Chapter Text
When the bugle sounded at sunrise, his body felt more worn than ever before. But he still donned his armor and found himself standing on the steps of his chambers, as the Spring Carnival commenced in full session, bloated by the Western Providence’s lingering victory.
Droves of vibrant flowers lined the streets, petals covered the cobblestone grounds, thin bouquets hung from balcony ledges; the town was alive as sellers cawed from rows and rows of market stalls, even in the young spring morning. People wore handmade flower-pressed blouses, and giggling kids ran through the gardens with flimsy kites, hoping to catch the non-existent breeze.
Despite the life that blossomed around him– the celebration of a new year, of nature’s beauty– James couldn’t help but feel like there was a stone weight in his chest. A glittering emerald green one, pressing against his lungs and down on his stomach. This should be the happiest time of the year. He should be helping with the last minute preparations and the armfuls of bouquet deliveries. He should be excited, relishing in the end of the war and a booming economy, and the first Spring Carnival he’d seen since seven years ago.
It all felt wrong, though. He didn’t feel like relishing in anything. The loss they suffered against the Eastern Providence was too great. The things he saw. The things he did in that godforsaken war. The way he broke into millions of pieces in front of his prince. The suggestion that they might never see each other again.
He felt like he wasn’t wearing armor, though he most definitely was. The metal felt too weak, like at the slightest touch it would melt like ice on the upcoming summer ground. He always seemed to feel this armorless when Kirk was nearby.
He was thinking too many foolish thoughts. Maybe Kirk didn’t want to meet again. Maybe he left James without another date to come back on purpose. Yet their time spent together fiercely contradicted that.
He didn’t know what to think. He stepped from the stairs and into the bustling crowd, and was immediately whisked away by families needing extra flowers for the doorframe wreaths.
The day moved forward like it was sped up and James embraced the constant drone in his ears and the distant tune of a traveling band, and the intensity of the first day of the Carnival. People packed the alleys to buy allium-pressed tapestries or half-priced ginger seasonings, and eventually he did buy a bottle of lavender oil. He enjoyed the light and herbal scent but was really searching for something more rich and syrupy and familiar.
He wondered what his prince was doing. Maybe he was writing a new lute melody, or maybe he was still asleep all bundled up in the blankets. Maybe he was having lunch with the Lord and Queen. Maybe he was sitting on the roof with his knees to his chest, overlooking the Carnival, the festivities, and James.
James didn’t look to the castletops to see. Instead, he kept delivering bouquets to lovers to give to their lover, counting the number of bricks in the ground as he passed over them. As soon as the sun set, he was back on his bed even though the events were far from over.
The second day started much slower and later, as the celebrations didn’t quiet in the slightest overnight. Some people were passed out in the alleyways, empty mugs in hands, and James wondered if Lars was doing alright so far. He decided to stop by The Shortest Straw and was instantly pulled in by his ear and put to work sweeping the floors and cleaning dishes.
“And I’m supposed to do four more damn days of this?” Lars huffed, already working on the next batch of rye bread. The sun was peeking out from below the windows, as people began to crowd the streets again.
James hummed in distant agreement, tossing a clean mug on its hook.
“One of the kegs is already out. Already! I can’t believe this.”
“Mmhm.”
“I’m missing several utensils. I need to start putting out warnings for people who take my forks and mugs. Maybe I should carve ‘The Shortest Straw’ in obnoxiously large letters on them so they’ll get returned more.”
“Hmm.”
“At least the weather’s holding up. I remember the last time we had a Carnival, it rained, and so much mud was tracked in here I thought I would go mad trying to scrub out the dirt between the floorboards.”
“Mmm.”
“Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.”
In the corner of his peripheral, James could see the whites of Lars’ eyes as he rolled them back.
“Listen,” Lars began. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. You haven’t told me anything so far about that little commission you received a while back, but I assume this has something to do with it.” He gestured to James from head to toe. “And whatever it is, it’s annoying.”
“I’m sorry.” James muttered, and accidentally nicked himself with the knife he was cleaning.
“I don’t care.” Lars said. James looked at him in surprise. “You’ve got this cloud over your head, brother. It’s springtime; that’s not supposed to be there. I need you to cheer up because I see you delivering these bouquets with such a solemn expression, and it’s affecting me, too. I don’t care what it is, but for at least four days, hold your head higher, you knight.” He genially punched James’s shoulder.
As Lars returned kneading the bread, James stared into the crackling flame for a moment. “It’ll all make sense later,” he eventually said.
Lars nodded. “I sure hope so.”
For a while they worked in silence, but then Lars stopped kneading and turned to face him fully. James put down the spoon he just finished drying.
