Chapter Text
Even as he's packing his things— what few material items actually belong to him, just some clothes and a weathered old journal— David doesn't cry.
He's eighteen, he's about to leave home for the first time, and he absolutely refuses to cry about it. He refuses to regret this decision. It's what has to be done, and it's what's happening whether he likes it or not. It's always been his philosophy that it's useless to yearn for anything other than precisely the hand he's been dealt in life.
Les cries. He grabs onto David's legs and wails at him not to go, but all it does is further cement David's notion that leaving is the only thing he can do. When he scoops Les up into his arms to try and comfort him, it strikes him that in no world should a ten year-old be this small and easy to carry— Les isn't well-fed and he's often sick, like so many other kids in their village, so he could easily pass for six or seven at first glance. With David gone, he might finally be able to put some healthy weight on, as there'll be one less mouth to feed. David will send money every chance he gets, in hopes that if he ever gets to come home, his family might not look so gaunt and ghostly.
He's hugging Sarah goodbye when the military recruiter reminds him that they're leaving soon, and anyone who's not ready will be left behind. His goodbyes to his parents are rushed— for the sake of both time and an effort not to get too emotional. He doesn't want to leave, but it's his only choice, so he takes his bag and climbs onto the wagon where a few other boys his age have enlisted too, for the same reasons. All they want is a chance for their families.
"Do you suppose we'll ever really have to fight anyone?" Benjamin, who's sitting next to David asks. They went to school together, and everyone calls him Buttons, because he was perpetually losing the buttons from his clothes and taught himself to sew them back on to stop his mother giving him grief. "The kingdom's been at peace for ages, so I don't know what they even need us for."
"I hope we get to fight," Finch cuts in, nicknamed that way for his melodic voice that's akin to a songbird. "I'd like some excitement in life. Everything here is so plain."
"I don't see the harm in things being plain," David says, looking back at their village as it grows smaller in the distance. He's always liked the mundanity of planting, tending, and harvesting, even despite the past several years of terrible crops. He'll miss it dearly. "And besides, I don't think I'd be much good at fighting anyways."
-
Three years later.
One more clash of their swords, and Finch goes down.
David stands triumphantly over him, his weapon poised at his friend's throat, though he'd never dare apply any pressure. He pushes his helmet up and smiles.
"Bested again," David chuckles. "I suppose you'll be stuck scrubbing floors this week."
Finch, splayed on the ground with his helmet already knocked off to the side, groans heavily.
"I don't know why I even bother. Your blade work is unnatural. It scares me how good you are."
David rolls his eyes and removes his foot from Finch's armoured chest, sliding his sword back into its sheath.
"Remind me to go easy on you next time," he teases. "Perhaps we should fight with wooden swords, if you're going to whine like a child."
He helps Finch to his feet, laughing at the glare he receives.
"I don't understand how you're always one step ahead, Jacobs," Finch huffs, still sort of breathless from sparring. "Every move I make, you're already there. It's not fair."
"It's just reflexes," David replies, with a shrug and a coy smile. "I'm sure you could train yours to be faster."
Finch shoves David lightly as they start to walk back towards the barracks.
"Always so modest, you are. The most respected swordsman on this whole island, and it's just reflexes. Give yourself some credit."
David just laughs.
Handling a sword came sort of naturally to him when he started to train, despite never having felt inclined to be much of a fighter, and he's slowly honed his skill over the past few years. He does, however, suppose that being the best swordsman on an island of this size is rather like being the biggest fish in a very small pond— it's not as if he has that much competition for the title, and there's probably far better blade work to be found out in the world.
The Isle of Manhattan is small and remote, only a few days' journey on horseback from one end to the other, but nearly a week at sea to their nearest neighbour. There's one big city right in the middle of the island, surrounded by a spattering of towns and villages that one could pass on their way to the coast in any given direction— including David's home, a small village southeast of the city, approximately a day and a half away. He hasn't been back since he left, as he just can't spare the time it would take to travel there and back, but he writes often and sends a portion of his pay every month.
