Chapter Text
When the two of them weren’t off exploring the countryside, they spent most days in the vacant lot behind the barracks, training for a fight that would never happen - or at the very least, a fight no one at the court would ever hear about. Tales of tavern brawls had no place in high society, no matter how colorful they ended up being. Besides, Sameen and John did very little dwelling on the stories they collected along the way. They would pick fights with unsavory criminals and sharp-tongued thugs, every now and then unintentionally creating legends; the kind some ill-inspired fool would write songs about, eventually, if they ever sobered up.
It wasn’t very proper for a princess to go galavanting the world with her personal guard’s first knight, throwing punches at everything she despised. It was, however, a situation that Harold, as Chancellor of this kingdom, had long learned to live with. For as long as he could remember, there was no telling Sameen what to do - already as a child she would run off, fighting imaginary dragons and rescuing make-believe victims for whom she had little care. If during her earlier years he tried to control the fiery little thing and her thirst for adventure, Harold had quickly learned that such a feat simply could not be achieved.
Relinquishing all hopes of turning Sameen into a lady of the court had given Harold some sense of peace, and the guards, less concussions.
Therefore, John was not really hitting the princess he had sworn to protect when he struck down his sword that morning. Who he was fighting, actually, was the short ball of anger and violence she had grown into - John dared not imagine how deadly she would come to be on battlefields, if the kingdom ever marched to war.
“Missed,” Sameen panted as she dodged the hit. “Too slow.”
Cocky, as always.
John wasn’t surprised when she jumped forward to attack his left side; he blocked the assault without breaking a sweat. Seeing as she was wearing the same metal helmet as any other knight, John could not entirely be certain, and yet he would have sworn that Sameen was smirking proudly when she kicked him seconds later. Her heel digging into the nerves and muscles of his upper calf, her boot forced him to fall down on one knee.
“I yield,” he groaned for the third time since sunrise, as the tip of her blade found the unprotected skin at the back of his neck.
A short laughter escaped Sameen’s lips as she took a step back, allowing John to stand up once more. “You’re not your usual this morning,” she mocked more than she complained. “Stayed up too late in the kitchens?”
In truth, he had spent the previous night drinking his fair share of wine with one of the cooks. John vaguely remembered the first rays of sunlight burning on the horizon as he had fallen asleep - or perhaps lost consciousness was more like it. But that was not something he was keen on admitting, and so he groaned instead.
“Spend too much time stealing kisses,” Sameen sneered, “and you’ll lose your footing.”
John did not mind the taunts as much as he loathed the bruises, but since he was garnering both on this fine morning, it wasn’t without frustration that he reminded Sameen that maybe, she ought to start stealing some of her own. After all, the people of her kingdom had waited long enough to see their dearest, although peculiar princess enter holy matrimony.
“I’m never getting married,” Sameen repeated for the hundredth time. “I’m not built that way.”
It was not, in fact, the first time the princess had arrived late to greet a contingent of ambassadors from another kingdom. It was, however, the first time she had appeared at the afternoon tea wearing her entire body armor. Helmet in hand, sword hanging at the waist, a little streak of blood ran down Sameen’s temple. With the princess sweating heavily and mucky like some vagrant girl, Harold thought for a moment that he would faint. Then, he considered chasing her out of the room, and pretend that she wasn’t the princess, but some knight who did not know her place.
In the end, he did neither of those things; already Prince Jeremy had stepped forward and offered his hand to Sameen.
“It is an honor to meet you,” he smiled graciously, as if Sameen hadn’t curled up her lips in distaste.
One small nudge from John urged her to extend her guest some courtesy. Sameen pulled off one glove to allow the prince to kiss the back of her hand, glancing aside to feign timidity. As his lips brushed against her skin, Sameen grimaced slightly before she asked in her most agreeable voice if his journey had been uneventful.
Ten minutes later, as the Prince finished telling his story, she regretted that she ever formulated her question in a way that did not require a simple yes or no. Swearing to herself that she would not repeat the mistake, she politely requested to take her leave, and fully expected to do so when Harold cleared his throat.
“Perhaps, your majesty would reconsider,” he insisted and Sameen frowned. That had never happened before. “Prince Jeremy travelled a long time to meet you.”
Sameen eyed down Harold, then Jeremy, and finally John. Sensing some strange tension she could not make heads or tails of, she squinted her eyes and sighed. “Fine,” she threw both of her gloves at the ground. “But just one cup.”
