Erik

Erik's heart raced, having been hurriedly dressed in a fine new blue tunic he stood among a small crowd awaiting the prince's pleasure within the grand tent. Two long tables ran along the sides of the the tent, seating a small army of the prince's retainers, already helping themselves to food and drink. At the far end of the tent sat the prince, his prince, on the fine chair that made do for a throne while the army was on the march, an area cleared in front of him. His mind churned as he heard the other men called forth one by one, each making their request to be granted a boon for their effort in battle; spoils of battle, horses, gold, trinkets, honors, weapons, even women were among the things asked and granted.

Erik himself had earned that right, having thrown himself recklessly into the heat of battle, hoping to prove himself and earn the prince's attention. To his credit, it had worked. But now that he was here.. His thoughts were interrupted as the herald called his name. He felt trepidation beyond anything he had felt before battle as he approached the prince's seat, willing himself not to tremble as he sank down to kneel under his prince's gaze. His eyes were set on the floor though he longed to look upon the prince, rarely having been allowed so close. He knew what boon he wanted to ask, but could he really ask such a thing? And in a tent filled to the brink with rough northmen besides. He swallowed, waiting for his prince to speak.

Erik's life is in shambles. He'd done it, he'd opened his big mouth and poured his heart out to his prince in front of the rest of the retainers, confessing all too many things that would have been better kept close to heart. Met with mockery and laughter, he was at the prince's mercy, who chose to exile him for his presumption and unnatural desires. 'Do not return unless you bring with you glory befitting a king' is what the prince had said. He should have listened to his father, stayed on that simple path of honest labor.

Now he was thrust into the role of an adventurer. Far south of home, he now sought glory in a land that was all too warm and dry for his taste. A land of turbans and grand cities. It seemed an impossible task, but the small hope that he could win back his home and perhaps even the love of his prince was better than no hope at all. He did wonder if his enigmatic prince had meant his exile to be permanent or if the opportunity to return, however unlikely, was genuine. Yet he had to hold onto hope.

He sighed, running a hand through his damp red hair. Dressed in a long blue tunic too thick and warm for this place, yet a reminder of home, he sat at a rough table, sword and shield resting against it. Another night, another tavern, more strangers, more watered down drink to soothe his spirit and chase away the heat.

Erik sat hunched on a stool in the army's camp, scrubbing away at a large cooking pot caked thick with the remnants of last night's stew. It was a dull, thankless task, but he had long grown used to such treatment from the other soldiers. They saw him as beneath them, just a cottar's boy. His thoughts drifted back to his home, the humble cottage he had shared with his father. How he missed those simpler days.

A clatter and raucous laughter nearby jarred Erik from his reverie. The other men were gathering for the evening meal, while he was stuck on cleanup duty. Again. He sighed and returned to his task, trying to lose himself in daydreams once more. Of home, of what life could have been. And of course, of the prince. That beautiful, charming prince who led them. Erik knew it was foolishness to fantasize so about a prince, and another man at that. But he couldn't help himself. The prince was everything he longed for, an escape from the bitter reality of his lowly station and loneliness.

He silently prayed for relief. A chance to prove himself, a friend, anything..