Chapter Text
The rain was violet when the kingdom fell.
In eighteen years, Peter had seen every colour of the rains. Blue showers at midnight turning new flowers silver; eerie splotchy greens in the winter which stained everything, from walls to hair to the snow; bright dawns with crimson water droplets melting into the golden sunrise; he had even seen a clear rain, once. When he was five the skies opened unexpectedly and he sprinted home from the stables, but stopped mesmerised at the transparent grey colour which flooded the kingdom.
Before now, before these senseless battles of empty ambition and cold steel, Peter had associated purple rains with laughter and soft spring grass emerging from a winter thaw. He could remember dancing in magenta light with his mother and wringing out lavender stains from his clothes with Ned and Michelle.
Now his eyes flickered over the pillars of smoke joining the grey clouds in the sky. Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to breathe in the stench of blood on the air as he looked out the tower window.
Now purple rains would always be remembered this way, he thought. And this pale violet colour in particular, this would haunt his people for generations to come - those who were left anyway.
Anthony the Conqueror was known to decimate the populations he invaded. If Peter had to guess, there would be no national identity in this kingdom by the time the month closed. Everyone would be dead or sold.
And in the background of all of it, in the songs and the paintings which would tell this story, would be a splash of violet; impossible to scrub out from history, the same dark colour as the heart of a bruise.
“My Prince …”
Peter turned from the window, blinking the tears fiercely from his eyes. Michelle stood in the doorway, blood trickling from a wound on her temple. She lurched forward a step, her armour shredded. Peter hurried to her side, putting a hand on her chest and guiding her to the desk in his office. He sat down and tugged her into his lap, holding her close.
“Where are you hurt?” He asked urgently but she shook her head.
“I’m fine, it is just my head.” Peter knew she was lying, in no small part because there was no such thing as just a head wound. He suspected the darkening moisture around her stomach was another tale, but it was difficult to be sure what with how the rain had soaked her.
“My Prince.”
“MJ,” he grasped her hands in his, her fingers were far too cold.
“Peter,” her eyelids were fluttering and part of Peter knew he should help. Should fetch a blanket and a needle and thread. But some other part of him knew that this was over. Michelle was the last of his friends still alive and now she would be the last of them to die. The last before him anyway.
“It’s okay, you’re going to see everyone soon,” He promised, putting a hand against the wound on her head, stroking her hair back behind her ear. She smiled a bit, her weight slumped further into the chair, further against him. Peter supposed it might look awkward, wedged together as they were on the chair, but all he could think was that he wanted to hold her even closer, wanted to reassure her even more.
Michelle tucked her head into his neck and whispered:
“He will make you an offer,”
Gooseflesh slid up Peter’s arms and on the back of his neck. He could feel a tremor in his lower back starting before she had even finished. He tangled his fingers with hers and rocked her tenderly, breathing in the clean scent of the beautiful rain outside.
“What do you mean?” He thought he knew, but asked anyway. Perhaps he was misinterpreting, perhaps he was wrong, perhaps the blood loss had addled her brain.
“Anthony, is coming here.”
“To kill me.” Peter said, but then realised it was less a statement and more a confirmation - he is coming to kill me, right? So I can be with you and Mother and Father and Uncle Benjamin and Aunt May and Ned. He wouldn’t leave me alive, he wouldn’t do something so cruel.
“He is going to ask you to marry him,” Her voice was wavering, weakening, and she was becoming heavier against him. Peter felt his lip curl in disgust, rage ignited in his chest.
“I would never-“
“Please, Peter!” She was gasping now, fading ever faster and Peter was chiding himself for so awkwardly seating them like this, for not even thinking to bring her water or lay her down comfortably, “Peter it’s the only way. He will kill everyone or -”
For a heart-stopping moment, Peter thought she was dead. But then he felt the shallow rise of her back under his fingers and he tucked his face against her hair.
His voice cracked: “MJ?”
“It’s the only way, Peter.” Peter wondered if he had ever seen Michelle cry before, as her body convulsed and hiccuped against him - perhaps aware of the horror of what she was asking him. She must know how unfair it was, for them to expect this of him, for him to carry out such a task without them.
“Give him your hand or your kingdom.”
He felt her lips on his collarbone, a chaste, dry kiss that fluttered against his skin. Peter closed his eyes and pulled her to his chest, willed her to move again with another weak breath. But she didn’t.
“Michelle?”
He wasn’t pleading with her, she was gone. He was pleading with nothing, with God, perhaps.
Peter sniffled and tucked her body against him, wondering how long it would take for Anthony to arrive and just run him through. He looked out the window where the sounds of battle had faded. Now all he could see was the torrent of purple rain, cut in half by a silver lightning bolt.
This wasn’t just about his life but the lives of his people. The choice for him was easy, but the weight of his responsibility was heavy now on his shoulders, heavy from the weight of the body in his lap, heavy in the crown staring back at him across the desk.
That damn crown.
Gingerly, Peter stood up and set Michelle back on the chair, slumped as if maybe she was just sleeping. Then he picked up the crown and stormed to the tower window, lifting his arm high to fling it out to the flagstones below.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Peter froze, arm trembling and face flushing with heat like a child caught in the act. He swallowed a sob and turned to face the man who stood in the doorway.
Peter didn’t know what he was expecting: a monster, perhaps. A ten-foot-tall savage with a bare chest, wild eyes, trailing chains and entrails behind him. But Anthony didn’t look very different from any other ambassador or dignitary who might visit.
There was blood on his hands, literally, and streaks of crimson and purple littering his leather armour. But his hair was trimmed neatly, his back was straight, and his eyes were focused. He flexed his right hand, letting the sword he held catch the light.
His lips quirked into the hint of a smile, “I’m going to need that crown, kid.”
Peter’s jaw set into a grim line. Without a word he twisted, raised his arm, and flung the crown out the window. Immediately, the crystals and gems were soaked mauve, tarnished by the rain, and then the crown hurtled down to the stones far below. It would shatter at the bottom. Anthony might claim the country by title and by sword, but Peter would be damned if he let his family’s crown sit on the bastard’s head.
Peter turned back to Anthony with his chin high, looking him dead in the eye, barely containing his racing heart and ragged breathing.
Anthony’s smile merely got bigger.
“Now that, kid. Was a mistake.”