As the maid poured the tea in silence, Sameen dabbed at her cut with one ambassador's handkerchief, ignoring the curious eyes of the prince and the worried glances of Harold.
“So,” she sighed, “what kind of horse do you ride?”
“Oh,” Jeremy flashed a perfectly lined-up row of white teeth, “I rode in a carriage.”
Sameen’s hold on the porcelain cup tightened, and it took every strength she had for her not to throw it in the Prince’s pretentious face.
Of all corners and dark spaces to converse privately, Harold had long ago taken a liking to the abandoned library of the northern tower. Away from loose-lipped maids and nosy ambassadors, he waited for John, his nervous fingers running over the old leather covers, feet shuffling in the dust. His headache throbbed despite the quietness; a dreadful reminder of the reason behind this secret meeting.
Years he had avoided the issue. He had discouraged dozens of suitors, and silenced the worries of the council. To everyone who would care to listen, he insisted that the celibate life was a formative experience for the princess, and that it would mold her into a fair ruler for her kingdom. Even knowing it could not last, Harold had hoped for another solution.
But time, it seemed, had a way of running out, and he had responsibilities to uphold. A kingdom to serve and protect - unfortunately, this meant that the difficult choices were his to make, and tonight, his hand had been forced. There was no other way out this time, and it was with resignation that he sighed when John finally appeared at his side.
The library was as quiet as it always had been - burning candles rarely made any sound - and with John’s every footsteps, Harold felt condemnation. His heavy boots on the wooden floor; a judge’s hammer announcing verdict. Harold swallowed hard; he had sent John on many different missions over the years, but this one, he dreaded John would refuse. There was no telling that he could convince John to help him in this.
No telling what would happen to their beloved kingdom.
Perhaps John would agree with Harold that there was no other way, and the kingdom still had a chance at peace. Or John would refuse to listen to reason, and more likely they would fall into a war Harold had little doubt they could win.
“What’s with all the secrecy?” John questioned as soon as he sat on the bench beside Harold, the wooden seat creaking under his weight.
Harold drew in a sharp breath, gathering courage. “Some things are better kept in the dark.”
John nodded, his face stiff with a seriousness Harold noticed every now and then, when John thought no one was looking. Tonight, however, there was no hiding it; John wore it like a shield. Harold took a moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke; this moment felt sacred, somehow. Sitting in silence, they hung on the tip of the scale, and at any minute, the kingdom could fall either way. Peace, or chaos.
“Prince Jeremy is not here on a diplomatic visit,” Harold stared ahead, avoiding the worried eyes John had turned on him. “He wants to ask Sameen to marry him.”
John cracked up - right there, in the middle of the night, in the abandoned library where Harold only reconvened with him when the kingdom was at its darkest hour. A loud laughter that was best suited for taverns and bright afternoons; John laughed until he remembered where he was, when his gaze met Harold’s troubled eyes.
“Well that’s not going to happen, Harold,” John simply stated, shrugging like it was obvious.
Although evidently, it was not. “She has no choice but to accept,” Harold sighed with so much desperation that John moved away slightly, as if physical distance would help him see the point that Harold was trying to make. “If she refuses, the Prince will take offense, and wage war on us.”
John’s frown turned even grimmer. “And you want me to convince her to take the Prince’s hand?” John suggested, although the doubt in his voice betrayed that already, he doubted Harold’s plan would ever work.
“And risk that she refuses?” Harold crossed his arms. He did not enjoy this, but Prince Jeremy had left them no choice. “You, of all people, have seen what damages the last war has done to this kingdom,” perhaps it was cruel to remind John of the loss of both his parents, but peace sometimes demanded sacrifices.
“What do you want me to do?” John asked in resignation, like an executioner that had worked for too many years.
Harold waited a beat before continuing, already expecting John’s reaction. “There is a woman, living at the edge of the forest…”
John jumped up from the bench. “Magic?” he shook his head, unconvinced. “You want Root to help with this?”
He spit all his disgust in the nickname and still, Harold did not flinch.
“A love potion,” Harold finally revealed his last card; the real reason he had called upon John’s aid. “So that she can truly choose the Prince.”
John looked pale, and pained.
“We’ve seen stranger things,” Harold tried to convince.
John remembered the dragon that had swallowed the previous king and queen. The council of ambassadors from the west that had transformed into frogs overnight. That curse lager that had turned Sameen into a giant as tall as a mountain, once.
Harold was right; there had been stranger days.
