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Basic Summary: Prince Rosselin of the kingdom Amaethon falls in love with the young Frey, a son of two immortal gods. When they run away from prying eyes, what will become of the two of them?

Notes: Hi, it's me! Now, this story has nothing to do with "The Rape of Ganymede" save that it has guy on guy action. I am probably one of the many people on the internet who has pure enjoyment writing about gay guys. If you don't like it, then please tell me and I shall change some aspects of it.

Uh...most names in here are either Celtic or Norse, although there is one Japanese one.

I use the term "sakura" Japanese for cherry blossom because it's easier on my hands.

Now, for the disclaimer: I own the languages in here, okay? Deal with it.

Now please, read, review, and don't flame!


Prologue-Prince of the Rose
For as long as he could remember, Rosselin was to be raised as the heir to the Amaethon throne. It would please their deity, the golden-haired maiden, Erycina. Rosselin couldn?t keep count of the times his father had said that before his illness had ensnared him and kept him confined to his bed. But whenever he had said that, the prince had simply been possessed by the desire to ask why Erycina would care, when she was locked in the arms of her many lovers. Yet, all his father, Amaethon?s king, Paris, would do was simply smile after his routine words and tell him how much it would please him to see his second son as king. Driscoll, the eldest, was a failure.

To say a failure would be an exaggeration. Surely, he was intelligent enough to take the throne after Paris? immediate death. Yet, Rosselin was the taller one, the more refined one, and certainly the one wouldn?t catch his demise from a simple cold. But sickly, Driscoll sure was, even if it was only for a little while. Rosselin blamed it on the simple fact that his brother spent more time whoring himself to women, instead of simply practicing his sword-play like he was supposed to. It didn?t matter anyway, since he never held the talent, nor the patience, for it.

Perhaps Paris was right. Driscoll was a failure, Rosselin mused.

Since his father was too ill to hold power on his own, Rosselin had to lend a hand in it. Affairs of state were surely boring enough, so when he had the time to, he would spend it out in the woods, where all elves were supposed to be. It was peaceful enough, quiet and enchanting, such like the lure of a siren?s voice. But sirens were myths, unlike the elven race, and Rosselin had never questioned it, a rarity for himself. He was often too curious for his own good.

He bent down and plucked a rose from its verdant grounds. Soft, were the crimson petals, as soft as the leaves were jagged. It held no fragrance, as most roses in this vicinity often did not. He circled the petals with one ungloved finger, delighted at the gentleness that this flower possessed. The leaves were sharp to the touch, digging itself into his finger like a tiny blade. He brought his finger to his lips and sucked lightly on the tiny drops of blood. Yet, he wouldn't dare to maim this little flower over something as small as a scarred finger. He dropped the rose and walked off.

Petals of cherry blossoms fell into his tied-back scarlet locks and stayed there. Rosselin fought the urge to claw them out, but the petals weren?t doing any harm; they made him look a bit more elegant anyway, so they were safe.

That is, safe until the handmaidens would find them.

Rosselin, easily amused as he was, chuckled at the mental image of his handmaidens shaking their heads in disapproval as they would soon find sakura petals in his hair. He reached up and plucked one from his hair, feeling the softness of the petal. It was delightfully smooth, warm to the touch and as white as winter snow. He sat down and leaned against the rough bark of the willow tree. Willows were incredibly common in Amaethon, almost as much as roses.

That was a delightful thought.

He lost himself in his contentment of falling sakura petals, of roses blossoming gracefully beneath his fingers, in the dulcet tones of a dove. He closed his eyes, the emerald-green irises not seen by any mortal (or perhaps immortal) eyes. A song, not one whimpered by a bird, echoed in his head. Rosselin wasn?t sure where to place it, but perhaps he shouldn't. The voice was, not incredulously enough, female; perhaps it was one of his handmaidens. Yet, the closest one that he heard to this tone was Alcestis, and she hadn?t came around until he was twelve years of age. No, this song was from when he was a child. His mother? Impossible; she had died in childbirth. Maybe this was one of his father's mistresses that he was too young to remember. But Paris had grieved during his mother's death and hadn't touched another female body again.

Not at all odd, considering he had loved Mother?.

Even the song itself didn?t sound familiar. The words to it, anyway. They sounded foreign, a language to a different kingdom. He grimaced (amazingly enough, with eyes closed), as the words came alive in his head.

?Phaelin rohirae-eilya neirith,
Haeril therin mirade ani lae?
Ani tairen risa sela cainthe
Mierla ilrine siele iy dasire taden.?

The emerald eyes flew open. Those words weren't in an Amaethon tongue.

They were from a tongue from someone from Taranis.

