Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You know, they say the Thief’s greatest achievement wasn’t even something she stole.”

“But you said she stole the trident of the deep sea!”

“She did indeed. But it wasn’t her greatest achievement.”

“And what about the potions of the war god?”

“She stole those as well! But they weren’t her pride and joy.”

“Not even the demon’s egg?”

Sally winces. “That one… I may have over-exaggerated that one, sweetheart.” She runs a hand through Fundy’s hair, scratches behind his big, fluffy ears. 

He wilts. “Awwww.”

“But!” Sally amends. “If she did. If she did. It still wouldn’t be her greatest accomplishment.”

“Well what was?” Fundy demands, resting his chin on her bedside. He straightens her covers a little bit, just to have something to do with his hands. Always fidgeting, this boy. Can’t stay still, can’t just leave something alone. Sally thinks it’s his greatest strength. Wilbur’s always trying to get him to sit still in his lessons.

“They say,” Sally says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that she found a son.”

“A son – ” Fundy’s face drops. “You mean she settled down?”

“She wasn’t alone any more,” Sally explains. She pushes herself up on her pillows – it’s a struggle to even sit up. “She couldn’t run around stealing things for herself anymore. She had everything she needed, you know? And now she had someone else to think about. Her son. Her boy.”

“But she couldn’t even adventure,” Fundy mumbles. “Why couldn’t you have just changed the ending? She went on stealing from people forever. The end.”

“Because that’s how this story ends.” Sally absently scratches her arm and her scales, flaky and brittle, crack off and fall to the floor like glitter. “Sometimes a story… sweetheart, sometimes a story doesn’t end how you want it to. But when you grow up, you realize that the gods had a plan all along for you.”

Fundy’s mouth twists in his round face. “Like what’s happening to you?”

That’s not where she wanted this story to go. Somehow, they always seemed to end right back here. Sally, the magic slowly pulling life after life from her heart, her body slowly failing her, her husband. Her young son. 

She fights back tears. “Yes, darling.”

“Oh,” Fundy says. “Well, I’ll change the story, then. I’ll write a better ending. I’ll make it so that – that you can keep stealing from people forever.”

She chokes out a laugh. “I don’t doubt you will, my love.”

Fundy clambers onto her bed, his skinny knees and knobby elbows poking her where it hurts, the hollow of her stomach and her thighs. She grunts and lets him settle in next to her as he finds the comfortable spot under her arm.

She is lucky to have this. Her boy, all of nine years, tucked under her arm as she slowly fades. She is lucky to have his love, and not his anger, or his fear, or his sadness. 

“Love you, mom,” Fundy says, and she watches as a scale flutters onto the collar of his shirt. She brushes it away.

He falls asleep, and Sally stays awake, thinking about his ending to the story. To change it so that she can keep thieving forever. 

The problem is, Sally isn’t the thief. The thief is a real woman, an old friend of Sally’s and an unintentional mother who, someday, plans to pass the mantle on to her son. Sally is a shapeshifter, not a thief, someone who every day, until the end, wore her watery skin with pride. Chin held high, scales running down her neck and up the side of her face. And her shapeshifter son. The first shapeshifter prince of the kingdom of L’Manburg, the king marrying a woman from the sea. 

She wants him to be proud of everything that he is. He’s beginning to grow into his partial form but does not have his full shift down yet, and she will not be there to guide him. It will not be easy for him. 

Quietly, as he sleeps, she begins to plan.

Nine years later.

Dream stares up at the castle, foreboding and dark, looming over him in the evening sky. Even this far away, he can taste the magic of it on his tongue, like electric honey. It urges him to turn around, but he ignores it. For now.

He’s been summoned here.

Not exactly. Not exactly. But how was he supposed to resist? Prince Fundy had always been interesting to Dream, if only because he invented things that really seemed to have no real use. A fat strip of leather wound around two gears that someone had called a “conveyor belt?” A door that opened by itself? Sure, Dream could see some reason to have the automatic scythe, but what farmer was going to storm up to the castle and spend all his gold on a fancier version of what he already owned?

Dream usually focused on the rich and the opulent, their fine jewels and trinkets. Prince Fundy was low on the list – the kingdom of L’Manburg was far too small, filled with poor mountain farmers and goat herders. It wasn’t really one of Dream’s priorities.

All that has changed. Because the second Dream learned about the first piece of enchanted armor, he knew he had to have it.

Word spread quickly across the six kingdoms. Dream had been in the Badlands when he overheard whispers in a tavern. The prince of L’Manburg’s invention… armor that causes harm to those attacking!

It sounded like Fundy, a creature of magic himself, had finally dipped his toes in, and by the state of things, it sounded like he had very much succeeded.

Now, Dream is finally here, standing in front of the palace, all black and gray stone, one potion on his hip – a resistance potion. Already L’Manburg’s palace makes him want to turn around, leave the city, brings up all those projects he left unfinished when he rushed excitedly off with a half-baked plan to steal the armor. It’s heavy protection magic, cast mostly by its late Queen, who had given her life for it back when it was under siege. 

Fundy’s room, Dream’s research tells him, is at the top of the highest spire. It’s the usual room for the prince of L’Manburg, and as his eyes find it, his heart falls to see that it’s still lit with firelight, lit up orange and yellow. He waits for hours, the early spring air chilly against his skin, maskless and leaning against a building in the city, an unlit pipe in his hands.

The clanking noises of two guards sounds around the corner. Dream clicks his fingers and the little, wavering magic he has lights a fire in his hands. He dips the pipe to it and the tobacco lights, and when the guards turn the corner, Dream is the picture of a L’Manburg citizen out to get some fresh air, smoking a pipe as he goes.

“Evening,” one of the guards says as he passes, and Dream dips his head in greeting.

Finally, a little figure comes to the window of Prince Fundy’s room and leans out over the city. Far below them, Dream can’t make out who it is, but they pause for a moment, and look out over the buildings and the dense forest that lies outside the city walls.

They close the window and turn away, and Dream begins his plan. He chugs the resistance potion, moving silently towards the castle and keeping an ear out for guards. Slowly, the potion takes effect and the thoughts the magic has created leave his mind and he is blissfully focused on the task at hand. He slips his mask over his face and descends down the servants’ entrance. The rusty lock is easy to pick, and Dream slips through the gate and into the bowels of the palace.

The servants in most kingdoms move silently, unseen and unheard, through the walls. Dream takes the passages often, keeps his head down and his footsteps silent, and he passes for one instantly. Here in L’Manburg, things are different. The dingy passages are dusty, torches unlit for years. The common consensus is that the Queen – she who gave her life force to protect L’Manburg – also had uncommon views on servitude, and that she passed them on to her husband, the king, and the prince, her son.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Dream knows that it must probably be great to be a servant in L’Manburg. He just doesn’t care about that as much as he is thrilled with the notion that it means he can slip by undetected.

He ascends staircases, keeps the layout he’d memorized a few days ago in the back of his mind. The servants’ entrance is about as far away from the prince’s room as one can get, and he doesn’t want to run into anyone who doesn’t want to see him on the way there. Slowly, quietly, he makes his way through the maze of identical hallways to the top of the castle.

The door from the servants’ passages enters into a long, thin hallway, and the spiral staircase to the prince’s room is at the other end. Standing in front of it is a guard. There’s no other way up to the prince’s room. 

He backs away into the passage and takes a deep breath. Opens the window beside him and climbs out onto the side of the palace.

It’s breezier up high on the palace wall than it is down in the town, and Dream’s fingers go cold immediately, but he clings to the ledge and begins to move along the wall, little by little. The wind buffets him as he goes, and his mask tilts JUST slightly to the side, obscuring his vision.

Fuck. Okay. He keeps going, follows the path of the ledge, curls his fingers in the notches in the stone. He reaches the second window of the hallway. Only a little ways left to go and then he can enter through the staircase.

His fingers are completely numb by the time he gets to the third window. He fumbles for his knife, in his pocket, and wiggles it underneath the latch as it slowly turns and the window pops open. Dream grips onto the sill and pulls himself up, just barely squeezing through the tight space.

His feet hit the staircase and he closes the window as the hinges squeak, dashing up the stairs before the guard hears and wonders what’s going on.

The heavy doors creak open beneath him and he presses himself against the wall. Silence. Then the door closes again and Dream heaves a sigh of relief, slowly making his way up to the landing just outside of two heavy double doors.

He leans down and picks the lock, which opens with a click, and he backs into the prince’s room, breathing heavily. He closes the door and latches it, takes a moment, turns around.

The room is circular, two windows set into opposite sides, moonlight pouring in from the one on the left. The prince’s bed, the prince himself nothing but a lump underneath the covers, sits close to the dying fireplace for warmth. On the far right, a solid wooden table with chairs turned about from it, a bowl of fruit and a plate of cheese uneaten on the surface. Only a few paces away is the desk. 

He’s struck dumb. It’s the messiest fucking room he’s ever seen. Potentially no servant has ever touched it with a cleaning rag, or they’ve just been too scared, because the whole thing is covered in machinery, in metal and hanging strips of leather, tools and strange-looking gears. Across from the doors, the fireplace mantle is covered in gadgets and shiny bits of stuff. Papers and charcoal are scattered about, quills lying discarded on the desk, messy layouts and plans, a tapestry on one wall with an entire side smudged dark and dirty.

Slowly, Dream makes his way around the room, studying all of this prince’s things. Most of it looks worthless – iron and copper, things Dream can’t possibly begin to understand the functionality for, plans written in illegible scribble. And lying on the desk, right underneath Dream’s nose, a shining chestplate.

Dream picks it up with careful hands. The shine on the metal is not from the moonlight, and nor is it from the embers of the fire. The armor glows with its own iridescent shimmer, like mother-of-pearls, like the sea under a full moon. The magic is spiky underneath his hands, like the smell of citrus, the feeling of pebbles underfoot – even though the 

Dream puts it down and turns to the fireplace mantle. Prince Fundy must keep other things of value in his room. Dream’s here first and foremost for the chestplate, but all royals are the same. They all have something valuable nearby. Otherwise they don’t feel like royalty.

He keeps an eye on the prince. Still sleeping.

A sketched portrait of the prince and the King, in charcoal. The parchment is clean and crisp, and the artist had caught the smile on the prince’s lips, the pride in the King’s eyes. The King sits on the throne, Fundy standing with his hands tucked behind his back and his chin lifted. 

Dream puts it back. Next, a wrench. He puts it back. A leather bracelet, braided with a child’s clumsy hands. A tag tied to it, written in chicken scratch: From. Tommy And Tubo. He puts it back.

Finally, the glimmer of something truly special. Dream lifts it from the mantle and nearly forgets about the chestplate.

A glass flute. 