He's been stationed near the city for some time now, having worked his way up the ranks from training, to peacekeeping in different towns, to eventually joining the palace guard— they thankfully haven't had to go to war, like Finch was so antsy for years ago. The kingdom has been at peace since David was a baby, when their last king and queen signed a treaty to end the feud with Brooklyn Isle, just a few years before their untimely deaths. The current monarch— a close friend of the royals who's been overseeing things until the oldest of the orphaned princes can take the throne— has done excellent work at maintaining relations with their allies and avoiding any kind of conflict, so the military's only real purpose as of late is to look good, train hard just in case something comes up, and play a more ceremonial role in the kingdom. David certainly doesn't mind it that way; as good as he might be with a sword, he's not exactly keen to use his skills outside of friendly sparring.
"There you two are!" Buttons shouts, interrupting David's train of thought. He hadn't realized that they'd walked practically all the way back in their comfortable silence. "You're late for dinner again. I've been looking all over for you."
"Sorry," David laughs, "we had to settle something."
Buttons looks back and forth between them, taking in their swords and training armour, before simply shaking his head.
"I don't know why you bother, Finch. David wins every time. It's hopeless."
"Well it'll certainly be hopeless if I stop trying," Finch says, shimmying out of his armoured vest. He drops it on the ground and sets to work on untying the guards on his forearms, while David does the same. "One of these days I'll finally take him... you'll see."
"Maybe in your dreams," David teases, and then he jumps back when Finch lunges at him for a playful punch. It just misses. "See? It's all in the reflexes. You'll just have to be faster next time."
Finch rolls his eyes.
"We ought to just put all this away and go eat. I'm starving."
And that they do. They hang up their gear, put away their weapons, and make a dash for dining hall to get some dinner before there's nothing left.
As much as David misses home, he finds he's quite content in the rhythm of the life he's found here with his friends. Training is exhilarating, working in the palace guard is tedious but makes him feel very important (and pays quite handsomely too), and he's got an independence he never would've gained back home. In all honesty, he's glad he left home when he did, even if it was terrifying at the time— it just reinforces his mindset of taking life's challenges as they come and never shying away from doing what needs to be done. It always pays off in the end.
-
"Mama... Your Majesty... You simply can't be serious right now."
Not far from where David sits for dinner in the barracks dining hall, another young man sits for his dinner at a luxuriously large table inside the castle. With him, his little brothers and his not-mother, Medda— she's been raising him since he was six, so she feels like a mother, but in actuality, she's his late mother's best friend. He calls her Mama anyways, though he still holds a place in his heart for his real parents.
"Do I look as if I'm joking?" she asks, staring him down from across the table. When he simply slumps in his seat in lieu of a response, she sighs. "Sit up, dear. I should expect that at twenty years old, you'd know how to conduct yourself at the dinner table."
He straightens up his posture, but not without an annoyed scowl.
"Oh, come on, Jack," Charlie teases. He's eighteen and an absolute nuisance, always happy to show off that he's the golden child that everyone wishes Jack would be. "It won't be that bad just to have a bodyguard— it'll be a bit like having a babysitter or a governess! Won't that be fun?"
"No, it surely won't," Jack huffs. He's hardly touched his dinner, too annoyed to even be hungry. If it weren't impolite and unbecoming for a future king to storm out of the room, he'd have done it by now. "It'll ruin my life."
"That's awfully dramatic," Medda says, biting back an amused grin, which only serves to make Jack feel more patronized. "You know, if you acted your age, maybe you wouldn't need a babysitter."
He catches Race snickering at that— only fourteen years old, the kid knows it's not his place to interject when the adults are arguing, but he's got no shame in laughing along like the obnoxious little thing he is.
"I do act my age," Jack huffs, after shooting Race a glare, "and that's what you have a problem with! Any other young man could could go to the bar in the evenings and no one would mind in the slightest, but because I'm me, suddenly it's not allowed. You expect me to act as if I'm fifty."
They've had this argument a million times over— Jack knows she doesn't care what he has to say, and will only keep nagging him.