“Will you go?”
On his crutch, Harold would not be able to go very far out of the castle’s walls. These days, he barely made it out of his tower. John sighed.
“Yes,” he finally breathed out in agreement, a grimace twisted his traits. “But if the witch turns me into a monkey again, I will consider you responsible.”
Harold smiled shortly - not a grin, not a smirk, but the littlest of curls of his lips, with all the fatigue in the world wrapped around it. “Thank you, John.”
She lived in a small, crooked cabin near the edge of the forest, and if John hadn’t been here before – desperate for a way to return the princess to her normal size before anyone noticed – John would have lost his way to the obscurity of the path. Although he reached the front door with little difficulty, he froze when he rose his fist to knock.
The door seemed ill-fitted for its hinges, and the whole structure seemed frail, like it could collapse as a house of cards if he moved too quickly. Inside, lights burned orange - candles, he guessed, but then again with magic involved there really was no way to tell. He straightened his cloth on his shoulders, and finally knocked three times, with the confidence and bravery of a man his rank.
When the door opened with a long, wincing creak, promising only darkness - and a strange smell of spices - John, perhaps, lost a rank or two. He shivered as he stepped inside, the little bag of gold hanging at his belt hitting his upper thigh with every step.
“Oh it’s you again,” the lean woman smirked, sitting beside her cauldron. She had an old leather book in one hand, and a large ladle in the other. “The helper monkey,” she sneered.
John frowned, glancing at the dark, bubbling liquid in the cauldron. “I come with orders from the Chancellor,” he tried to declare as proudly and officially as he could, but it sounded more like a suggestion. A shy request.
Root laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t respond well to orders,” she threatened, plunging the ladle in her cauldron to agitate the strange spicy mixture that had started to boil furiously.
“Potion?” John wondered aloud, one eye on the cauldron like it could explode at any minute.
“Soup,” Root replied with a smirk, an evil grin that deepened when she noticed John’s hesitations. “You have orders?” she mocked, although one eye had locked on the bag of gold dangling at John’s waist, eyeing it greedily.
John forced himself to take his eyes off the offending mixture. “I need a love potion,” he explained.
At that, Root laughed wholeheartedly, enough to bring water to her eyes, and some angered red to John’s cheeks. “Well it’s not for me,” he insisted, and Root tried – with very little success - to calm down.
“I do hope it isn’t,” she nodded, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “I doubt even my potions could help an ogre like you find a proper date to the ball.”
If they had been in a tavern, John would not have hesitated to crash his beer glass against the countertop and challenge Root to a fight. But this wasn’t a tavern and he hadn’t, as a matter of fact, any glasses to break. Instead, he glared at her with all the spite he could muster, and crossed his arms.
“Do you want the contract?” said John as he rolled his eyes.
With a flick of her wrist, the gold vanished from where it hanged at John’s belt, and appeared in Root’s hand. “Who are the love birds?”
John grimaced. “Can’t you just... whip up something?” he glanced at the ingredients on the walls, where a jar of eyeballs sat next to a pile of feathers.
“Love spells are delicate,” Root purred. “They require more than just a few drops of enchantment.”
Weary of his travel and of the request itself, John sighed. “The Chancellor wants Princess Sameen to fall in love with Prince Jeremy,” he explained, guilt burning in his gut and making him nauseous – or perhaps it was the awful scent of Root’s soup.
“Oh this is for Sameen,” Root cut him off, a curious glint in the back of her eyes. “The princess who fights like a man.”
John grimaced. “She can punch alright,” John remembered all too well. He still had bruises from their training session, two days before. “Can you do it?”
Root shrugged. “You’ll learn there’s nothing I can’t do, John,” she accentuated the name like it was hard to speak it without disdain.
Rolling his eyes in irritation, John turned towards the door, ready to take his leave.
“Oh, one thing,” Root stopped him in his tracks; “I’m going to need them both at the same place, for this to work. Preferably alone, if at all possible.”
John groaned. He already hated the part he had to play in this, and now his involvement had to continue beyond tonight’s chore. He shook his head; this wasn’t going to be easy, but he had no choice.
“Unless it’s too hard for you to arrange,” Root mocked him openly. “I hear the princess has quite the temper… but surely, given your rank, she listens to you?"
Although none of it sat well with his conscience, John nodded. “I’ll get it done,” he grunted. “You just make sure you’re ready in time, witch.”
Root’s cold and evil laughter followed him all the way back to the castle.