It glimmers low, the silver-ringed keyholes sparkling as he presses his fingers to them, one by one. The moonlight catches itself on the glass as the smooth crystal scatters it through the hollow center. The flute is both cold and warm in his hands, and something presses behind Dream’s eyes, something that feels angrier than tears, more devastating than laughter.

It’s magic. But the magic that went into the armor is nothing close to the magic in this flute.

“Whatcha up to?”

Sometimes, Dream gets caught. It’s why he wears a mask. And he always, always, finds a way out.

“I’m stealing from you,” he answers casually, still studying the flute. “This one’s nice. Did you make it?”

“It was actually a gift from someone very important to me. Nearly anything in this room is fair game, Dream, but I am going to have to ask you to put that one back.”

Dream looks up at his name.

Prince Fundy is sitting up in bed, the moonlight cascading over him, gaze affixed on Dream. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem, but Dream’s always had a weakness for pretty boys, and Prince Fundy is very pretty. 

His orange hair ruffled from sleep, streaked through with white, his fluffy ears perked up in amusement. He’s shirtless, and Dream averts his eyes from where the covers gather lazily around his sharp hipbones, the whip-lean skin of his chest. It means he meets the prince’s eyes, big and dark, soft. Looking at Fundy feels like dipping the tips of his fingers into an inkwell, the way the black drips from the pads, full of grace and clumsy.

Fuck. Magic always makes him feel like this. And this prince wears magic like a second skin.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been waiting for you, actually,” the prince says, climbing out of bed. The fire warms and flames spring into being. “I was hoping you’d come.”

Dream watches him pull on a robe over his trousers. “You were… hoping I’d come?”

“Yes,” the prince says, gathering together some of the papers scattered on the floor. “I am sorry for the mess, by the way – I’ve been preparing for the gala in a week, and today I was a bit scatterbrained.” He clears off a chair. “Why don’t you sit and have a bite to eat?”

“I have to go – ”

“No, you have time. Put down the flute and let’s chat.” He sits at the table. “Come on.”

Dream glances towards the doors. Now is the time to take the opportunity to run. The target is far away, the target is distracted. But the prince seems unconcerned. He eats a grape.

Dream curses and sits. The flute clatters onto the table in front of him.

“Careful with that, please,” the prince chides. He smiles, and Dream realizes – his teeth are sharp, canines large and dangerous. “Why don’t we start with our names? Mine is Fundy.”

“You obviously already know mine.”

“But it’s nice to be formally introduced.”

Dream sighs. “I’m Dream.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Dream.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Prince Fundy.”

“Oh, please, just Fundy. No need for titles here.” He winks. Winks. Dream blushes under his mask. “Wine?”

“Um,” Dream says, gesturing at his mask. “Well – ”

“Oh, come now, I know all the stories,” Fundy scoffs, pouring blood-red wine into two goblets. “You’re a ghost in the night. Those that do see you only see the mask. Quick as the wind, stealthy as a fox.” He winks again. “I know all about foxes.”

The wine he moves across the table to Dream, who takes it. “You first.”

“You’re very untrusting.” Fundy takes a sip. “Not poisoned, I promise.”

Dream uncertainly takes a mouthful of wine. Irritatingly enough, it’s good wine. “So…” he begins. “Why all of this?”

“Oh!” Fundy says, looking pleased. “Well, I wanted to meet you. So I tried to invent more and more outlandish things, hoping to attract you to our little kingdom. I suppose, along the way, I kind of inadvertently stumbled upon something genuinely very useful.”

“The armor.”

“The armor. You can have that piece on the desk, by the way. I’ve made a few pieces for my personal guard, but that was the very first that actually worked.” He looks thrilled, his lips curving in a smile. “I thought it was only fitting it went to you.”

“You wouldn’t use it elsewhere?”

“Well, I can always make more. And make them better.”

“And I’m the first to try to steal it?”

“Not at all.” Fundy smirks. “I’m a light sleeper.” 

He studies his nails. In the brighter light of the fire, Dream can see just how long and sharp they are. “So that’s how you knew I was here?”

“You’re far too loud for a famous thief,” Fundy says. He runs a hand through his hair, scratching at his ears. “Have you never stolen from a shapeshifter before?”

Dream blinks. “No. If you’ll excuse my saying so, shapeshifters don’t tend to be rich.”

A grin. Canines. Dream is so fucked. “So this is a pretty special moment for you.”

Dream stammers. “I didn’t mean – ”

“Oh, you’re really cute.” Fundy leans forward on his forearms, his black eyes glittering. Dream can see his eyelashes, bright ginger, like his hair. “I knew this was a good decision.”

Dream’s heart shudders in his chest and in a split-second, he’s gone from the room.

His Royal Highness Prince Fundy of L’Manburg awakens the next morning with a smile on his face. 

The sunlight is streaming in through the windows, warm against his skin and the bedsheets. For a moment, as he looks around the room, he thinks it didn’t happen; that it was all a dream. At first glance, nothing is disturbed.

And then he sees the flute on the table.

He pushes himself out of bed and strolls over to pick it up. It’s been a while since he’s played it, although his mother taught him how to, many years ago. He just hasn’t picked it up off his shelf recently, too focused on his inventions.

And that’s the other thing; the table reeks of an a brand-new scent. Like the wet grass after rain, the dew dripping from the leaves of trees. Fundy sighs and sits at the table. Disappointing, how fast Dream had left last night. It would have been nice to have a longer chat with him, but to even meet him at all was just fantastic.

Fundy’s actually wanted to meet Dream for maybe a decade, ever since he first caught wind of his existence when at fifteen. All the stories that his mother had told him about the famous thief had died out and become myth, but suddenly, they were beginning to spring back up in a new form. A mysterious shadow, riches and gold gone missing, the only trace a servant’s fleeting glimpse at a terrifying, smiling mask.

Fundy loved it. He soaked up every word he could, learned everything there was to learn about the one they called Dream. He started working on ways to meet him. Inventions created from the deepest recesses of his brain, useless drivel, improvements on what already existed. He’d had some good ideas – but nothing had been good enough, or useful enough.

And then he’d been attacked, as he so often was, and Niki had almost died in the process of protecting him. So Fundy turned his mind towards what he could make to better protect her in return, and, potentially, something that would get Dream to notice him.

Tap, tap, tap. “Prince Fundy?”

It’s Niki’s voice, her faint scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the door. “Good morning,” Fundy calls. “Come in, Sir Nihachu.”

She enters, decked in her usual sleek armor, the black and red cape of L’Manburg’s knights billowing around her. Only the pauldron on the shoulder denotes her as different from any of the other knights; the orange and white of Fundy’s personal guard stands out brightly from the color of the cape. She holds her helmet underneath her arm.

“Good morning, Prince Fundy,” she says, her voice soft. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” Fundy responds.

“How wonderful,” Niki smiles. “Apparently your guard last night heard a commotion from your room last night and thought he saw someone jump out the tower window. I was worried about you.”

Gods, she’s trained her guards annoyingly well. “I didn’t hear anything,” Fundy says, shaking his head and pretending to look concerned.

Niki places her helmet on the table in front of him and leans in. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“What happened last night?”

“I… had a visitor,” Fundy hedges. “A… friend.”

One eyebrow, and a smirk tugs at the corners of Niki’s lips, but she holds it back well. “A friend.”

“Yes.”

“If I may, Prince Fundy, you don’t have friends .”

“Maybe you don’t know everything about me. Maybe I do have - have some gentleman callers sometimes. Maybe they’re good at sneaking past your guards.”

Niki pulls away and studies him warily. “You have some very talented friends, Fundy.” She picks up her helmet again and Fundy relaxes slightly. She’s bought it. “Next time, please keep me in the loop. Just so I can keep an eye on your – ” A poorly concealed grin. “ – gentleman callers.”

“You’re my favorite, Niki.”

“Of course I am – I’ve saved your life eight times.”

“Seven.”

“The incident with the Butcher Gang counts.”

“I saved your life so it cancels–”

“It does not cancel out! I’m not having this argument right now. Get dressed. Your father wants to see you.”

“We’ve changed the date of the gala.”

Fundy’s heart drops. Fuck. 

He’s standing at attention in the huge, empty throne room, the gilded chair at the fair dais currently occupied by his father, who is draped in red and black. The sunlight streams in from the high, thin windows, long strips of light lying across the floor. 

Fundy clears his throat. “We’ve changed the – to when?”

King Wilbur sighs, the bags under his eyes even more prominent than before. “It seems as though King Eret’s conflict with Manifoldland is beginning to unfold beyond the short skirmishes they had initially anticipated. I know the two of you are close, and having strong representation from the kingdom of D’Sempe at all our events is essential in maintaining our relationships as two neighboring kingdoms.”

It’s all politics, wrapped up in bravado and self-conceit. Fundy hates it. L’Manburg is tiny, scoffed at by many, disregarded by four out of the six kingdoms. D’Sempe is the one kingdom that respects L’Manburg’s existence and keeps its trades steady and lucrative, and even that bond was only forged in the past couple of decades, grown strong by Eret’s and Wilbur’s friendship. Eret’s been like another parent to Fundy ever since Sally’s death, always interested in his inventions and his creations, a supportive figure behind him when Wilbur was still reeling from the loss of his wife and didn’t know how to comfort his son.

Fundy really, really, really wants to have Eret at the gala. Fundy also wants to have the horrific stress of the gala behind him. Fundy also knows that some day, these are the decisions he’s going to have to make. 

“I understand.”

“Thank you, my son.” Wilbur stands from the throne, cape flowing behind him as he descends. “Walk with me.”

Fundy does, feeling like he always does next to his father. Small, strange, skinny and weak next to Wilbur’s lifted chin and regal stance. He folds his hands behind his back and tries to emulate him with every step.

It’s useless, he knows. (Wilbur’s always said that he takes after his mother when it comes to “royal presence–” whatever than means.) But he can always try.

“How are your inventions coming along?”

Wilbur’s voice is soft as they pass through the shadowy hallways. Fundy fights the urge ask him why he’s interested. “They’re alright,” he says instead. “Maybe more time will be good. I can fix the things that need fixing.”

“You’ve been working on many of these things for over a year.”

Fundy nods. “I have. They – they can be better. I can make them better.” 

His father fumbles for words as the guards push open the heavy oak doors and they walk out into the sunny gardens. “I’m sure you can. I – the armor that you made for Sir Nihachu is particularly useful.”

Useful. 

“It is.”

“Would you be willing to provide the blacksmith with diagrams? To be able to protect our soldiers the way they deserve – the way their families deserve – would be honorable to the highest extent.”

Sam, the royal blacksmith, is Fundy’s close friend and has been alongside him in the creation of many of his inventions – in all of them, actually, save for the enchanted armor. To say no feels selfish. To say yes feels like giving up.