"You'll be on the throne in six months, Prince John Francisco of Manhattan Isle," Medda snaps; she always drags out his full title when she's particularly annoyed with him, and he narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. "You're simply not any other young man. And, I should add, any other young man caught drunk and vomiting in the streets would be getting his fair share of telling-off from his family, no matter who he is. For the sake of both your health and your reputation, you will not be leaving this castle unsupervised until your coronation, and that is final. You absolutely cannot keep embarrassing yourself and tarnishing your parents' legacy like this."
Jack is well aware that he's being immature, but he shoves his still-full plate of food away from him and crosses his arms over his chest.
"May I be excused, Your Majesty?" he huffs. He might be an ass, but he still has his manners, and it'd be beyond even him to march right out of a family meal.
"No." Medda gives him a pointed look. "Eat your dinner."
Well, so much for that idea. He's not even hungry, but he picks up his fork anyways and pushes the food around his plate. He'd love to go have a drink with his friends tonight and unwind, but he supposes that won't be an option— he wouldn't put it past Medda to lock him in his room after dinner. He could always climb out the window... she'll probably have the guards watching for him, but if he's careful enough, he might be able to pull it off since his stupid bodyguard hasn't been hired yet. He'll have to try his hand at it later; there's no real risk, because how much more trouble could he possibly get in at this point?
-
"So... I've got a theory about the princes."
David rolls his eyes. Of course Buttons has a theory— he's a walking, talking fountain of gossip, and he entertains himself during long shifts of standing guard by making up pure nonsense about the people he's meant to be guarding.
"Let's hear it, then," David sighs. "I should hope it's less ridiculous than your last one, where you thought Prince John was a vampire."
"He's always out at night! Once, I swear I saw him come home in the early morning with blood on his face."
"He's just a drunk," Finch laughs. "He likely tripped and fell somewhere and gave himself a nosebleed, or perhaps got on the wrong side of a bar fight. If he were a vampire, he'd have bitten you and bled you dry."
It's late in the evening, and they're all squished together to sit on David's bunk. There's a horrid draft in here, and the autumn wind outside is biting, so they've got all their blankets piled up on top of them to trap in and share their body heat. It's a rare night where none of their little trio have to work, so they're doing their best to spend some quality time together.
"Oh, please," Buttons huffs. "If he were a vampire, which I still think he might be, he'd be trying to hide it, so he wouldn't have bitten me in plain view— but that's not what this is about. I've got a new one: I think Prince Anthony has a Gift."
David quirks an eyebrow, slightly confused.
"And what on earth makes you say that?"
They're a strange phenomenon, Gifts, but not entirely uncommon on the little island. Some call them magic powers, others simply see them as very particular talents, and they're only possessed by a lucky (or perhaps cursed, depending on how you look at it) few. There's no rhyme or reason as to who might develop one, or what it might be— they just seem to arise in the early teenage years, entirely at random.
Most Gifts are mundane little peculiarities, like a girl in their village who could change the colour of her eyes and hair at will, but there's rare instances of people developing much more powerful ones, the kind that the most superstitious of old folks might attribute to sorcery. David has heard of people who can read minds, teleport, harness the elements, and all sorts of things— while they're mostly rumours, he's sure some of them are true, at least to some extent. That's part of why there's so much stigma around the Gifted: it's hard to tell who's being truthful about their abilities and what they might intend to do with them, so many people with Gifts choose not to mention them to anyone, especially those who might be perceived as dangerous or threatening. There's people out there who think the Gifted ought to not exist at all, so it's a very delicate subject to discuss.
"Isn't Anthony the little one?" Finch asks, just as confused as David. "He's sick. That's what the Queen says every time the family makes appearances without him— he's been ill for ages, and he's not well enough to leave the castle. Having the Gift of always being poorly would be a sorry way to live, wouldn't it? It'd be more of a curse."
