Chapter Text
He totally did not “got this”.
To be a princess wasn’t hard, right? Royals were supposed to be pampered and they could do whatever they wanted, right? If royals were allowed to deceive poor bards and force them into a pretend game of ‘how long can they keep up with this farce until the other royals find out and it’s off with his head’ , then Lance could totally sleep in, right?
Apparently not.
Coran barged into the room with heavy stomps and a booming voice. “The bells have rung for the eighth morning hour, Princess Allura! That means it’s up up up and go go go! You have a lot to learn today!”
Lance groaned and flipped his pillow over his head. When he was a bard, he could sleep and wake up at whatever time he wanted. “Five more minutes,” voiced the pillow.
“A princess must always be ready for her duties.” Coran harrumphed. He noisily drew back the curtains, spilling in bright sunbeams and bird trills. “Your breakfast is hot and ready for you. So, I suggest you eat it before it gets cold.”
At the sound of breakfast, Lance perked up. He was starving .
There was a knock on the door and the maidservant came in, holding up a tray piled high with scones, freshly baked bread, butter and jam, and a steaming cup of tea. Lance practically inhaled the food as Coran brandished out the to-do list of the day.
“So I have canceled all of your highness’s social duties for these next few days so you may be reacquainted with your…manners.” The last word was delivered with a glare at Lance who was licking off the jam from his fingers. The bard froze, realizing how the scene really looked—a royal princess licking jam from her fingers was probably not ladylike at all. Lance gave the advisor a sheepish grin as he took the napkin and wiped his hands and fingers. He crumpled it into a ball and set it aside.
Coran frowned at the act. “In your lesson, we will look over every single point in the Princess’s Book of Etiquette.”
…
"It's all here in the Princess's Book of Etiquette." Coran declared as he brandished out a huge book and carried it around like it weighed nothing. "Let's begin."
Lance held up his pen and paper.
"No nagging, bragging, sweating, fretting, slipping, tripping, slurping, burping, twittering, or frittering allowed."
Lance grimaced. He had all those bad habits.
Coran whirled around and looked at him with a steady gaze. "Stay present, stay pleasant, stay proud."
And at that moment, Lance felt as though the old advisor knew who he really was.
“Now,” with a whirl, Coran stood behind him and prodded him in between his shoulder blades. “Shoulders back and stand up tall.”
Lance quickly stiffened up, and then a book was suddenly balanced on top of his head. Coran tapped his chin up with a fan and said, “Try to walk as if you’re floating.”
“Those are two very different things,” Lance mumbled as he tried to walk without having the book fall from his head. It took two steps. Which was apparently two steps too many.
The book fell on his toes and Lance bit back a curse.
“One more time.”
Which was one time too many. But once Lance looked like a person with the woozies and not a drunken sailor aboard a sinking ship, Coran finally took the book away and moved on to the next part of training.
Which was the same thing but with heels.
Lance grimaced at the blisters already forming on his feet. He couldn’t understand why princesses would wear these torture devices when they’d just be covered up by the hems of their skirts. But alas, it was simply tradition.
Coran tapped his fan twice against his hand and said, “Now, I shall demonstrate a plié and you shall follow. This is how you greet your fellow royals, and His Majesty and Her Royal Highness. Of course, you do not have to curtsey to those of lower rank. But then again, there are exceptions–”
Once again, Lance suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the number of rules he had to follow. Coran did an elaborate show of bending the knees and bowing, and then standing upright once more with the grace of a prima ballerina. Lance’s was more of a dodo bird trying to land on the ground. Or in other words, he fell flat on his face.
There was a deep sigh, and Lance had a feeling he was going to hear that more often in the coming days.
…
Lesson Number 1: To be a princess is to know which spoon to use
“–And remember, use the dinner fork and dinner knife only for your dinner. And take small bites of your meat, setting down your utensils each time you chew.”
Lance stifled a yawn and slouched on his chair–
“No slouching! It is unsightly for a princess!”
–only to straighten up for the umpteenth time in a row. He eyed the silverware balefully. As far as he was concerned, the knife and fork were for the food and the spoon was for the soup stuff. But alas, one wasn’t enough for royalty as they insisted on at least three types of silverware each, along with a whole array of plates.
“Princess Allura.”
Lance snapped out of his daze and looked up. Coran stared at him with an unapproving look. Oh right. That’s me now.
“I was asking,” said Coran slowly as one would to a child, “whether you eat a flibbit with a spoon or a fork?”
What the quiznak is a flibbit? Is that some kind of mainland royalty delicacy? Lance said hesitantly, “A fork?”
Coran sighed. “Maybe some fresh air may do you good.”
And so Lance was escorted away, still wondering about this mysterious food.