Fundy reminds himself now: he is a prince. The prince of his country. The sole heir to the throne. His mother gave her most valuable treasure – her life – to protect L’Manburg. Everything Fundy does should be for the good of L’Manburg.

Dream, last night, did not take the chestplate. To continue to create for him and not for L’Manburg is selfish. Fundy must, must, must, put the needs of his country above himself and his interests.

“Of course I’m willing,” Fundy says. “He should work with the mage and try to increase the potency of the protective spelling,” he adds as an afterthought, and when Wilbur looks interested, he forges onwards. “It’s basic casting, at least what I put on Nik– Sir Nihachu’s armor. Protection interwoven with an offense of pain, I thought poison maybe but it was too complex for me to try too soon. If I can, it would be nice to work with them and have a hand in the process, especially if I’m to present a complete set at the gala – ”

Wilbur is nodding, but his gaze has flickered elsewhere and Fundy knows he’s lost him. “Of course you’ll be working with them,” he says airily. “I’m sure it’ll be productive, you’ll make lots of ground. Prince Fundy, a few other things I wanted to speak with you on…”

Fundy sighs and keeps pace with him as they stroll through the gardens. Niki is behind them, halberd tall, keeping place with Sir Technoblade, Wilbur’s personal guard and another shapeshifter. Niki has recently dyed her hair pink, and Fundy is only now realizing how she matches Technoblade. He glances back at them, and then up at his father, the words on his lips.

He is still talking about a trade deal with the Badlands. Fundy shuts his mouth and turns to face forward again. He tips his chin up. Someday, he will be king. Someday, this will be his role.

Working with both Sam and Mage Philza is almost overwhelming. Sam’s presence, for Fundy, has always been stabilizing and comforting. Even as he and Fundy work through Fundy’s designs, molten liquid poured into the forge and banging away on the anvil, his voice remains soft and thoughtful. In the cracking, welting heat, Fundy manages to forget the burden on his shoulders, forgets why exactly, he’s doing this.

Philza, however, is different. Phil crackles with magic. Fundy himself is a creature of magic, but Phil is not. Phil is entirely human, born with the same magic humans naturally have, and he clawed his way to his title, to gain every inch of magic he has. He gathers his power around him like a cloak, an aura, his brown robes sweeping the dusty floor of Sam’s workshop. Being around Phil is like consistent static electric shocks crawling across Fundy’s skin.

They work for hours, sweating, Fundy’s hands cracking and drying from the heat of the forge. Phil casts over the molten chest plates, his eyes glowing and the magic washing off of him like water, and as Sam dips the armor into the water bucket, the steam rising in a great whoosh, Fundy doesn’t feel like his invention has been taken away. 

He feels pride.

Of course, that doesn’t last for long because then he hears clapping behind him as Sam lifts the glowing armor from the bucket and turns to see the two most annoying children Fundy has ever had the misfortune to meet.

“That was so cool!”  

Tommy recklessly charges forward and wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, completely disregarding the extreme danger of the forge. “Dad. Dad. What are you doing. Dad.”

“I’m working, Tommy,” Sam says, sending a panicked glance towards Fundy as he holds the dripping chestplate as far from his son as he can, steam still rising from its bright surface. “What are the rules?”

Tommy sighs and dislodges himself, trudging over to the work table on the other side of the room. “Goggles and gloves.”

Tubbo already has his goggles on and gloves pulled over his hands. Sam had had small, ten-year-old sized work attire made for the two boys when he realized that he couldn’t keep them out of the shop – or rather, couldn’t keep Tommy from dragging Tubbo along whenever he came to visit, and couldn’t keep Tubbo from visiting once his interest was piqued.

Fundy despises them both. Kids suck. These kids suck viciously.

“What are you making, Mr. Sam?” Tubbo asks curiously, peering up at the chestplate as it clatters onto a dry anvil.

“We’re making enchanted armor,” Phil says, putting a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder and pulling him away. He looks proud as he faces Fundy “Tubbo’s turning eleven soon, and when he does he’ll officially begin his mage training. Isn’t that right, son?”

Tubbo is staring up at the forge, his eyes wide. “Yes, dad.”

Fundy sighs and turns back to the chestplate. “How strong are these enchantments, Phil?”

Phil chortles. “Pretty strong, if I do say so myself.” He steps close, peering at the rapidly cooling armor. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it out right now, but – ”

“Did you put a poison enchantment on it?” Tommy asks delightedly.

“Not this one,” Phil says.

“What about a bloody curse that makes whoever attacks you – ”

“No, Tommy,” Sam says. “How about you and Tubbo get out of here and go bother Alyssa? She’s out in the – ”

“I wanna stay here,” Tubbo protests.

“Me too,” Tommy says firmly.

Fundy sighs and resigns himself to a long and annoying session in the blacksmith’s forge.

Hours pass, and Fundy is smudged and sweaty and grimy, following loosely by two of Niki’s guards. The walk from the forge to his room is not a long one but he is dead on his feet so it feels he spends years, traipsing, exhausted. And then –

No way.

The shadow of a tree, the forest in a rainstorm. Fundy turns, sniffing the air, and darts away down an alley when his guards aren’t looking. The houses tower around him, blocking out the setting sun, and a crossroads sits a ways in front of him. The scent is stronger here.

You stayed, he thinks. You’re still here.

“Dream?” he murmurs, and a shadow moves around the corner.

He turns the corner. A flurry of movement. Someone grabs his arm. Grappling of hands, and for a moment Fundy panics but he snarls and his claws come out and he pins the figure against the wall.

An empty smile, childlike and wide, greets him. Fundy relaxes. “Oh. It’s you.”

Dream does not speak, and Fundy can’t see his face. “I didn’t think you would stick around.”

“I didn’t get what I came for,” Dream finally says, after a moment of silence. “I don’t see your dogs anywhere.”

Fundy grins and shows his teeth. His canines bit into his lower lip. “The guards are only for appearance’s sake. I can handle myself.”

“C–Clearly.” 

Fundy is still pinning Dream to the wall, claws out and resting against the open curve of his neck. He backs off and sheathes them. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to – ”

“‘S alright.” Dream pushes himself away from the wall. “Are you really – are you really thinking of giving me the chestplate?”

“It’s yours,” Fundy says. “I made it for you.” He doesn’t mention that he’s now created armor ten times as powerful. He pretends it’s because Dream would steal the newer armor instead. 

“How did you make it?” Dream asks, his arms folded across his chest. “I know Sap – I mean, I know people who – who tried to make enchanted armor and failed. When I – I didn’t understand how.”

“It’s all in when you enchant it,” Fundy answers. He blinks away grit that’s gotten in his eye from the grime and sweat dripping down his face. “The people you know probably enchanted the armor after it was already made, or even after it was already worn.” He opens his palm and his claws extend as he focuses, his orange-gold aura slowly becoming visible. “Once you create something, the natural magic you already have is worked into that creation, even if you didn’t mean it to. It’s your inherent power. So when you, or especially someone else, try to pile different forms of magic on top of it, it falls off, basically. It won’t stick – ”

“– so you have to apply the enchantment when the armor is still being made .” Dream’s facing him, fully, his shoulders relaxed. His voice is raising, excited and his hands are in his hair as he comes to the same conclusion that Fundy had, a month ago.

Fundy beams at him. 

The very first night he’d had the idea, he’d snuck into the forge, worked the bellows himself, heated the liquid metal, poured it into the chestplate mold, and worked up all the magic he had into the tips of his fingers, and as the metal glowed white hot, he poured the spells into it. The sky was dark, the moon black in the sky, and the only light was the hot red light of the flames. Fundy’s hair seared and his skin grayed. But at the end, he lifted the chestplate up to the window, something soaring in his chest, as it radiated light of its own.

“Fuck,” Fundy says, rubbing his eye viciously. “Fuck, there’s – ugh, something’s in my eye – ”

“Here,” Dream says, stepping close, so easy, and Fundy is surrounded by his scent as a calloused thumb flicks at the corner of his eye. “It was right – ” He steps back, slowing, and Fundy can smell the embarrassment on him. “... here. I – ”

“Um,” Fundy says. He can feel his face heating up. Dream’s thumb against the corner of his eye leaves a lingering feeling against his skin. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“ Prince Fundy!”

Fundy flinches and turns. It’s one of his guards, his voice growing closer.

“Your dogs are here,” Dream says, his voice flat. Fundy looks over at him, panic rising in his throat. 

“I wanted to talk to you more.”

Dream tilts his head. “I’ll be in town.”

Fundy looks back to where he knows his guards are. When he turns to say something more to Dream, there is no one there.

“Sorry,” Fundy says, returning to his guards. “I thought I saw something.”

Dream does stay in town. Fundy recognizes scant traces of his cool scent as he takes walks around his city, and sometimes, for the three weeks after, he finds him in the city and escapes his guards to walk with him, their conversations short and sweet yet guarded and careful. Dream is hesitant, often shy, nervous and twitchy, but when Fundy describes to him his inventions Dream asks him thoughtful, intelligent questions – and even though Fundy can’t see his face, never sees his face, he stays interested in the conversation. Fundy could cry.

(“...and so it works by – basically like a wheel on a carriage, but larger and turned on its side. To make it smoother both the top and bottom have a series of gears that are – well, they’re currently not working great, but they will, they will – they’re attached to the door and then to the pulley in the wall. It might be overcomplicated but I wanted the door itself to feel grandiose. I didn’t want it to – ”

“To turn too fast?”

Fundy clicks his fingers, grinning at Dream, who leans against the back wall of a cobblestone house. “Exactly. If it’s too loose it’ll just swing right on through and hit you in the ass. Keeping it slower means you can walk at your own pace.”

“But don’t normal doors work just fine?”

“Why would you have a normal door when you could have a rotating one instead?”

Dream laughs. “I suppose that’s true. Does it improve anything at all? I always feel new inventions should improve on the design of whatever they’re based on. To make it easier or simpler.”

It’s a good point, and one that Fundy doesn’t necessarily think about when he’s working; ingenuity and fun ideas come to him before use. Wilbur’s voice echoes in his head: Practicality over sentimentality, my son. What use can you make of it? He pushes it away. “Well, it’s a door you can have open and closed at all times. I don’t think it would be feasible for a great number of smaller houses, but I think for palaces and mansions it’s better, especially ones with servants. If you’re carrying several things, with a rotating door you can just push with your back instead of having to put something down to open it. Ease of access.”

“That’s a good point,” Dream says. “I didn’t think about it in terms of making it easier for the servants.”

“I…” Fundy sighs. “I mostly invent for fun and to try and create things that don’t exist – even if there’s a reason for them not to exist. I know that I should put use first – ”

“I don’t know about putting use first,” Dream parrots, cocking his head. “I didn’t mean to imply… I think you certainly have the means, and there’s far worse things you could be doing with your time. I think it’s kind of fun, actually.” He tucks his hair behind his ear and a strong wave of the dark green scent hits Fundy like a tidal wave, consuming him.

