Post by Evalie on Jan 10, 2010 0:38:48 GMT -5
Matthieu Rainier Frédéric Bertrand Stéphane Grimaldi was his name, and usually he bore it like the crown that was inherited through his family. Although he had been the Heir Presumptive as a boy, he was now the Heir Apparent, formally titled the Prince of Hanover. With sharp eyes that missed little and never held their disdain, and a slim, lithe build that spoke more of horseback riding than contact sports, he was the cream of the crop in his homeland, but not everyone felt particularly warm-hearted about him.
The whole mess started when he decided to do a little bit of traveling. It was not the first time he'd struck out on his own and his parents knew he just wanted to get away from the responsibilities and high hopes everyone had for him. They didn't understand! No one asked him if he wanted to waste away on a throne and be stuck listening to stuffy old men droning on and on about taxes and foreign affairs. Monaco didn't even have its own army, so he wouldn't ever get to look forward to commanding men for something exciting. No, Matthieu wanted to live free and carelessly. You know, as long as he had a goose feather pillow and expensive sheets to lie on at night, expensive cuisine to dine on, and only the best taste in pricey clothes to wear. He was a prince, after all; he couldn't just go running amok, getting his hands dirty doing useless little deeds of 'hard work'. He had better things to do with his time.
He started with sailing to Italy on his parents' private yacht. They wouldn't miss it; they never even used it! They were always too busy with affairs of state and the like to enjoy it, and he did not want to become like them. Not one bit.
Italy was beautiful; the sun was out and the blue Mediterranean water was absolutely divine. Not to mention the people, who could not keep their eyes from looking at the fancy, presumptuous yacht that sliced through the water like a great leopard in the water. After spending some frivolous time in Rome, he caught a flight to Vienna, then Berlin, then Paris. Last came London on his little whirlwind tour, after ignoring calls from the yacht's captain about where was he and what to do with the ship - the captain was a big boy, he could figure something out.
Matthieu landed in London and strolled through the Heathrow airport, calmly expressing between a smirk and a smile at the girls looking at his fine clothes. It was harder here than in the other cities to find someone to fetch his baggage, and while he was trying to figure out what on earth HE was supposed to do about it, an old lady approached. She was bent and crinkly and just plain old, and Matthieu found her.. creepy, actually.
"What're you looking for, laddie? You're not going to find it here, oh no, no!" She cackled.
Matthieu looked at her disdainfully and tried to shoo her off. But the pest of a human being stayed and he tried not to gag as she crowded closer. "Away with you, woman! I have not time for your meddling games.." he said in educated English, though the French accent would forever be there.
"Looked elsewhere, didn't you?" She said, lips parting in a wrinkled, age-worn face to look at him with that smug, all-knowing way. "Looked in other countries, and didn't find it. Not in the food, or the money, or the girls you snogged, am I right, am I right?" She went on, in the cackling voice so befitting of a cartoon old hag, as if straight out of Snow White.
"Off with you!"
"Maybe you will find it.. only time will tell.." she trailed off with a creepy look in her eyes.
To escape the madwoman, Matthieu stalked off hastily, casting a disgusting look over his shoulder. He went outside to the overcast skies of London and looked around. Bugger. He'd forgotten his luggage! He turned to go back inside, but a struggling ray of sunshine illuminated his reflection in the glass and he stopped suddenly. This couldn't be right.. His face, handsome as ever with his long blonde hair and cold eyes, was connected to a body clad in ancient, worn brown trousers. He had on a ragged, navy blue sweater and dirt on his face, and when he looked down at his shoes he saw a pair of brown ones that had to be older than himself, and a good size too small. He looked like riff raff, like some poor beggar with a job and no money that went for a pint every Friday.
He looked like shit, honestly.
He was disgusted. He went inside, sure that he was just seeing things, but a haughty, important looking man put up an arm and said, "Can I help you, lad?"