The rose garden was situated at the back of the palace, hidden away by a wall of ivy and a gilded gate. A gazebo sat in the middle with a table already set with an array of tea and small pastries on a 3-tier stand. The smell of fragrant flowers and sweet treats made Lance’s mouth water, and once again, he realised that he had eaten nothing for lunch.
He took a seat and reached out to one of the slices of cake—
SLAP
“Ow!” Lance snatched his hand away and glared at the offending fan that the advisor had slapped on his wrist. Coran twisted his mustache, fan poised, ready to strike. He eyes the fan and reaches out for a sandwich –
SLAP
Lance yelped and blew on his reddening hands. "What did I do this time?"
"Maybe what you should ask yourself is, what you did not do," Coran said stiffly. "Even a commoner knows not to pick up food with their bare hands."
Lance spotted the tong lying on top of a porcelain plate and with a sigh, used it to daintily grab a piece of sandwich. He placed it on his plate, and picking it up with his fingers, he took a dainty bite.
And for the first time, Coran smiled–until, of course, Lance smacked his lips because that was a really good sandwich and received another lecture.
…
Lance tossed and turned on the bed, but sleep escaped him. The last thing he ate was the sandwich, and then his day was filled with more lessons on etiquette and being a lady (like seriously, if someone asked him to demonstrate how to look at his fingernails, wasn't the gist up already?), and then Coran was whisked away to a meeting. Exhausted, Lance went back to his room and crashed.
But now it was too late in the night to ask his maidservants to bring up food and he really didn't want to wake the kitchen up just for a midnight snack. What more, Lance grinned, this was the perfect time for him to explore the castle without Coran breathing down his back.
Changing into the breeziest nightgown the princess owned that he knew would also fit his male frame, Lance quietly waltzed out of the room and padded barefoot down the hall.
Portraits of past monarchs lined the walls in gilded frames, all of them sporting the silver hair and bright, blue-violet eyes–the traits of an Altean royalty. He clenched the fabric above his heart, looking up at the picture of the youngest royal and the current heir to the throne.
Princess Allura.
She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her smile was radiant and her eyes sparkled with cheekiness and yet, deep with wisdom. If it were under different circumstances, Lance was sure he would have fallen in love with her. But of course, she had to go and reveal her true self by stealing his identity and he rolled his eyes. Talk about irony.
He looked over at the other members of the royal family–all looking down at him with gentle smiles, many with wrinkles from the weight of ruling a kingdom, eyes weary–and Lance felt like a fraud under his wig. With a sigh, he walked away before feelings of guilt bubbled up inside.
Every door in the castle was identical, and Lance didn't know what would greet him behind each one. Playing a little Lance roulette, he opened the big doors (because big doors meant big public rooms, right?).
The first door he opened led to a huge room with rows of books filling on every shelf and space, with a glass dome on top. The moonlight shed upon the planetarium in the middle showcasing the planet Terra and the kingdoms in it. Altea glowed in white, with the other kingdoms glowing in different colors. Lance was about to step inside, but then he heard a voice from inside the library and quickly ducked out.
The next few rooms led to ballrooms in various colored themes and sizes, and Lance couldn't help the grin that graced his face. He did love a party and seems like the Altean royals did too.
Just as he was about to open the next one, he heard the familiar march of guards and quickly hid behind the curtains that draped the floor-to-ceiling windows. He counted under his breath and after a few ticks, he had memorized their routine. With a grin, he walked leisurely down the hall, knowing that the guards would be on the other side of the castle.
It took several left turns before Lance got a whiff of something savory that made his stomach growl so loudly, it echoed down the hall. He let his hunger lead him down to the kitchens where baskets of vegetables and other fruits were set on the large table, ready to be peeled, cut, and cooked for the next day.
Stepping in the warm room, Lance took in the sweet smell of exotic fruits like red maluses, the yellow bunch of par'adisca, the spikes of cosmosus, and even the berry-like aviums–scents that gave him a deep sense of homesickness that he hadn't felt for a long time. Turning away from the fruits, he looked over the vegetables. From a young age, he had helped out his mother in the kitchen with cooking to share with his friends outside their home, so he knew his way around a knife. He could probably make a quick meal out of them, but Lance was afraid that the sound of cooking might wake the head chef.
Just then he smelled it.
Jelly tarts.
His head swiveled around so quickly, it was a miracle his neck didn't snap. There, sitting innocently on the counter beside the clay oven was a pile of freshly made jelly tarts set to cool.
With total disregard to his present attire, Lance took off the wig and set it down on the table before snagging several tarts and stuffed them in his mouth. He melted at the goodness of the pastry.
His bliss was short-lived.
"Uhh, who are you?"
Lance froze.
He looked behind him.
The baker stood by the doorway, staring at him with wide eyes.
Quiznak!
"I can explain."