Fundy’s heart rises in his throat and he swallows around it. “You think so?”

“Yeah. You said you were presenting them at a gala?”

The gala is both the most exciting thing Fundy can imagine and also the scariest. “Yes. The gala – my father wanted to – to show what I’ve done and what I’m capable of. A display of all of my inventions. We’re inviting everyone from the six kingdoms as well as commoners from L’Manburg. I think he wants to prove I’m not useless.”

Dream steps forward to put a hand on Fundy’s shoulder and the light falls across his fingers, painting streaks of brightness in the air as he moves. “You’re not useless,” he says, his touch warm and heavy on Fundy’s shoulder. “You’ve already proved it.”

“I haven’t proved – ”

“You have. You’ve already made your country proud.”)

Niki has started to keep a closer eye on him, as Fundy’s casual and short disappearances cement in her mind the idea that he has a gentleman friend. Fundy’s newfound excitement and happiness only contribute to the lie; he works all day in the forges with Sam and Phil, is friendly to Tommy and Tubbo, and pays attention to Wilbur’s verbose lectures about the state of the kingdom. It’s not quite a lie, Fundy thinks. Dream is a friend and a gentleman but unfortunately he’s not the kind of gentleman friend Fundy would like him to be. 

Then one day he returns to his room from the forge and discovers two things. One: it smells like Dream. Two: the chestplate is gone.

Fundy stands frozen in shock in the doorway, Niki right behind him.

“Prince Fundy?” she asks, prodding him to move forward.

Fundy doesn’t move. Why would he just… take it? Without talking to Fundy? Why would he come to Fundy’s room if Fundy isn’t there?

Dream has left L’Manburg. Dream has left L’Manburg and he didn’t say goodbye to Fundy.

“Fundy?” Niki asks. “Are you alright?”

Fundy shakes off the shock. “Yes. Yes. Sorry.” He walks into the room, even though every step costs him, as Dream’s soft, cool smell grows stronger. Lying on the table, even though Fundy knows it’s been on the mantle, is the flute.

Oh. Something clicks.

“Yes,” Fundy says, turning to face Niki. Knowing that Dream cared enough to leave the flute – and conspicuously too – emboldens him. “Yes, I’m alright.” He rubs his chalky hands on his trousers. “I should bathe.”

Niki puts a hand on his shoulder. “Fundy, you know I’m here not only to protect you but I’m here as your friend?”

“I – ”

“You do know that, right?”

Fundy stares at the ground. Niki’s small hand is gentle on his shoulder, and her thumb rubs back and forth.

“I’m glad you’re alright, but if something is wrong, I want you to know that I’m here to listen.”

Fundy takes a deep breath. “Ok.”

“Okay,” Niki says. 

Fundy casts around for the words. “I – my friend that I – ” He stumbles, pauses.

“Your gentleman caller.”

Fundy huffs out a laugh. “Yes. He left town without saying goodbye to me.”

He picks up the flute from the table and picks out the fingering for a scale, slowly and painstakingly.

“I’m sorry,” Niki says eventually. “That’s very unkind of him.”

“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Fundy mumbles. 

“Reasons, yes, but not excuses.” Niki puts her helmet down on the table and covers Fundy’s hands with her own, wrapped around the flute. 

Fundy swallows. “It’s for the best. I was distracted. You saw it. I have to – ” He looks over at his desk, the space that now seems empty without the faint glowing light of the chestplate. “It’s for the best.”

“You know that you’re allowed to have things for yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Not everything has to be for L’Manburg.”

“That’s not what my father seems to think.”

Niki sighs. She seems to think for a moment, her gaze going far away, before she speaks. “You know that your mother trained me?”

Fundy looks up, startled. “What?”

“Your mother trained me to be your guard. You were maybe five, and I was fifteen. She was looking for someone to be your lifelong guardian, and I was…” Niki laughs, wet and choked up. “I was nervous. I wanted the position but I thought I was so young, too young. Wilbur eventually persuaded me to do the trials.”

“I don’t see – ”

“I gave up everything to devote myself, you know?” Niki sits in a chair and Fundy goes with her, their hands still linked together. “I lost friends, family, lovers. She told me that – I had to find a balance. Between L’Manburg and everyone I loved. Between L’Manburg and me.”

“That’s a fucking joke. ”

“What do you mean?”

Fundy stands, almost drops the flute, and throws his hands in the air, stalking away. “My mother gave up everything for L’Manburg. My mother gave her life to protect this city, and I can barely be a good prince. My father’s disappointed in me, my duties are terrible and all I want to do is just – sit in the forge, and work on new inventions, and if I am doing something important I just want to be anywhere but there, want – maybe I just want to be with him instead – ”

Niki interrupts him. “Wait. Wait. Hold on, Fundy. Your mother didn’t give her life for L’Manburg.”

Fundy whirls on her. “Yes she did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Yes she did! You know how it happened! You saw her! You saw it happen and you did nothing!”

“Your mother gave her life for you!”  

Niki, in all the time Fundy has known her, has never once shouted. But her voice is raised, her eyes blazing in fury, standing to meet Fundy.

Fundy is stunned into silence.

“My father said – ”

“For you, Fundy. Her son. What she loved more than anything else.”

“The castle walls were crumbling – ”

“Did your father never tell you why we were attacked?”

“He said – ” Fundy swallows. “He said – they wanted our resources – and – and our land – ”

“Bullshit,” Niki says. “ L’Manburg’s resources and her land. That was a lie told to reassure the people. Told to keep you from blaming yourself, Fundy. Those attackers were residents of L’Manburg. Those were people who were angry that you were Crown Prince.”

“They were here – ”

“To kill you.”

“But my mother – ”

“There were insurrections cropping up all over the country,” Niki continues. “We’d had threats made to the palace numerous times. How old was… I was twenty, I think. I had no idea how to handle them. And your mother was dying to keep the wards stable. The wards, by the way, we installed to protect you, specifically.”

“But why couldn’t…. why couldn’t Phil or someone – ”

Fundy breaks off as his own words echo in his mind. Once you create something, the magic you already have is worked into that creation. Your inherent power. So when you, or especially someone else, try to pile different forms of magic on top of it, it falls off. It won’t stick.

Fundy sniffs and tries to rub the tears away from his eyes. “Oh. The wards were hers.” 

“Phil’s magic protects the castle,” Niki says quietly. “Sally’s wards protect you.”

“So – ”

“She told me,” Niki murmurs, taking ahold of Fundy’s hands again, “over and over, that the worst thing you could do was give yourself over entirely to one thing. She and Will – King Wilbur – were so good together because they were each other’s escape. She was able to do so many things because she refused to confine herself to just Queen Sally of L’Manburg, to just doing magic, to just being a shapeshifter. She was more than the sum total of her parts.”

Fundy sniffs again, and this time he doesn’t wipe the tears away.

“So are you, Fundy. Magic, invention, shapeshifting, this, this boy. And crown prince of L’Manburg.” Niki smiles and her eyes crinkle. “I’m not allowed to say that King Wilbur is wrong. That would be treason.”

Fundy laughs and it comes out sounding more like a sob.

“But when Sally died he lost that part of himself that knew how to balance his responsibilities with being… just a normal person. And he thinks if you aren’t the perfect prince, that he’s failed as a king. And a father. And that’s on him, Fundy. And not on you.”

“But I – ”

“The people love you. That’s why we’re holding the gala. To celebrate you, Fundy. Your achievements. Your works.” Niki cups his face in her hands and kisses his forehead. “I’ll have someone bring you dinner.” 

She stands, takes her helmet, and walks to the door as Fundy, lost in tears, can barely speak.

At the door, she pauses and turns. “She made that flute for you for a reason, Fundy. I think you should start playing again.”

The door shuts quietly behind her and Fundy curls up in his chair, holds the flute close to him, and finally mourns the death of his mother.

A month passes – one month closer to the gala. The preparations are in full swing, invitations sent and received, confirmations from all five kingdoms of representatives that will be showing. King Eret writes back themself, a note to Fundy and Wilbur about the skirmishes with Manifoldland, and how they will be there, rain, shine, or war with the neighboring country. At the end, they include a note to Fundy that simply reads, I’m proud of you.

Fundy considers Niki’s idea and begins practicing again. The magic glides through him so easily and even though his playing is stuttering and hesitant, the fingerings and the silvery threading magic come back to him so easily. Fundy begins to plan something for the gala – a performance of music and magic, wound together, in memory of his mother. He keeps the fragile thought a secret from everyone – as if it would shatter if he told them.

And the rest of the time he has he spends perfecting his machines with Sam in the forge. They make multiple versions of all of them, trying to figure out what works the smoothest, working out the kinks and pinches and stumbles that were imperfect in the first place. They keep the finished products down in the vaults, where they’re safest under lock and key. But Fundy keeps the now almost completely done suit of enchanted armor in his room, locked away in a second closet. He has Niki post an extra guard outside of the doors to his room. He’s tempted to put a little label on it – Not for Dream – but it seems like a bad idea, so he doesn’t.

He’s so wrapped up in the gala that he forgets that the biannual royal hunt occurs at the beginning of the summer, two weeks before the gala is set to take place.

Fundy begs Wilbur to be let out of the hunt. He’s basically taken to getting on his knees and pleading, and still his father is unmoved. “I still have so much to work on. The self-opening door has a hitch in the gears and I think we might have to redo – ”

“As Crown Prince, you’re expected to participate in the hunt.”

“Just this once, please – ”

“Absolutely not. The people expect to see their prince succeed at his own talents – your inventions – as well as longstanding traditions like the hunt.”

“I can’t succeed if I don’t have time to work – ”

“Sir Nihachu and members of her guard will accompany you tomorrow into the forest,” Wilbur continues, speaking over Fundy. “You will participate in the hunt and you will return with game, no matter who catches it.”

Fundy sighs, but bows low. “Yes, my lord.”

Wilbur studies him. “Catch something early and you may return earlier tomorrow to continue work on your inventions.”

“Thank you,” Fundy says, knowing that it’s all he’s going to get. “Good evening, Father. I will see you tomorrow.”

“You want to go back to L’Manburg? What the hell’s in L’Manburg?”

Dream sighs. “Nothing that’s really important. Or – it’s just an event that I think could be fun. To attend.”

“To steal from?”

“ No,” Dream says, and maybe it’s a little too fierce, because Sapnap notices and stops in his tracks, where he’s been pacing in and out of the shade of the forest.

“Gods, Dream, you spent so fucking long in L’Manburg in the first place and you only came back with the one chestplate. I thought you were gonna be loaded – ”

“It’s the first enchanted chestplate,” Dream protests. “ Ever.”