“I do have to ask, James.” Lars said. “Is it actually a woman?”
James snorted. “No, Lars. Not a woman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Right.”
James wished it was that easy– it would make his situation a lot more simple.
But instead he ached. He was crumpling like a sheet of paper, falling apart and dissolving on a rooftop late at night. A white linen blouse under his fingertips. Soft, curly hair under his cheek, and a distant melody of a lute in his ears.
How far could these feelings take him?
Goddamn it all.
He finished drying the dishes, willing his shaking hands still.
On the third morning of the Spring Carnival, James noticed he had fallen asleep with his armor still on. He must’ve been too tired to remove it last night. He sat up in his bed, and rubbed out the imprints the metal left on his skin.
Today was a day everyone was looking forward to– the jousting match. James had proposed the idea and organized the event, but now he wouldn’t want anything more than to back out. He felt like he was moving too slowly, like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. He was exhausted, even though he barely did anything out-of-the-ordinary yesterday. But he was the First Knight– he couldn’t just decline the jousting match because he was tired– that would be terribly uncouth and improper.
And it was just a jousting match. Just a jousting match. Nothing he wouldn’t be able to handle. He grabbed his helmet and blearily stumbled out to the ring.
The sun was out and shining, bouncing white slivers off the petals of flowers right into his eyes, and he realized that he was almost late– he slept in, on accident. The first match was about to start.
A Knight was instantly knocked off his horse and the crowd cheered. James wound his way between the crowds of spectators to the back of the arena, trying not to glance up at the third-floor castle window.
Soon it was his turn. He pulled on his helmet and mounted the horse, lance heavy in his right hand. The helmet muffled the cheers of the townspeople, eerily similar to the countless screams on the battlefield. He shook his head. He held the lance tighter.
The horse broke into a gallop. He aimed forward.
Metal struck metal square in the center of the cross embellishing his breastplate, slamming the air from his lungs as he lost his grip on the saddlehorn, and then he was falling.
James noticed that there was not a single cloud in the azure sky.
He hit the ground with a thud and rolled backwards, coming to rest with his helmet squished in the dirt. He sat up, peeling the headpiece off, his hair in his eyes.
Whistles and cheers erupted around him from the townspeople. A bouquet of bluebells landed directly beside him, tied together with a red bow. The dirt was fresh and dewy under his hands. His horse had turned around, nosing gently at his shoulder, like it was asking if he was okay. Off in the far distance, he could hear a bird call over the applause surrounding him.
He blinked, the dirt blurring beneath him. He wondered if he just woke up.
“Sir James!” Someone yelled, and James realized it was the Knight he just jousted against, still atop his horse, long black hair cascading down his back. “Are you alright?”
James felt himself smile. “Yeah,” he answered, dusting the dirt off his armor. “I think I am.”
The Knight roped him into a night at The Shortest Straw, which was already overflowing with happy and sufficiently-intoxicated customers. The Knight was boisterous and overflowing with congratulatory remarks, even though James definitely lost against him, but he found himself getting more comfortable and asking for more pints as the sun went down. Four traveling musicians slipped into the bar and played and sang for the drunken customers, and James was right there next to them, inebriatedly basking in their beautiful songs and seeing little music notes flying from their instruments. The bar was full with rapturous laughter, victorious shouts, and people standing on tables and breaking chairs. James drank the melomel mead and ate rye bread with butter and honey until the early hours of the morning.
He woke up that next afternoon on the concrete floors with a splitting headache, a leg propped up on the bench, and his armor digging into his neck. If one were to ask him what happened yesterday, he wouldn’t have an answer. His head was pounding, and his back and hips were sore from landing on the dirt so hard. He hadn’t been this sore in years– since the end of the war.
He dragged himself outside and sat down on the doorsteps in the shade, the sun already falling in the sky. The festivities showed no signs of slowing down in the slightest, though some of the merchant stalls had been packed up, many people still crowded by him, determined to finish out the extended Carnival in its full and hearty glory.
James let his head rest against the support beam, the sunlight much too bright to keep his eyes open. But every time he closed them, the world started to spin. He sighed, his breath still sour with alcohol.
The kids were still trying to fly their kites, and some were poorly playing in sack races of old soil bags, as they kept stumbling over themselves and others, to which James had to hold in his amusement. Their happiness carried far over the festival buzz, accompanied by out-of-sight music from somewhere deeper within the town.
Through the blood pulsing in his head, he caught wind of a few passing conversations, whispering gold-tinged words of the Lord and the Prince whistling by, only intensifying the compressing of his skull. He wondered about Kirk. Maybe he watched the match yesterday. Maybe he laughed when James lost. It was a nice thought. His heart hurt.