After a.. misunderstanding, Matthieu was thrown out into the streets for the second time, and as he carefully wiped at his mouth - was that blood?! - after hitting the pavement, he felt stubble. He could've sworn he shaved just this morning. His shoes pinched and the filthy clothes itched and this was the worst day ever. Was this a cruel joke? No, not even his dry, boring parents weren't this mean.
The whole mess started when he decided to do a little bit of traveling. It was not the first time he'd struck out on his own and his parents knew he just wanted to get away from the responsibilities and high hopes everyone had for him. They didn't understand! No one asked him if he wanted to waste away on a throne and be stuck listening to stuffy old men droning on and on about taxes and foreign affairs. Monaco didn't even have its own army, so he wouldn't ever get to look forward to commanding men for something exciting. No, Matthieu wanted to live free and carelessly. You know, as long as he had a goose feather pillow and expensive sheets to lie on at night, expensive cuisine to dine on, and only the best taste in pricey clothes to wear. He was a prince, after all; he couldn't just go running amok, getting his hands dirty doing useless little deeds of 'hard work'. He had better things to do with his time.
He started with sailing to Italy on his parents' private yacht. They wouldn't miss it; they never even used it! They were always too busy with affairs of state and the like to enjoy it, and he did not want to become like them. Not one bit.
Italy was beautiful; the sun was out and the blue Mediterranean water was absolutely divine. Not to mention the people, who could not keep their eyes from looking at the fancy, presumptuous yacht that sliced through the water like a great leopard in the water. After spending some frivolous time in Rome, he caught a flight to Vienna, then Berlin, then Paris. Last came London on his little whirlwind tour, after ignoring calls from the yacht's captain about where was he and what to do with the ship - the captain was a big boy, he could figure something out.
Matthieu landed in London and strolled through the Heathrow airport, calmly expressing between a smirk and a smile at the girls looking at his fine clothes. It was harder here than in the other cities to find someone to fetch his baggage, and while he was trying to figure out what on earth HE was supposed to do about it, an old lady approached. She was bent and crinkly and just plain old, and Matthieu found her.. creepy, actually.
"What're you looking for, laddie? You're not going to find it here, oh no, no!" She cackled.
Matthieu looked at her disdainfully and tried to shoo her off. But the pest of a human being stayed and he tried not to gag as she crowded closer. "Away with you, woman! I have not time for your meddling games.." he said in educated English, though the French accent would forever be there.
"Looked elsewhere, didn't you?" She said, lips parting in a wrinkled, age-worn face to look at him with that smug, all-knowing way. "Looked in other countries, and didn't find it. Not in the food, or the money, or the girls you snogged, am I right, am I right?" She went on, in the cackling voice so befitting of a cartoon old hag, as if straight out of Snow White.
"Off with you!"
"Maybe you will find it.. only time will tell.." she trailed off with a creepy look in her eyes.
To escape the madwoman, Matthieu stalked off hastily, casting a disgusting look over his shoulder. He went outside to the overcast skies of London and looked around. Bugger. He'd forgotten his luggage! He turned to go back inside, but a struggling ray of sunshine illuminated his reflection in the glass and he stopped suddenly. This couldn't be right.. His face, handsome as ever with his long blonde hair and cold eyes, was connected to a body clad in ancient, worn brown trousers. He had on a ragged, navy blue sweater and dirt on his face, and when he looked down at his shoes he saw a pair of brown ones that had to be older than himself, and a good size too small. He looked like riff raff, like some poor beggar with a job and no money that went for a pint every Friday.
He looked like shit, honestly.
He was disgusted. He went inside, sure that he was just seeing things, but a haughty, important looking man put up an arm and said, "Can I help you, lad?"
After a.. misunderstanding, Matthieu was thrown out into the streets for the second time, and as he carefully wiped at his mouth - was that blood?! - after hitting the pavement, he felt stubble. He could've sworn he shaved just this morning. His shoes pinched and the filthy clothes itched and this was the worst day ever. Was this a cruel joke? No, not even his dry, boring parents weren't this mean.