They’re standing on the outskirts of a town right on the border of D’Sempe and L’Manburg, where Dream had turned down the fifth potential buyer of Fundy’s chestplate because it was too low a price. He can tell George and Sapnap are fed up with him but he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t give it up. He doesn’t have it in him. 

“Well, ‘ the first chestplate ever! ’ doesn’t exactly sell as well,” George says. “You’re being so picky, my gods. Just sell the thing.”

“Maybe I want to keep it for myself.”

Sapnap scoffs. “What use do you have for a glowing piece of armor? It’s not gonna help you sneak by any guards, that’s for sure.”

“It’s cool.”

“Maybe ostentatious .”

“Good word,” Sapnap chuckles, and high-fives George. “Seriously. Dream. Why won’t you sell it?”

Dream’s holding the chestplate in his hands. It still crackles with the sharp tang of Fundy’s magic, but it’s less vicious than before. He thinks about what Fundy said about magic, and how the longer you have an object, the more of your essence it holds. As if the chestplate knows him now.

“I just think… I think it’s neat,” Dream tries feebly, and George narrows his eyes.

“No, that’s not it. What’s going on?”

Dream shakes his head as Sapnap closes in on him. “Dream. What happened. What did you do.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Did you kill someone?”

“No, I didn’t kill someone!”

“Did you maim or injure someone?”

“No! No blood was shed!”

“So what is it?” George whines, throwing his hands up. “What’s so special about the chestplate?”

Dream runs a thumb over it. “I… the prince let me take it.”

George frowns. “What, the shapeshifter prince? Fungi?”

“ Fundy,” Dream snaps, and at Sapnap’s sudden wide eyes, he knows he’s done for. 

“Dream made a friend!”

“Shut up.”

“Dream can make friends?” George asks benignly. 

“What the fuck are you guys then,” Dream grumbles, hugging the chestplate to him and tucking his head into his chest as Sapnap pushes him a couple times.

“Dream wants to go back to L’Manburg because he wants to see the pwetty pwince.” Sapnap dances around him. George giggles and pokes him. “What’s the event, Dream? Is it a ceremony? A party? Oooh, is it a ball?”  

Fuck it. “It’s the gala,” Dream mutters. “It’s a celebration of all of the prince’s inventions.”

“Oh, lame,” George says, beaming widely. “Dream, that’s so fucking lame.”  

“Shut up.” 

Sapnap tugs at the chestplate in his arms. “So you wanna keep the chestplate because – because it – ew, because it reminds you of the prince?”

“No!” Dream snaps. “No! He – he wanted – ” Gods, they are never going to let him live this down. “He wanted me to have it. He made it for me.”

Sapnap and George are silent.

Dream stumbles over his words. “He – he just said he wanted to meet me so he made the most – the most outlandish inventions he could think of and eventually he made this and I heard about it and he said he wanted me to have it because it was the first one he ever made and he made it for me.” He runs out of breath. “So. Yeah.”

Sapnap finally speaks. “You have a fan?”

Dream has never been gladder for the mask as his face blushes bright red. “Shut up.”

“You have a fan!” George is gleeful. “Gods, you’re going to get married and settle down and have a kid and retire…” 

“This is nothing like that.”

“Like mother, like son,” George singsongs. Dream punches his arm.

“Oh my gods, it is!” Sapnap says. “It absolutely is. Okay, Dream. We’ll go to L’Manburg with you, and we’ll be your parents waving their son off to the dance.” He sniffs and pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “Our little Dream, all grown up.” 

“I’m going to get empty nest syndrome,” George wails.

“Shut up,” Dream says, and pushes them both, sliding the chestplate into place and buckling the straps behind his shoulders. The heat of the magic pulses through his chest, like a heartbeat. “Get moving, bitch.”

The border between L’Manburg and D’Sempe is north through the forest, the trees thick and the canopy squawking with birds far above them. The three of them are used to walking long lengths – between them, their packs are light and their horses usually get stolen or die – so this short trip is nothing for them. Shadows flicker at their feet and the soft crunch of the forest floor underneath their footsteps is a quiet background noise against the silence of the rest of the forest.

They spend a few days traipsing through the forest before they reach a town on the outskirts of L’Manburg. Dream takes off his mask – which he hates doing – and they stop by the inn for a bed for the night. They’re all stinky and dirty, and the innkeeper looks over them with a sneer as she gives them a key. “Up the stairs, second door on the right. There’s a washbasin in there if you need it.”

“We do,” George assures her, and Sapnap kicks him as they head up the stairs and into the tiny room with two beds. 

“I get the solo bed,” George says, scrambling to get on top of the covers.

“Then I get first go with the water,” Sapnap counters, and Dream rolls his eyes.

“I’m gonna get a drink.”

The innkeeper seems unhappy about it, but Dream forks over the coins and a glass of mead lands on the table in front of him. He raises it to his mouth, almost tries to lift his mask from his face before he remembers he’s not wearing one, and takes a drink. 

It’s not great mead. Fuck, L’Manburg is such a shit country. Dream’s forgotten about that. Few resources, apparently unhappy innkeepers, bad drinks, and it’s so small.

It’s got a good prince, though, something in his brain says, and Dream almost shoves it from his mind. That’s unfair; Fundy’s there, with him right now, his magic pulsing into Dream’s heart. 

Dream lets himself think about him. 

He hopes Fundy isn’t too upset about how Dream left. Sapnap had found him, cornered him in the city, demanded to know why the hell Dream was taking so long. It was only supposed to be a night, and it had turned into three weeks. Dream had barely noticed. 

When he snuck into Fundy’s room for the second time, hoping against hope he’d be there, it was only supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Grab the chestplate and go.

But he remembered the first night they’d met, their conversation over the glass flute, and he hoped that Fundy would too. He took the flute, placed it amongst the messy papers on the table, and snuck quietly away. He hoped Fundy understood. There was no way to get him a letter – and no way for Fundy to get a letter to him. 

Which is why Dream has to be there for the gala.

And even as he thinks it, he hears a conversation, and he hears Prince, and he begins listening closer.

“...going on the hunt, this year?”

“No, he’s got a bad ankle. Heard they’re sending the prince two weeks before his fuckin’ party or whatever.”

“The one with the new machines he invented? I thought that already happened.”

“Nah, got pushed back. Apparently commoners are invited or some bullshit… it’s fuckin’ worthless, is what it is.”

“I’m surprised he’s even an inventor at all. He’s smart for a shifter.”

Chuckles. Dream’s fist curls.

“Seems kind of stupid to me, actually. Dunno how he’s gonna be king.”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

Dream doesn’t remember standing, and he doesn’t remember looming over the table, but now he is, and they’re all looking at him with apprehension. “What did you say?”

“I said, watch your fucking mouth,” Dream says. “The prince is gonna be the best ruler this nation’s ever had, shifter or not. Show some respect.”

“Hey.”

Dream turns to see Sapnap’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Calm down,” Sapnap says. “Come on.”

“Coward,” one of the men at the table spits as Sapnap leads Dream away. Dream is fully prepared to take him on in a full bar fight but Sapnap’s hand tightens to a vice on his shoulder. 

“Not worth it.” 

“I have the armor.”

“That’s why.”

George is asleep on the second bed, snoring quietly when they enter. “Take a bath,” Sapnap says, letting Dream go. “You stink.”

Later that night, playing cards by candlelight at the tiny table, Sapnap brings it up.

“So,” he starts. “You’re friends but it really is something more.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“I’m gonna make you.”

Dream glances up at Sapnap, but his face is impassive, looking down at his cards. “Did I ruin anything when I found you in the city that day?”

“I…” Dream says, and sighs. “I don’t know what foot we left it off on. I left in a hurry. Didn’t say good-bye.”

“That’s why you want to go back? To say good-bye?”

Dream shakes his head before he knows he’s doing it. “I – I just want to see him again. He’s – so intriguing. He’s so... much.”

“Is he pretty?”

Dream kicks him under the table. “Shut up.”

“That’s a yes.”

Dream sticks his tongue out. “Have any fives?”

“Go fish.”

They move on the next morning, George drowsy and complaining the whole time, but they still have a lot of ground to cover if they want to be back to L’Manburg in two weeks’ time for the gala. 

“That guy at the inn said commoners were invited,” Dream says. “I just need… nice clothes.”

“Fucking steal ‘em,” George yawns, stretching his arms up and hitting a tree branch. “What the fuck are you whining about?” 

Oh, Dream thinks. Duh. 

He does steal from a huge, rolling estate they come upon that day, sneaking through a window and picking through a closet. An embroidered green jacket, ruffled white shirt, sleek black trousers. The shoes are a little big on him. He takes them anyway.

“Look at all that fancy shit,” Sapnap goads, elbowing him. “You’re gonna look so sexy and irresistible.”

“I’m gonna look like a fool,” Dream says. “He’s going to be so angry at me.”

George studies the jacket. “Don’t wear your mask, then.”

Sapnap splutters and hits him. “What – why would he wear his mask? You think he wants to get caught?”

“Well how would the prince recognize him otherwise?”

Dream sighs and butts in. “He can smell me.”

“It’s ‘cuz you stink so bad,” Sapnap says. “But I might actually have an idea for that.”

They make camp at the edge of a clearing for the night, a rabbit that Sapnap caught roasting on a spit over the fire. In the distance, more hunting horns sound.

“Ugh, I’m so sick of hearing those,” George groans. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a hunt happening,” Dream says, taking off his mask to pull off a bite of the chewy rabbit. “I heard it at the inn.”

“You fucking heard everything at the inn, huh,” George says.

Sapnap rolls his eyes. “Not our fault you were asleep the whole time.”

High-pitched whining. Definitely not a hunting horn. Definitely a living creature Dream jumps to his feet, knife out. Fire blinks into Sapnap’s hands and George stands, his fingers hovering over his bow. “What was that?”

“I dunno,” Dream says, scanning the area. He doesn’t see any figures approaching. “Hello?”

“Well don’t invite them,” George squeals. Sapnap hushes him.

A rustling from Dream’s right. He turns. “Who’s there?”

And a fox limps into the clearing, blood trailing from its hind leg, whining pitifully.

Sapnap hisses. “Ouch.”

Dream sheathes his knife. “Hi,” he says as the fox stands still, its wide eyes fixed on them. “Hi there. We won’t hurt you.”

“Shouldn’t we?” George says.

“No!”

“Wouldn’t it be better to put it out of its misery?” he pushes.

“No,” Dream snaps. “We can bandage the leg. Give it some rabbit.”

“That rabbit’s for us!”

“I know a healing spell,” Sapnap offers over George’s protest. “It won’t fix the wound but it’ll help it heal faster. Then you can bandage it.”

Dream nods, crouching, and holds out his fingers to the fox. “Hi, buddy,” he says. “Come here.”

