall from his lips. But when he did open his eyes, Greg was already gone; his name disappearing in the back of Ryan's throat.

And Ryan found himself sliding against the hard surface of the wall, clothes rustling gently against his skin as he fell to the ground.