Just as he was about to find a glass of water, a tiny figure approached him. He squinted as the figure stepped in the shade and he saw it was a young girl. She was holding a crown made of flowers.
She held it out for him, tucking her chin to her chest shyly. “Mister Knight,” she quietly said, looking at him with eyes of blue. “Here.”
Quite surprised, James let her place it on his head. “Thank you.” He said.
The girl didn’t reply, but scrunched her nose and giggled, and skipped back to her group of friends, all wearing their own colorful tiaras of sage, daisies, and pink peonies.
The crown was made of dandelions and poppies, slightly wilted from the heat of the sun. A few stems were untucked. It was very fragile in his hands, and just a bit too small on his head. When he took it off, one of the dandelions got caught in his hair and came untied.
He tried to fix it, but he was too scared of breaking it. The crown was arranged beautifully; balanced by none other than a high-level craftsgirl with an artist’s eye. He smiled to himself, admiring the red of the poppies paired with the yellow of the dandelions.
James rubbed his face, over the crossing of his scars. He wondered what compelled the girl to come to him, a very hungover Knight in full armor, to give him this handmade flower crown. Usually the kids stayed away from the soldiers of war. General Jason once mentioned that it was because they’re too intimidated by the Knights– James guessed that made sense– he knew his eye appeared fairly gruesome, especially to a younger audience.
But she approached him even so, just to give him a present that he didn’t think he deserved. A present that obviously took time, skill, and the guts to deliver it in the first place.
What a sweet gesture. James felt his heart swell.
He liked the crown; it was a bit girly, but a crown is a crown nonetheless. Whether it was tied loosely and falling apart, or made of solid gold and rubies as red as roses. He put it back on, and retired early to his room.
James was violently awoken at someone rapping loudly on his door. The sun had just barely risen above the horizon but he could hear frantic shouts from downstairs, footsteps running past his room, the clamor of many people right outside.
The Prince, they called. The Prince is back!
James was still pulling his boots on when he stumbled out the door.
The Knights were ordered by the Phantom Lord to guard and direct the entire town suddenly converging upon the castle, the final day of the Spring Carnival coming to an uproarious finale. Cheers and applause echoed across the castle walls, along with spilled alcohol and ecstatic faces.
It’s been over a decade! James heard some people say. I remember when he was just born! And Wait, we have a prince?
“Sir James,” a familiar voice said from behind him.
James turned around to meet General Jason’s crooked grin. “Someone wanted me to give this to you,” he said, holding out a flower.
It was a singular rose, the thorns still on the stem, droplets of water in the crevasses of the petals, like it was freshly watered. Jason put it in his hands, the still-green thorns poking his palm.
General Jason winked, and disappeared between the masses.
James looked down at the rose, and back up to nobody. He looked down again at the perfectly-familiar scarlet flower, so pristine it had to have been painted, or picked out of a thousand others, filling his ears and cheeks with its color, his heart stuttering to his throat at its intimate scent that transported him back to quiet mornings with open windows and soft bedsheets.
The church bells were ringing low and vibrant, a harmony with the chaos inside the castle. The people who passed still wore their flower-pressed blouses and crowns of orchids and lilies of the valley, the kids carried faux swords made of pine and oak, yellow and pink dye accidentally smeared across their faces. Floral necklaces shed petals onto the cobble grounds and yet the people smiled, fat with celebration, with glory, with triumph.
The cheers bloomed in volume and James looked up to the castle balcony to see the Queen in a royal purple dress, embroidered with blue lavender on the hem, and a bouquet of beautiful red roses in her arms.
She held up a hand, and the crowd hushed to a silence.
Though the Queen began speaking in that commanding tone of hers, James almost couldn’t hear her. The purple of her dress kept catching his eye– he had never seen such a vivid fabric before; it looked like silk, falling gently at her feet as a complete contrast to her authority.
Fascinating; she had worn the dress before, but somehow it looked so new.
“... I know why you are here today,” she was saying, “it is my great honor today, to announce the, uh, crowning of Prince Hammett of the Phantom Lord.”
The Phantom Lord stepped onto the balcony, accompanied by eruptive cheering. The heavy golden crown sat on his dark hair, inscribed with gems and arches of high value, draped in a strikingly-red cape that dragged ever-so-slightly on the ground behind him. It had been a while since James had seen the Lord; his hair had grown lighter, his eyes fallen deeper. But he still carried himself with such rule it made James’s stomach tighten, misdirected scorn spilling into his veins at the sight of the man who stripped his prince of his title and identity, throwing him into a dark corner even after his dutiful contributions for ending the war.