"Well, that's the thing," Buttons cuts in, excited. "I don't think he's sick at all! I think they're keeping him in the castle so the public doesn't know he's Gifted. I mean, he's fourteen, and no one has seen him in nearly a year— it all lines up! I was stationed near the gardens this morning when he came out there with Prince Charles, and I only got a little glimpse of him but he seemed perfectly well."
"And what do you suppose his Gift is, then?" David asks, exasperated.
"I've got no clue, but I think he's got one. Maybe something powerful, which is why they wouldn't want anyone to know."
"The Queen is always preaching that she thinks the Gifted ought to be more accepted in society," Finch says, "so why would she be hiding away a Gifted child? It wouldn't reflect well on her if people were to find out the truth, so why risk it? This all sounds ridiculous, Ben. I think the kid's just sick."
"I'm telling you," Buttons whines, "he looked completely fine out in the gardens!"
"While you were peering at him through the hedges?" David teases, and then shakes his head. "You're crazy, Benjamin. If the little prince has a Gift, that's his own business anyways. It's not our place to theorize about that kind of thing, especially if it's something that could be dangerous for him if word gets out."
David is sure there's no shortage of people out there who'd tear the royal family to shreds over one of them being Gifted— they already put up with their fair share of rumours and whatnot, like the way the newspaper has a field day every time the eldest prince is caught stumbling out of a bar late at night with one of his ever-rotating string of lovers on his arm. David tries not to read the nonsense, but Buttons is always eager to fill him in with gossip about what might happen when Prince John turns twenty-one and takes the throne, considering the drunken disaster he seems to be these days. It'd only be one more hassle on Queen Medda's hands if the public were to get ahold of a story like a prince possessing a Gift— whether it's true or not, it would surely get hugely blown out of proportion.
"Either way, it's sad that he's trapped inside all the time," Finch says. "Poor kid."
David barely hears him, because his gaze has locked onto the door, across the room from them. They're only four to a little cabin, and their other roommate is working a night shift, so they're not expecting anyone... but he watches for one, two, three seconds... and then, just like that, there's a knock.
It startles both Finch and Buttons, while David simply frowns. It's fairly late, so it's odd for anyone to come by at this hour.
"I'll get it," he says, already pushing himself out of their little nest, and instantly feeling a chill in the open air. They really ought to find whatever loose board is letting in all the wind and close it up. He swings the door open. "Oh! Hello, Albert. What are you doing here so late?"
Albert is several years younger than the three of them. His older brothers are in the guard, while he works as a page in the castle, mostly just carrying messages around and running errands most of the time— they see plenty of him around here, since he likes to watch them train when he's not busy.
He waves the letter that's pinched between his fingers and smiles up at David.
"Mail for you. Apparently it's urgent— I was supposed to be off work for the night, but Her Majesty paid me extra to run this out to you now."
David nearly chokes.
"To me? From the Queen?"
Albert shrugs.
"I couldn't tell you what it's about, but I'd love to know."
"Al!" Finch shouts from inside. "Come in! David, you're letting the poor thing freeze out there!"
"Right," David laughs, opening the door wider to let Albert enter. "It's not much warmer in here, but at least you're mostly out of the wind." He takes the letter when Albert hands it to him, and stares down at the wax seal that surely does indicate this has come right from the writing desk of Queen Medda. "I can't believe this. I'm frightened to even open it."
"I'll do it, then!" Buttons offers, already reaching for it. "Shall I read it to you?"
"Sure," David sighs, handing it over, since he's sure his hands will shake too much if he tries to open it himself. He can't believe the Queen even knows he exists— what could she possibly be writing to him about?
"Now that I think of it," Albert says, while Buttons carefully opens the seal with the steady hands of an expert seamster, "it must have something to do with what she discussed with General Kloppman the other day. She wanted to know who the best of the best was among his soldiers— you might be in for a promotion of some kind, David."
"What did I say earlier?" Finch laughs, delighted. "The most respected swordsman on Manhattan Isle— even the Queen knows it!"
"Alright, shush," Buttons cuts in. "Here's what it says: Sergeant Jacobs, Her Majesty humbly requests your presence for tea and a brief meeting in the Carnation Drawing Room at 12 noon tomorrow, Wednesday. RSVP is not required, simply arrive as expected. Signed, Her Royal Majesty, Queen Medda."