The fox does not approach. 

“It’s gonna bite your hand,” Sapnap warns as the fox’s hackles rise.

“It’s not,” Dream says. “It knows I’m friendly.” Like magic, the fox approaches, hesitantly sniffing Dream’s hand. “See?”

“Damn,” Sapnap says. “Okay.”

“I wanna help you,” Dream murmurs to the fox. “You’re hurt and I want to fix it.” To George, without taking his eyes off the fox, he says, “George, will you grab the bandages from my bag?”

The bandages roll wordlessly to his side and he shows them to the fox. “I want to help you.”

“It’s gonna run,” Sapnap says. “You might have to catch it.”

“Don’t run,” Dream tells the fox.

The fox runs. Dream reacts on instinct, grabs it around the middle as it screams. “Stop yelling,” he says. “It’s okay! It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Slowly, the fox calms until it’s limp in Dream’s hands, still whining with every pained, panting breath. “Okay,” Dream says. “Sapnap, go.”

Sapnap scooches over so he’s next to Dream, the fox tensing up in Dream’s lap. “This is Sapnap,” Dream says. “He’s not gonna hurt you either.”

Sapnap grips the fox’s leg with both hands and the fox begins to yell again as Sapnap’s eyes glow faintly, the light under his hands turning red. 

It dies down and Sapnap sits back on his haunches, breathing hard. “Oof,” he says. “That took a lot.”

The fox is quiet now, panting and breathing heavily, but its leg is still glowing faintly with the aftereffects of Sapnap’s magic. Dream wonders – will it have the residue from Sapnap’s spellcasting on it forever, or will it eventually wear off? He makes a note to ask Fundy when he sees him at the gala. If he even gets up the courage to talk to him.

“You gonna bandage that or what?” Sapnap asks, prodding Dream’s shoulder and Dream jumps. 

“Yeah. Oops.”

“Isn’t Prince Fundy a fox shapeshifter?” George asks casually from the other side of the firepit, where he’s biting off strips of rabbit.

Oops. Dream thought neither of them knew that.

“Awh, do you have a soft spot for foxes now?” Sapnap jokes as Dream carefully wraps the fabric around the fox’s leg as it begins to calm down on his lap.

“I’m just saying,” George points out, “that totally could be him.”

“It’s not,” Dream says firmly. Because if it is – if it is – he doesn’t think about it. He ties the bandage off. “There’s a thousand foxes in the forest. Fundy’s off somewhere hunting… deer. Or whatever you hunt when you’re a prince.”

“Oh, right, the hunt,” Sapnap says. “Sounds boring and stupid.”

“Sounds like dumb shit royals do.” George nestles into his blankets. “Night, guys.”

“Nope, you’re not sleeping tonight.” Sapnap throws a stone at him. “You’re keeping watch.”

George sits up halfway and Dream bursts out laughing at his face. “What! Why me?”

“You were the only person who didn’t help out with healing the fox,” Dream says. “It evens out.”

“I threw you the bandages.” 

“Not enough. You’re keeping watch.” Dream leans back against a tree. The fox is still curled up in his lap, its eyes slowly closing. “Night, George.”

“Night, George,” Sapnap calls, thrilled, from where he’s curled up in sleep. “Love you.”

“I hate you both,” George says, and slowly, Dream falls asleep and dreams of dark eyes and sharp, pointed teeth.

Fundy wakes slowly and in a lot of discomfort and pain. The first thing he registers is the cool scent of forest around him, the fungal growths underneath the trees and the sweet dirt, the dew on the leaves and the grass. The second thing he registers is the feeling of unfamiliar magic coursing through his leg. Not his magic, nor Niki’s. What had happened…? 

The third thing is that someone is watching him. Fundy sits bolt upright and meets the mismatched eyes of the bored boy scanning him up and down from across a dead campfire. The morning light is pale, the forest shrouded in soft mist.

“You’re a shifter,” the boy says, shredding a blade of grass. 

“I am,” Fundy says. “What about it?”

“Nothing.” The boy shrugs, tossing the grass to the side. “I thought you might be when we healed you last night.”

“Who’s we?” Fundy looks around – another boy with black hair, facing towards the campfire, and one with blond hair, leaned up under the shade of a tree and snoring with his mouth partially open.

“The three of us,” the boy with the mismatched eyes says. 

“Who’s the magic user?” Fundy asks, rubbing his leg. “I don’t recognize the signature.”

The boy jerks his head over at the black-haired one. “Sapnap. He’s the best out of the three of us.”

Fundy chuckles. “Is that saying something?”

The boy grins. “Not really. None of us are very good, but he likes to play with fire, so we all had to learn how to heal pretty quick.” He looks Fundy up and down, appraising. “What’s your name?”

“Floris,” Fundy lies. 

“I’m George,” George says. “And that’s – Clay.” He nods to the blond boy. “You fell asleep in his lap.”

Fundy feels his face turn red. “I was in my fox form.”

“You were pretty beat up.” George frowns. “What happened?”

Fundy sighs. “I was at the hunt.”

George makes a face. “Ew.”

Fundy rolls his eyes. “I know. I hate it, it’s useless. But there was a stray arrow. It got me through the leg and – well, I don’t know if you know any shapeshifters, but usually if we get hurt we’ll pretty automatically jump into our animal form. It’s instinct. It’s supposed to help us stay alive.”

George shakes his head. “Didn’t know that. Sounds like it sucks for, like, fish shifters.”

Fundy winces. “Yes.”

George doesn’t notice his discomfort. “So you jumped into your fox form and then ran away?”

“Usually you’re completely aware of what’s going on when you’re shifted, but in that painful mental state it can be hard to keep your humanity,” Fundy explains. “I’m actually surprised I managed to shift back into my human form. Usually we need an anchor to get us out of it.” 

George’s eyes glance over to Clay and back again. “That makes sense. You bonded with Dr – Clay pretty quickly last night, so maybe that’s why.”

“Maybe,” Fundy says, and pushes himself to his feet, a little wobbly on his leg as the pain shoots through it, as well as the quick-healing magic, red and zinging. “I’m going to see if I can find the rest of my hunting party.”

“Won’t you get lost?” George asks.

Fundy laughs and taps his nose. “Never fully transformed,” he says. “I’ve got a great shnoz.”

George laughs and waves him away. “I’ll see you around, Floris.”

“Bye, George.”

Fundy tracks the scent of humans through the forest – mostly Niki; he’s so attuned to her scent he could probably find it from countries away if she’d passed through seven years previously. He tracks it as it winds all over, fresh and recent and yeasty. She smells distressed. She’d probably gone crazy looking for him, a fox bolting through the forest in the dark of night with an injured leg. Anything could have happened to him.

Maybe he can use this incident to get out of the next hunt. He files it away for later.

He eventually spots the orange of her shoulder guard and pushes his way through the thicket to get to her, calling her name. She’s so busy giving a guilty-looking guard a dressing-down that she barely notices him.

“Niki!” Fundy finally has to yell, and she turns and her body sags in relief. 

“Prince Fundy!”

She pushes the branches out of the way for him and lets him by, holding him by the shoulders and looking him up and down. “Are you alright? Should you be on your feet?”

Fundy nods. “I ran into some travelers and they tended to me.”

“As a human?”

“Fox,” Fundy confirms. “I spoke to one as a human this morning and gave him a fake name.”

“Good,” Niki says. “Face Sir Morgenstern for me.”

It’s the contrite guard she had been talking to. He kneels at Fundy’s feet. “Please forgive me, Prince Fundy. I was foolhardy and reckless and you were hurt in the process and no number of apologies could ever show my sorrow at your being hurt. Please, please forgive me.”

“Okay,” Fundy says. “Sure.”

Behind him, Niki sighs. “Prince Fundy – ”

Sir Morgenstern scrambles up. “Really?”

“My prince, you can’t just forgive him for shooting you in the leg,” Niki says.

“He apologized and it’s all fine,” Fundy shrugs. “I just need to get back to the castle. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.” 

“He needs punishment.”

“Uh,” Fundy says. “Catch a deer or something and attribute it to me. Tell my father I actually did something on this hunt.”

Niki puts her head in her hands but Sir Morgenstern looks thrilled. “At once, my prince.”

“Sir Nihachu,” Fundy says, turning to her. “Ride with me back to the palace?”

Niki swings a leg over her horse and leads over Fundy’s mare, who still has a small blood spatter on her belly. “She’ll be cleaned back in the city.”

“That’s good,” Fundy says, stroking her mane. “Let’s go.”

Fundy spends the next two weeks running around as fast as he can on crutches, annoyed at his slow speed. His leg is healing far faster than it normally would but Phil and the other mages are hesitant to work with their own healing spells for fear of their magic reacting poorly to Sapnap’s untrained spellcasting.

So Fundy spends his time in the forge with Sam and Phil, Tubbo joining them with his proper safety equipment. Phil puts him to work “watching Fundy for any signs of fatigue, Tubbo, or if you think he’s going to fall you yell. Got it?”

“The child is babysitting me,” Fundy groans.

“I’m ten,” Tubbo protests. “I’m not a child any more.”

“You fully are,” Fundy tells him, and goes back to working on the gears of the revolving door.

One night, Fundy lies in bed and tries to get to sleep. He counts back the days. The gala is… Tomorrow. Fundy bolts up. Fuck. Tomorrow’s the gala. 

He’s unable to sleep for hours after that, and turns to look at the flute, resting on the mantle.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed and picks it up. It’s cool in his hands but right now the magic seeping through it is his mother’s magic, watery and silver, threading like silk through his hands and arms, the magic he knows better than anyone else’s magic. It settles in his aura, next to the core of his magic in his gut and wraps him in her protection and care. It interacts with Sapnap’s magic in his leg, silver and red meeting, and then Fundy feels warmth, and then no pain at all.

Even from the grave, her magic in the castle, in the flute, still protects him.

“You will find that people will lie to you, my son,” she says. “Often, and tragically.”

Fundy does not yet understand why. “Oh,” he says. “That’s not very nice of them.”

“I want you to always be truthful,” she says, and her thin hands unfold, a crystalline glass flute lying across her fingers. “I want you to know those who will not lie to you. I want you to be surrounded by openness, and love, and honesty.”

“And so you’re giving me a flute?” Fundy asks.

She strokes his face. “I will teach you.”

Fundy closes his eyes, purses his lips, and plays.

The day of the gala dawns bright pink and gold on Prince Fundy, sleeping on his table with the flute still grasped in his hands. He sits up straight as the sun hits his black eyes, his claws extending in the sudden panic of brightness until he realizes where he is and what he holds.

He stands and places the flute on the mantle. He starts the biggest day of his life. 

