The prince's sudden retreat left Asbel strangely cold, but he did not move, did not speak, until the prince was out of the room. That Frey made no secret of his aggression, but why was the young man so angry to begin with? The prince and the phoenix had been alive for nearly the same length of time (accounting for the disappearance of past memories), in the same home, around the same people. So why, then, [i]why[/i] did the prince behave so much like a loosed arrow? The young man had no direction, no purpose. He only wanted to ruin things -- perhaps ruin people.

But Asbel brushed a hand through his own hair, hating the glow of silver of the prince's hair in the sunset. Dangerous -- and handsome -- so like a demon. Without any guidance, that young man would destroy himself and everyone around him. Though he had absolutely no care for the kingdom, Asbel did not want to see it fall apart in the hands of a misguided child.

Asbel exhaled properly for the first time since Frey's appearance. He uncurled his fingers from where they had been clutching the bedpost behind him, the wood smoking as his fingers parted from the mahogany. "Thank you," he murmured, turning to Bachus with the shadow of a grateful smile. How could anyone dislike this man? He was the only one intelligent to stay behind when the rest had gone to obey Frey's clearly-falsified instructions.

"You need not--" The phoenix broke off, took a breath, squared his shoulders. "You need not promise such, Bachus. He frightens me when he arrives unannounced. If he returns later tonight, I will be prepared." Green eyes flashed in the direction of the now-empty doorway. "I will be capable of handling him on my own."

---

Thunderous footsteps startled Aren out of his reverie, and the slam of a bedroom door nearly knocked the room's pictures out of alignment. He glanced at Jeoffrey and Anders, but neither one seemed to have noticed the disruptions. Such was a front, of course: Aren could see the tendon in Jeoffrey's neck that indicated his irritation, and Anders was scrubbing at the hearth with more energy than he'd shown in all the last half hour of their cleaning.

"Should we go check on him?"

The question was met with silence, and with a sigh, Aren tucked his dusting rag into his belt. Jeoffrey was only twenty, and Anders had only just passed his eighteenth birthday, but at, comparatively, the infantile age of sixteen, Aren knew that if anyone was going to check on the prince, it would be him.

Hands trembling at the prospect, the servant hastened to adjust his green-and-gold uniform, and he made an attempt (however useless) to tame his mess of brown curls. As long as Frey didn't murder him, Aren was going to count this visit as a success.

From the study currently under the servants' supervision, Aren padded silently down the hall and pushed open the not-quite-closed door leading into the prince's bedroom. "Your Highness?" he called, voice little more than a whisper. Where was-- Oh! At the window, surrounded by a shower of broken glass. Suddenly pale behind his freckles, Aren pushed the door the rest of the way open and pulled at the rag still secured in his belt. "Sir, you're bleeding! Hold on, I can help!"