The Star kingdom?.

He was lucky enough to know what the words were in his language. Rosselin sat against the tree, trying to decipher the beautiful words.

?Innocent earth-elf prince,
Doth thou love me so?
I will embrace thee under
The leaves of a sakura tree?

Under the leaves of a sakura tree...


Rosselin couldn't deny the beauty of the words. But how would one of the star kingdom, one a civilian of such a powerful land, be working as a handmaiden and singing a romantic poem of desire to such a youthful infant? He held his head in his hands and stood up, confused. Rosselin continued to walk the dirt path to the palace where he resided, eyes closed.

Or would have, had he not seen his father's soldiers as well as

Dear Erycina! Members of the star kingdom?

There were three of them-two fully grown males of undetermined age wearing the official silver and white robes of the imperial court, and a young boy, perhaps thirteen years to Rosselin's twenty-four, scowling darkly at him. He looked nothing like the others, albeit younger; his hair was white in color. That in itself wasn?t unusual, but it was the tint of clouds and just as soft, not the striking ashen tint of snow. He was slender, but lithe, must like Rosselin himself, but the most peculiar thing about the child was staring back at him with unstirred anger was his eyes.

The color of bloodied rubies. They were red.

No member of the Star kingdom would ever possess such eyes. It was said that only the gods would have those eyes. No mortal would ever hope to have such a beautiful color. Rosselin felt inferior, with his emerald eyes and crimson hair. Even the boy's eyes were more crimson than his wavy locks. Rosselin turned away.

"What is this about?" he asked them.

One of the snow-haired men stood forward and Rosselin recognized him as Izanami, count of Taranis, the star kingdom. He was often a cruel man, but only when necessary. He pushed the child forward and laughed. "Young Rosselin," he purred, a deep and throaty sound, "surely you have not forgotten the contents of the peace treaty?"

"Oh." Of course. A few sunrises ago, the royals of Amaethon had called the nobles of Taranis to meet and discuss a peace treaty. Paris didn?t wish to fight this horrid battle that had lasted for centuries. Naturally, Rosselin liked the idea of having another ally, especially when it came during war. Izanami had arrived with his emperor, Lord Faustine, a young and beautiful man, to discuss terms. They would agree to the treaty, if perhaps, they would sell one of their many people to Amaethon as an assistant. In more blatant terms, to rid of one person forever. This person was to become like an elf, but still be a faerie (the people of Taranis.) It seemed that this ruby-eyed child was it. Rosselin looked at the child, who still continued to glare.

"The one that you picked is beautiful, Izanami," Rosselin said politely, brushing back the white locks of the boy, but the blood-eyed one pushed his hand away with a loud protest in Seranme, the tongue of the faerie folk.

"Dainei!" The child exclaimed. Despite his rusty Seranme, Rosselin was sure he yelled, "What!"

"He is, is he not?" Izanami sneered at the child, perhaps jealous. But that in itself was absurd, for Izanami was never jealous; he too, was beautiful himself. "The boy's name is Frey. I don't know his last name, as he is an orphan, but he was cared for by the Peregrine family, a noble one. Thiassi Peregrine is the living baron of Taranis, yet, he had this child given to me, to give him to you." The count's copper-colored eyes seemed to gleam as he looked down at the child. Frey looked away, as though in tortured agony. It was then that Rosselin saw that he had a chain around his neck.

"Frey," he whispered softly, "my name is Rosselin. I am a prince of this kingdom."

"Of course you are," the child said stubbornly, in a voice as clear and deep as an endless pool. "Everyone talks about how you rule behind Paris' back."

Izanami looked as though he was about to maim the child, but merely glared at him and fingered the silver-grey sword he had brought with him. "You will address the king of Amaethon by his proper title, young tanyae."

Rosselin, weak as he was with languages, knew that the word meant "outcast" in the Seranme tongue. Yet, he bit down on his lip and grasped the child?s hand in his. Frey looked away with an unreadable expression on his face. "Come along, young Frey." He turned around, but a strong hand grasped his shoulder. It was Izanami.

The count nodded, his face without expression. "Just remember, Prince Rosselin, that this child is a danger to our land. Be careful with him."

He nodded once, then walked off. "I thank you, Count Izanami of Taranis." In a brief instant, young Rosselin of the house of Vidar family had vanished with the adopted orphan, Frey.

Underneath the soldier and the faeries, the sakura petals still fell like drops of snow.

Ani tairen risa sela, cainthe mierla ilrine siele iy dasire taden.

I will embrace thee, under the leaves of a sakura tree.

END OF PROLOGUE


All right, the prologue finally finished! I?m sorry that it sucked so much, I wanted it done!