Fundy greets every guest who walks in the revolving door between 5:00 and 6:00. He shakes their hands, smiles at them with his sharp teeth, and thanks them for trying out his new invention. When they ask what his new invention is, he gestures to the door and watches their faces light up in interest. He guides them into the main hall, where his inventions sit in various places around the room. The automatic scythe. The clock that ticks forever, the pendulum swinging back and forth. The conveyor belt that runs the length of the far wall; on one end, the barkeep, pouring wine, placing it on the conveyor belt. And at the other end, the excited guests who receive their wine from the end of a brand new contraption. 

Fundy walks around the room and introduces himself, describes his thought process for each invention, gets names and stories and histories. The evening floats by like a dream. Everything is working; none of his inventions are breaking; and everyone seems impressed. Everyone respects him.

Wilbur is not there. Fundy reassures himself: Wilbur is not there yet. Eret, too, has yet to arrive. Sam comes and goes but Niki stands quietly by his shoulder, and Fundy is grateful for her silent support. 

Two hours in, and Fundy is still pumped full of adrenaline and simultaneously exhausted. Wilbur and Eret are not yet there. In thirty minutes, Fundy will unveil his masterpiece: what he’s calling the Thorns armor. The guests are becoming bored as well; the same inventions for two hours are uninteresting, and the armor has been so widely lauded they are all desperate to see it. At least everything is still working, Fundy reassures himself. Nothing has broken.

Niki can tell he’s getting antsy. She reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him; Fundy, for a second, puts his hand on top of hers before letting go. The small action emboldens him and he steps into the crowded throng of people once more. Speaks quietly to a few, toasts others. 

Someone bumps into him and Fundy turns to steady them. “Oh! Excuse me.”

“No, excuse me, I – ”

He’s about Fundy’s height and looks vaguely familiar, a green jacket just a size too small clinging to his shoulders. He blinks at Fundy and the expression slips from his face, leaving only shock. “F – Prince Fundy.”

“Hello,” Fundy says. “Enjoying the gala?”

“I – I am, I am,” the man says, turning to the pedestal just near them, on top of which rests Fundy’s automatic harvester. “Everything is very well made. You crafted them?”

“With the help of a few others, yes. But the ideas are mine,” Fundy says. “And the mechanisms. Actually, in just a few minutes, you’ll see the – ”

“Thorns armor,” the man says. “Yes. I’m – it’s fascinating.”

His voice is familiar as well. There is magic on him but it doesn’t belong to him, as though someone had spelled him. Something about him strikes a chord with Fundy – but at the same time, it is as though he is facing a blank wall, or as if an intrinsic part of the man has been struck from the world. For the life of him, Fundy can’t figure out what’s off.

“It took a long time but I think it’s turned out very well,” he says blithely. “If you’ll excuse me – ”

“Wait!” 

The man grab’s Fundy’s wrist. Fundy turns, startled, and before he knows what’s happening Niki is wrenching the man’s hand away from him. 

“Don’t touch the prince.”

“I’m sorry,” the man says. “My apologies.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking distressed, and that’s when it all clicks. Fundy can’t smell him.

“I can’t smell you,” Fundy says, leaning in close and breathing in deeply. He’s right. Nothing. Not a whiff. The man freezes. “Why can’t I smell you?”

“I – ”

“A scent suppressant charm,” Niki snaps. She pulls Fundy away from the man. “What were you planning?”

“I wasn’t – ”

Fundy reaches out to touch the man’s shoulder, gathering his aura at his fingertips, searching for the unknown magic zinging through him. 

It’s like a static electric shock; a tiny little bolt of red between the man’s skin and Fundy’s. Fundy instantly recognizes the signature; it’s been healing his leg for two weeks.

“I know this magic,” Fundy says. “It belongs to a man named Sapnap.” He frowns, and slowly, it is beginning to dawn on him. How he recognizes this man. 

The man’s – Clay’s – face slides into shock. “How do you know – ”

The trumpets at the door blow and Fundy’s heart turns over as he looks up at the entrance to the hall.

King Wilbur and King Eret glide in, capes billowing behind them, and around them, the servants’ heads bow. Wilbur’s gaze rests on Fundy and his face brightens.

“My son,” he says over the silence of the room. “Please, show some appreciation for Prince Fundy!”

Eret bursts into applause, and the room follows suit as everyone turns to face Fundy, a room full of smiles, and interest, and pride. Niki smells of intense happiness, the smell of sweet bread rolling off of her in waves. Fundy turns to her, and her eyes meet his. Helplessly overjoyed.

Fundy feels respected.

“And now,” King Eret rumbles, stepping forward and quieting the guests. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for: the invention that will revolutionize the world. Prince Fundy?”

Fundy makes his way through the crowd to the shorter dais at the other side of the room. The wall behind it is covered with a tasseled curtain, and behind the curtain is the full Thorns armor. Fundy stands in front of it, facing away from the hall. All he can see is the red velvet of the curtain. His vision whites out for a second. He almost shakes. Niki stands beside him, and she lowers her voice so no one can hear her.

“Are you ready?” 

Fundy shakes his head so small only she can see it. He tries to clear the ringing panic from his mind. “No.”

And she smiles, and grips the curtain with one hand. “Yes you are.”

The curtain falls away and Fundy automatically steps aside. 

A roar of applause rises and Fundy takes it all in. The armor glows with its own luminescence, almost unearthly among the stone pillars of the hall. Niki stands to the other side of the armor, beaming at Fundy with no uncertain amounts of pride. His father and Eret on the balcony look for all the world like they are – pleased. Like they’re happy. And the people in front of him – Fundy’s people, the people of L’Manburg and the neighboring kingdoms. All proud, all excited. His heart lifts and he feels like shouting. He’s done it. He’s actually done it.

Sam and Phil lean against the far wall, and Fundy beckons to them.

“I want to thank – ” he tries, but the crowd keeps applauding. “I want – I want – ” He can’t help but laugh. “Please!”

Eventually, it grows quiet.

“I’d like to thank Head Mage Philza and Sam, the royal blacksmith, for their help in creating this armor,” he says, gesturing to them. “I want to thank Sir Nihachu for accepting my first full set, back when I was working on it alone. And I’d – ” He closes his eyes. “I’d like to pay homage to the person who – who believed in me, since the moment I was born, and who gave her life to protect me and to protect L’Manburg.”

He pulls the flute from his inside breast pocket and turns it between his fingers. “My mother was one of the strongest mages and shapeshifters the world has ever seen. As – ”

He can’t speak. The crowd is completely silent. 

Fundy takes a breath in and feels his hands tremble. The flute is still in his hands. The magic is waiting for him. 

“As you all know, she perished to keep the wards intact. Her magic lives on in the palace, protecting it.” He holds up the flute. “It lives on in this as well.”

He inhales again, shaky. Niki stands far to the side and she does not touch him. She was the only person he told, and he asked her to let him do this alone. She agreed, and she gave him a kiss and told him she was proud.

“Before she died – and she knew that she was going to die – she gave me this.” He twirls the flute between his fingers. “She taught me how to play. She taught me how to use the magic inside.” Breathe in, and out. “Truth magic.”

A few gasps, a sense of worry.

“It’s not meant to reveal anything meant to stay hidden,” Fundy says. “It’s not going to unspell glamors or deactivate healing charms or protective magic. She always said that truth magic reveals to you what you want. It strips away your layers of personal protection until you fully know yourself. If any charms come down, it’s because you want them to.” He laughs. “I’m not sure I’m capable of something that powerful.”

A few chuckles.

“I hope you will hear something you understand,” he says. 

Prince Fundy lifts the flute to his lips and closes his eyes.

The melody unfurls like a spool of thread and the magic in the flute opens its eyes, flutters its wings. He plays the only song his mother taught him, the spell song she called simply Truth.

“Play it again, darling.”

“It’s hard!” Fundy huffs and leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “It’s too hard. I can’t play it.”

Sally doesn’t lose her patience often, but her body is slowly collapsing under her and her son is, apparently, not a fan of the gift she’s given him. “Give me a moment, Fundy. Please.” 

“I just don’t get it,” Fundy whines. “I’m already good at mathematics and my science tutors say I’m doing well! I don’t understand why I need to play the flute too.”

“I said, give me a moment.”

Sally closes her eyes and sinks back in her bed. Fundy just doesn’t understand what the world is going to do to him. What it will demand of him. Everything that it demanded of her. The only thing that will help Fundy is for him to know the lies and the truths that surround him. To seek out only honesty.

Truth.

“Fundy, dear,” she says. “Will you look at the bookshelf for me and see – find the book, black leather bound. It’s got a very long title that ends in Musica Infinitum. ”

It takes a little bit of searching, but he eventually finds it and brings it to her bedside. “It’s heavy.”

He’s in a bad mood today. She knows he’s starting to comprehend what’s going on, and what will, one day, eventually happen to her. Once, she was powerful. Once, she crushed palaces with a single motion. Now, she struggles to lift the heavy book onto her lap.

She will pay the price for him. For her son. “Let me see,” she says, scrolling her finger down the contents pages. “Here. Page 283.”

Fundy opens the book and reads aloud the title at the top of the page. “Truth. A spell for knowing your deepest desires.”

“If you always know what you want,” Sally says, “you will never be lost.”

Fundy lifts his head from the flute and stares out to the audience. The moon has risen and shines through one of the slanted windows of the great hall. Its rays fall across the crowd, lighting on the face of –

The man from earlier, and in the forest. Clay. His eyes are wet. They meet Fundy’s and he opens his mouth, as if he would say something.

A crackle in the air and suddenly the room is awash with the wet smell of a rainforest, of thunderstorms and dark oak, the fallen logs and lightning after a storm. And Fundy knows that scent. He thought he would never know it again. 

The song has long since ended and yet the room is silent. He takes the flute from his lips. 

“I am proud,” he says into the stillness. “I am proud to be a shapeshifter. I take pride in my mother’s and my father’s sacrifices and everything they have given up for this country.” He swallows. 

“My name is Fundy. I am the crown prince of L’Manburg.” He bows, deep and low. “I am honored that you graced this palace with your presence tonight. May you ever know peace, prosperity, and love.” 

He tucks the flute into his jacket pocket. “Thank you. Farewell.”

He finds Prince Fundy afterwards, leaning against the vine-climbed trellis, staring at the sky as the moon slowly rises. His pink-haired guard sits on a bench not too far away. As he approaches, she stands, hand on her sword. Dream looks only at Fundy.

“I’m sorry I used a scent suppressor,” he says. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me.”

Fundy tilts his head. “Why would I not want to see you?”

Dream shrugs. “I thought. After how I left.”

He hadn’t noticed, but Fundy holds the flute in his hands. “You left a message,” Fundy says. “I got your message.”

The moon highlights both of them in white light and the inky dark of Fundy’s eyes looks fathomless, his smile warm with the after-effects of the evening stars. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

“You doubted my intellect?”