David is rather sure his eyes have gone the size of saucers as he struggles to process exactly what he's just heard. The Queen wants to meet with him for tea. He must be hearing things. It's insane.
"You're sure this letter was for me, Albert?" he asks.
"It was addressed to Sergeant Jacobs, and you're the only one of those we've got," the kid replies. "General Kloppman must have recommended you for whatever it is she needs. You'll have to find out tomorrow, I suppose."
David throws himself dramatically onto one of the empty beds and drapes his arms over his face, while the boys simply laugh at him. There's only one thing he can do: go to the meeting, see what it's about, and take whatever opportunity she gives him. He's not one to shy away from things like this, no matter how intimidating having tea with the literal Queen might feel.
He will, however, destroy himself with nerves in the meantime. He's terrified, quite frankly, and he's got no idea what she might want with him. He simply hopes it's nothing bad.
-
Jack is drunk.
Blissfully, felicitously, miraculously drunk.
Medda had warned him not to go out tonight. She'd told him he was in lockdown, not to leave the castle without someone responsible to accompany him, and that he'd be in major trouble if he even thought about breaking the new rules... but she hadn't thought to lock him in his chambers, so he simply left. He wore nondescript clothing, kept his head down, and walked fast, as to simply look like a servant leaving the castle grounds for the night. It worked.
He's been sitting at a table for a while— slightly too drunk to keep upright— and watching his friends play a round of darts. He's at his usual hangout, surrounded by other young people who've got nothing better to do with themselves. He sort of wishes he could be like his friends— rich and stupid nobles, without all the responsibilities that come with being royal. Being the son of a Lord, like Romeo, or of a royal advisor, like Mike and Ike, might be his dream life. They're all idiotic, entitled brats, just like Jack himself, but they're blissfully happy and carefree.
A gentle and oh-so familiar hand on his back pulls him out of his reverie. Jack leans into it with a grin.
"Kitty. I didn't think you'd be out tonight."
Jack sits up and turns around to look at her— she's pretty as a picture, just like always. She's in a dress that's just a touch too scandalous for polite society, fabric draping around her and showing off just enough skin to make Jack's eyes linger in all the right places, and her signature red lipstick has a way of making his heart pound. She's the most beautiful girl any man around here has likely ever seen, and she certainly knows it.
In a smooth, fluid motion, Katherine Plumber sits herself down on his lap, facing him. He slides his arms around her waist, and she rests her own around his shoulders, to a chorus of wolf-whistles and shouts from the crowd around them.
"I heard a rumour that tonight would be your last night out on the town for a while," she says with a sly smile. "I had to come see for myself."
Jack laughs, and leans up to kiss her. She thankfully indulges him— some nights, she plays it all coy and won't give him so much as a peck, but she's being nice now, since this is likely the last they'll see of each other for some time. Against all odds, she does seem to genuinely like him sometimes.
"Always got your nose in everyone's business, don't you?" he teases, practically against her mouth. "Where are you getting these rumours from? Not that it's untrue— Her Majesty is set on keeping me cooped up inside like a prisoner until my coronation. I had to pretend to be a servant to get out here tonight."
Katherine mimes locking her lips.
"A lady never shares where she finds her secrets. It's for me to know, and for you to wonder." She kisses him again, cupping his face gently with a manicured hand. "I might miss you a bit."
"Little old me?" he chuckles. "What on earth have I done to earn myself the honour of your affections?"
"Just existing with a pretty face like that is enough," Katherine grins. "And I'll admit that you make lovely company sometimes."
They kiss once again, and it's so good that it's almost disorienting. If Jack were in any kind of position to be courting someone without it somehow turning into the scandal of the century, he might like to ask Katherine to be his— unfortunately, everything he does seems to get him into trouble somehow, so he'd rather not drag her through the hell that is his incredibly public life.
He can at least have her for tonight. If no one important gets an eyeful of them, they might be alright.