“Good morning, people of the Western Providence.” The Lord began, and James remembered why he is the Lord. “As ye are aware, the prince has been… absent from our castle for an extended period of time. Prince Hammett has proven himself well to be crowned with justice and honor, and will return as the Prince of the Western Providence, in accordance with the traditional ceremony.”
From under his coat, the Lord brandished a flower crown made solely with red roses, and allowed the crowd to cheer so loudly one might hear them from the High North.
And James watched, in almost slow motion, his prince stepping onto the balcony in pure white, his hair falling perfectly around his shoulders, a small smile on his face, and a very familiar emerald brooch over his chest that caught the sun and glittered like it was more expensive than all the gold in the world.
All of James’s anger dissolved like sugar in water. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it made his heart ache.
Kirk stepped in front of the Lord, his back to the audience. He bowed his head, curls covering his face, and the Lord gently placed the crown of roses on Kirk’s head with a muted blessing, as a collective breath was held.
And when Kirk turned back, and placed his hands on the balcony, and smiled so wide his dimples were visible, the crowd went ballistic. Countless bouquets were thrown high into the morning sky, and James could only dazedly watch as Kirk began to speak.
“The war was not something to be taken lightly,” he began, his soft voice tinged with a royal edge, making James’s heart squeeze. “It ravages us all, whether you were in the center of the fray, or back here, passing by armed guards and never truly feeling safe. It is not something we can ignore, or even accept the ending, because of the toll it took, on our Providence, and the East. It will never be the same, and I’m sure all of you know that better than I ever could.
“So, I ask, why do we still celebrate in the face of such an immense loss? How can we still find happiness with the holes in our hearts? Do you feel guilty for living?”
Silence. James could hear his heart beating. The Lord and Queen passed a glance between them, one akin to that of worry.
“People of the West.” Kirk said, leaning forward against the balcony railings. “I am not here to burden you again with these thoughts. I am here to assure you that it’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to question why me? Life is cruel, yes. But life is also so beautiful. Look around you, at our flowers, their beauty and majesty. Look and enjoy their bloom. Look for the people who cannot. Love, because you are all here for a reason. Though I cannot tell you that reason, I can promise you now that I am here as your prince, to help you figure that out.
“Shall we move forward, then? Not to forget, but to cherish the time spent with each other? And I will be right beside you, for all the highs and lows, for as long as I am alive. I thank you.”
James could see it, now, as he was swallowed by the blinding cheers. Seven-hundred and thirty people who were not here but are here now in the crow’s feet and rosy cheeks of everyone around him, in retaliation, a defiance of death, crying yet we’re still here, despite it all.
In the coldest and longest of winters, the roses will always bloom in the spring.
And he opened his eyes to Kirk’s amber gaze on his own, with a smile full of determination and pride and love that hit James deep in his chest, so deep it coursed through his veins and being, alongside his pumping blood. Kirk watched him for a second too long, melted into a playful grin and gave James a wink, and disappeared back into the castle.
He knew exactly where he was going.
The Phantom Lord resumed addressing the raging crowd but James was already at the back entrance, closing the door hastily and scrambling up to the third floor of the castle.
All of the windows were open, lighting up the hallway and letting the spring breeze flutter the curtains and floral vines outside, allowing in daffodil and lilac pollen that caught like stardust in the sun’s rays as James ran down the carpeted corridor, grasping the rose stem so tightly it pierced his glove.
Since when was the last time he felt so calm, despite the emotions overflowing from his eyes and soul? Like something had been unlocked, discovered deep within, finally allowed to bloom forth like the spring flowers. Something was released, like the spark of candlelight, an open box in the corner of his mind, a gold border around an emerald gem placed right in his palms. His purpose was standing right front of him this entire time, mending his torn heart silently with a needle of green thorns.
I think I get it, James realized, as he opened the unlocked door to Kirk’s room.
Kirk was sitting on the bed and immediately stood up as James approached him closely, a beautiful smile on his beautiful face, with his beautiful curls and beautiful crown and the beautiful brooch.
“Hi, James,” he whispered into a giggle. “My knight.”
I know I get it now. James thought, as he pushed their lips together, as gentle hands wrapped into his hair, as he breathed in the scent of vanilla roses because now he finally understood; the darkness and suffering he experienced were not in vain, not even close. Without living, he wouldn’t be here. The choices he made and the scars he bore, the existence of all of everything is here for a reason. He’s here to experience, to have, to be.
He’s here to love.
James finally understood.
So he kissed Kirk a little bit harder.