“Prince Fundy, I must interject,” the guard says, moving forward. “I don’t trust this man, and neither should you. Please – ”

“Niki,” Fundy murmurs. “Do you trust that I can take care of myself?”

“No,” Niki-the-guard says.

Dream laughs. Then Fundy says, “This is the man who helped heal me when I was hurt during the hunt,” and all thoughts slip from Dream’s mind.

“I am?” he asks, thunderstruck.

Fundy glares at him.

“I mean. I am,” he confirms, reeling. “I am. Fundy was – I mean, Prince Fundy was – his hind leg. And he was a fox. And my friend Sapnap – yeah. Healed him.”

“You can wait at the entrance to the garden,” Fundy says. “If you want. Please, Niki. I want to speak with him alone.”

Niki sighs. “If I get in trouble for this I’m going to be very upset with you.”

“You won’t,” Fundy promises. He looks to Dream and nods towards the garden. “Walk with me.”

The gardens are quiet in the early summer, the chirping of crickets and birds and the rushing of water in the streams and fountains the only sounds around them. Their footsteps are barely audible on the dirt path. Fundy’s hands swing at his sides, thin and graceful. Dream wants to hold his hand.

And he blames it on the residual truth magic, the understanding and the knowing that had come with it and the bravery it leaves in his wake, but Dream says, “Can I hold your hand?” and blushes immensely.

Fundy halts and looks at Dream with wide eyes and slowly, a smile brightens on his face. “Dream,” he says, and the name curls bright on his tongue. “Yes.” 

Dream intertwines their fingers, feeling the scratch of Fundy’s nails against the back of his hand and his dry, calloused skin. Something clicks into place, deep inside him.

“You really were the fox.”

“I was. I remember very little, but I know I woke up in your lap.” Fundy blushes, the pink high on his cheeks. “Are you really called Clay?”

Dream jolts. “What – how do you know that name?”

“Your friend George told me.”

Healing the fox, no, healing Fundy, that night, and not knowing it. George’s reluctance and then the next morning when the fox was gone and he gloated that he knew it was a shapeshifter. “It’s a fake name I use. He’s a dickhead.”

Fundy laughs. “I never actually thanked you, for healing me that night. I think you probably saved my life.”

“I’m glad I did,” Dream says softly. “It was mostly Sapnap, though. He worked the magic.”

“And you stopped the bleeding. Collaborative effort,” Fundy decides, and Dream chuckles. “I have to say, Sapnap has interesting magic. Is he trained?”

Dream shakes his head. “No, he’s self-taught. Can you recognize people’s magic? Is that how you knew, in the gala – ”

“That he was the one who had charmed you? Yes. I also lived with his magic for weeks in my leg.”

“How is it healing?” Dream asks, looking down. Fundy’s gait has been steady this evening.

“Fine now,” Fundy shrugs. “It was a solid spell. You’re lucky to have them by your side.”

Something deep down twists. “I am.” Truth, right? Understanding, Fundy had said. Knowing what it is you want. “I don’t know if I’ll have them for much longer.”

Fundy’s hand squeezes his. “What do you mean?”

“They always make this joke about me being just like my mother, and I always say it’s not true, that I’m nothing like her.” Dream chokes on his laugh. “But. I’m not sure I’ll keep going down this road. Your performance – made me think.”

“It did?”

Dream nods. “It did. I – I tried to consider, maybe, what my gut instinct is. Usually it’s – running.”

“I’ve noticed,” Fundy says dryly.

“But I’m kind of tired of it.” Dream sighs. “When I was little I always asked my mom why she gave up her career, and she said that one day she was tired of running. That she’d found something more important.” Fundy hisses out a breath and he tightens his grip on Dream’s hand. Dream’s voice is barely a whisper. “She told me that I’d understand one day.”

“And you thought you would never understand,” Fundy says, his words sounding far away in his mouth. “Because how could she do something like that to herself?”

“But I think I understand now,” Dream says. “I want to stop hiding.”

They’re facing each other now, no longer walking, surrounded by the sweet smell of summer roses and all the living green. The moon haloes Fundy, so bright to Dream he has to squint. “I think I want to stay here.” 

“In L’Manburg?”

Dream nods.

“What do you think you would do?”

“Well,” Dream says, thoughtful. “I would find a house to live in. I would invite Sapnap and George to stay with me when they passed through. I would… I would take up a craft, perhaps. I’m not sure what. I’d have to try out lots of things.”

“I’d help you,” Fundy says. He bites his lip. “If you would let me.”

Dream’s mind wanders and he gives it voice. “I think you’d – if you wanted – you’d be a big part of my life here.” Fundy beams, and he folds Dream’s other hand into his, clasped together between them. “I think we would talk, every day. And we could go for walks, like this. We could test your inventions out together.”

“Even the stupid ones?”

Dream’s breath is caught in his throat. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Even the stupid ones.”

“Do you – ” Fundy sighs and bites his lip. “It’s a long shot, but – do you have the chestplate? Still?”

Dream can feel his face turning red. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Fundy tilts his head, very still, before he moves. He reaches up, his hand sliding through the short hairs on the back of Dream’s neck and up through his curls, his nails scratching Dream’s scalp. His eyes flicker back and forth between Dream’s before they close, soft, slow, and he leans in, and he kisses Dream.

His lips, like his hands, are rough and dry, and the scratch of his faint beard is slightly harsh against Dream’s face, and he runs hot and sweet, his lips warm underneath Dream’s. Dream kisses back, pulls Fundy in closer by the waist, and Fundy laughs against his mouth, tilting his head and leaning in –

“Ahem.”

Dream and Fundy jump apart. It’s the worst case scenario. King Wilbur is standing beside them, one eyebrow raised, looking between them. Behind him stands Niki, Fundy’s guard, and another guard with pink hair – a shifter, Dream realizes, judging by the ears and the shape of his nose. 

“Prince Fundy,” the king says, his voice emotionless. Dream can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I didn’t know you had a… gentleman friend.”

Fundy betrays Dream and drops his head into his hands, leaving him alone with three pointed stare. “Why does everyone keep calling him that?” 

“He’s a gentleman,” King Wilbur points out. “And apparently a friend.” 

More than a friend, hopefully, but Dream doesn’t say that.

“My son,” King Wilbur says, turning back to Fundy. “I wanted to speak with you. May we talk?”

Fundy lifts his head from his hands. “Of course.”

The king’s eyes flicker to Dream and back. “Privately?”

Fundy takes Dream’s hand. His grip is brutal. “Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of him.”

It takes Dream a second to realize that it’s for support. He squeezes back.

King Wilbur sighs. “I – Fundy, I’ll get straight to the point, then. I wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you.”

Fundy bows his head. “Thank you, father.”

“I think you misunderstand me. I’m proud of you not as first and foremost a prince, or an inventor – I am proud of you as my son. My and my wife’s child.”

Dream is looking at Fundy, and he can see the moment his expression shutters.

“Thank you.”

“That was the song she taught you, towards – towards the end, no?”

Fundy nods. “Song spells. She always said it was the most important. Truth was. It’s why she taught it to me.”

King Wilbur looks down at the ground. At his feet. “It does – it made me think about some things, Fundy. About how I’ve not treated you as my son for a very long time. You deserve to have – to have not only a king but a father as well.”

Fundy bites his lip. “I love you,” he says quietly. “I want to be a better prince. Sometimes it just feels like too much.”

The king steps forward and puts a hand on Fundy’s cheek. “It is always too much, my son. It’s a lesson learned the hard way.” He looks at Dream. “Those who stand by your side often make it easier.”

Fundy lets go of Dream’s hand and launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around Wilbur and hugging him fiercely. Dream steps back into the shade of a tree and looks at the ground. He should say something. Should he say something?

King Wilbur lets go of Fundy and steps towards Dream. He steels himself. “I never got your name, young man.”

Dream glances at Fundy.

“This is Dream,” Fundy says. “His name is Dream.”

King Wilbur raises an eyebrow and Dream sees, behind him, understanding dawn on Niki’s face. “Not the infamous thief?”

“Nope,” Dream says easily. “We just share a name.”

Niki shakes her head, but she is smirking.

King Wilbur smiles slightly. “Fascinating. When Fundy was younger, his favorite story was the story of the thief who stole from gods.”

Fundy’s face goes red but Dream can see the excitement still. “It’s a good story! She stole the trident, and the potions, and the egg.”

“The egg’s a little over-exaggerated,” Dream interjects.

King Wilbur laughs. “Sally always said the same thing.”

“She always ended it so boring, too,” Fundy says, reminiscent. “I think she was trying to teach me a lesson about family, but I always wanted the thief to keep stealing for the… rest of her life…” He trails off and his eyes find Dream’s, and they go very, very wide. 

Dream looks at the ground.

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Fundy,” King Wilbur says, and he moves forward and kisses the top of Fundy’s head. “Good evening, Dream.”

“Wait,” Dream blurts out, his heart thundering as King Wilbur turns to leave.

He stops and looks back. 

Dream steps out into the moonlight and takes Fundy’s hand. “King Wilbur,” he says. “I care deeply about Prince Fundy. I know I’m a commoner, and I know that you barely know me. But I think Fundy is intelligent, and kind, and noble, and I’d like the chance to prove that I can make him happy, and support him. For a long time.”

His heart is in his throat.

“Duly noted,” the king says. “I look forward to your continued presence in our lives.”

Fundy squeezes his hand.

“Goodnight,” King Wilbur nods, and he exits the garden, his cape swaying behind him in the evening breeze. Niki and the other guard follow him, but she looks over her shoulder at Dream and Fundy. She winks. Then they turn a corner, and they are gone.

Fundy lifts Dream’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “That – Dream – ”

“What?” Dream asks, and he’s almost embarrassed at how gentle his voice sounds.

“You – ” Fundy’s eyes are wide and cotton-soft. “You meant it?”

“Every word,” Dream says.

“So you mean... to tell me..." Fundy trails off before his face splits into a huge, devilish grin. "That your mom is the famous thief who stole the trident?”

Dream’s laughing, cupping Fundy’s face in his hands. “So it was a trident, but it was just from a statue. Not a trident from – a god, or a king, or the deep sea or anything like that.”

“What about the potions?”

“Very, very dangerous. Great story, and no one’s ever told it correctly.”

“Will you tell me?”

“You have to give me a hundred kisses first.”

“A hundred?” Fundy asks, his smile wide and eyes wider.

“A hundred,” Dream confirms.

“I think I can do that,” Fundy says, smiling, and he gives Dream three smacking kisses. Once. Twice. Three times.

Dream grabs him and kisses him fiercely, all pressed up against him and warm. “That’s four. You’re well on your way.”

Fundy rests his forehead against Dream’s, breathless. “I think,” he says, “we have lots of time to get there.”

FIN