The uncomfortable dress, the awkward silences, the ants aiming for her sandwich… nothing about a picnic sounded appealing to Sameen. She did understand that as a sovereign, she had some duties to perform; nowhere did it state, however, that she had to enjoy herself while she fulfilled them.
“You have the most radiant smile,” Jeremy cooed, and Sameen glared at him harder.
The castle’s cook had better left a part of his very soul in this sandwich, or Sameen could not promise that this prince would leave the meadow unscathed.
“Shall we eat?” she pushed the words through gritted teeth, silently picturing the breaking of Jeremy’s wrist when his hand ventured on her knee.
The prince, being just as proper as most men of his stature were, grinned like a wolf in a sheep’s clothing. “I do like a woman with an appetite,” he replied, obviously unaware of how close to being murdered he had just been, as he finally opened the picnic basket.
Sameen did not wait for his good manners to offer her some food; she grabbed what was hers and shoved the rest on Jeremy’s lap, barely paying him attention.
No, instead she focused on the strange sensation that they were being watched – as if curious eyes burned holes in the back of her neck. The slightest of movements on Sameen’s part revealed a shadow hiding in the nearby bushes, barely visible. Yet, it was there, spying on her, and no matter what kind of low-life criminal they were, their presence was infinitely more interesting than the dull prince making dull eyes at her.
It became all the more intriguing when Sameen caught the tiniest of flashes amongst the leaves - a sword reflecting the sun, perhaps? But it was too small...
An arrow, she realised just in time to roll out of the way.
Sameen ignored Jeremy’s gasp of surprise as she lifted her dress and reached for the blade tied to her thigh.
“What…” he started saying, but Sameen had no time for discussion - the threat was moving between the trees, rapidly adding distance between them.
Cursing against the dress as it caught in low branches and thorns, Sameen ran as fast as she could, eyes on the thin dark shadow up ahead. She was almost close enough to reach the stranger’s cloak when they disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving her stumbling. Sameen stopped there, panting, looking around with a confused look.
Sitting up a tree, a familiar lean figure smirked. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Root purred.
Gauging the distance, Sameen calculated the probability that her dagger would reach her target if she threw if from where she stood. There was a couple more branches in the way than she’d have preferred, but the shot was possible.
“Sameen,” Root shook her head before she poofed again, and reappeared right in front of Sameen. “It’s not polite to stab your friends.”
From up close, Sameen could see the arrows glistening in her quiver - poison, she guessed. There was no doubt that Root was her assailant from the meadow, and yet Sameen only found herself with more questions. She hadn’t seen the which, after all, since the cursed day she had been turned into a giant. The mere remembrance caused her a headache. “We’re not friends,” she replied, fists closed.
“We are,” Root grinned, even as her eyes promised deception.
“What kind of friend would shoot a poisoned arrow at my head?” Sameen opposed, crossing her arms.
Root smirked even wider. “I was aiming for your heart,” she corrected with a wink.
Footsteps behind them seemed to remind Root that she was a fugitive at the moment. “I’ll see you again soon, Sameen.”
Sameen moved to grab her by the arm, intent on taking her hostage, but some strange force paralysed her in place.
“How sweet,” Root purred as she disappeared in another cloud of smoke.
The invisible pressure holding Sameen immobile vanished, just as Jeremy arrived by her side. Startled, Sameen nearly stabbed him in the process; the blade cutting through his arm when she changed the angle of her hit at the last second. As he hissed in pain, pale and terrified, Sameen wondered if diplomacy required that she apologise for the wound. Sensing it would probably be best, she cleared her throat.
“Uh, sorry about that,” she waved towards the cut before she made a move to return to the meadow.
“What happened?” Jeremy asked, following her down the path. His eyes had widened like he had seen a ghost, one hand pressing a handkerchief to his wound as he looked around, as if searching for the hidden trick.
Sameen shrugged. “Hell if I care.”
The ride back to the castle was way quieter than the trot to the meadow had been, and Sameen silently thanked her assailant for the small respite.
Root caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she closed the door of her cabin. She noticed that peculiar smile that hadn’t left her since the meadow, one that strangely ached at her upper cheeks. The way her heart beat just a tiny bit faster when she let her thoughts wander.
“Uh-oh,” Root frowned. She checked her pocket to be sure; oddly enough, the love potion hadn’t spilled on her. “Oh,” she calmly observed, blinking. “Well, that’s new.”