Chapter Text
Prince Alexander Gideon Lightwood was born to Her Majesty, Queen Maryse, precisely as noon descended upon the Idris sky one fine summer day.
Amidst the hapless cries of his mother, one could hear the steadily swelling chants of the High Priestess emanating from the North Wing of the castle, and those cries soon became interspersed with the loud, angry wails of a fussy newborn - who had ten fingers, ten toes, and was most importantly, a boy.
After years upon years of wait- after relentless prayers and endless tears, Idris finally had a successor. An heir to the imperial throne. With the birth of the Prince, a new era was to dawn on their Holy City.
Outside the castle, scores of peasants stood huddled in anxious wait.
Inside the castle, the child was bathed and clothed and deposited into the waiting arms of his mother, and his father, His Royal Highness King Robert, paid the palace servants ten gold coins apiece, and shortly dispatched the bellman to spread the news of his successor’s birth far and wide, to the joy and jubilation of the entire kingdom. He then stepped out into the balcony, greeted his eager audience with an imperious wave of the hand, and unfurled the Idris Flag. As the flag fluttered in the wind, scattering rose petals everywhere, the crowd gathered outside the palace erupted with jubilation.
Chants of “Hail King Robert! Hail Queen Maryse! "Long live Idris!” erupted from the bullroarer, and everyone in town seemed to join in on the chorus.
Later in the day, processions upon processions were taken out in welcome of the new King - the vendors closing down shop to participate in the customary two days of merrymaking.
Idris, usually silent and busy and drab, was suddenly a riot of color and sound, and why wouldn’t it be?
The Royal Family was its custodian, and had been for centuries and centuries - dispensing upon its people the Word of the Angels, ensuring prosperity and harmony among its citizens.
And with the birth of a new King, all of Idris could breathe a collective sigh of relief, for its future was secured. Said future was tinier than a watermelon right at this very moment, but everyone knew the baby would grow up to be a proud and valiant king.
***
Among the people witnessing the celebration was a young seamstress by the name of Diah, who softly cradled her infant as she witnessed the parade from the window of her little hut. Even in the hours of the night, the sounds and the lights continued to keep the town alive, and in all her months at Idris, Diah had never seen such a spirited celebration before.
It was as if the arrival of the Prince had infused a new life, a new vigour, a sense of purpose into Idris's humdrum existence. She understood the sentiment, of course. As much of a surprise as her own little one had been, his birth had turned Diah’s life on its head, and even through all of the drudgery she had to endure, she wouldn’t want to change a single thing.
Children were a gift after all, and even if the entire street mocked her for being an unwed mother, Diah kept her head held high, for the sake of her perfect son, whose eyes glowed the most beautiful shade of gold she had ever seen in her life, and whose smile made Diah forget the back breaking work she had to endure to keep her boy fed and clothed.
One day, her son would grow up, and all her troubles would end.
Hope, she realized. Children brought hope, a promise, and a destiny with them. And Diah knew, in her heart of hearts, that the world as they all knew it was going to change. Sooner than they would realize.
Closing her eyes, Diah sent a silent prayer to the Angels for the Queen and her newborn, wishing for their good health. Cradled in his mother’s arms, Diah’s little one twitched his fingers, releasing miniscule wisps of blue from his tiny hands. Unbeknownst to her, a black mark began to take shape on her son’s hand, just below his thumbnail.
The mark was eerily identical to the one that had grown behind Prince Alexander's ear, who, under the watchful eye of the moon, and a thousand prayers of his countrymen, slept peacefully through his first night on earth.
***
Per Idris customs, the new Prince was to be introduced to the public on his seventh day. The castle was decorated lavishly in the finest fabrics and the richest hues. The royal kitchen prepared sweets of every variety, of every color and every flavor one could dream of. Not a single expense was spared as the Idris welcomed royal families from nearby countries, who had arrived to pay respects to the newborn.
Among the royals attending was Queen Imogen of Alicante, who had arrived with her grandson, Prince Jonathan. From the Swedish Highlands, King Albert Branwell arrived with his new wife, Priscilla. Notable members of the peerage - the assorted Dukes and Earls and Viscounts were also in attendance, trailed by oxcarts that were severely weighed down by clothes and fruits and sweets, things that would likely end up getting distributed amongst the palace staff by the end of the festivities.
And it was not only the royalty and the aristocracy who had been invited to witness Prince Alexander’s ceremony, where the King and Queen sought the Angel Raziel’s blessings for the newborn. The Prince would be able to meet his well-wishers from his own kingdom as well, who would whisper a prayer in his ear, and then make an offering of a gift.
Seven civilians had been chosen to visit the Prince at the High Castle after the ritual was over. Diah had scarcely believed her ears when the Town Crier announced her name in the middle of the square, along with the names of six other people.
Penniless that she was, Diah fretted endlessly over what someone like her could possibly offer to a Prince who had more in way of fortune and wealth than she could even begin to fathom.
Still, she hoped the Queen and King would be merciful to her lot, and accept her humble offerings, or at the very least, not deride them in public.
So while her little boy slept in his cot later that night, Diah scrounged together the colorful scraps of taffeta that she had leftover from creating the ladies’ dresses earlier that day.
With a shimmering gold thread made of the final silk that she could have bought from the market, she embroidered symbols of protection and strength into the crimson fabric, murmuring a prayer her grandmother had taught her when she was a child of five.
As she was working away in her dimly lit hut, her toddler woke up and crawled over to her lap, idly touching each symbol, cooing and babbling as his mother worked.
“Careful, little one,” Diah admonished him, tickling him lightly, and her son squealed with laughter in return. Smiling to herself, Diah went back to her craft, keeping a tight hold on her boy.
And had Diah not been busy with her thread work whilst minding her child, keeping him safe from her needle, she would have observed the faint shimmers of blue each time her son touched the protective sigils that she had etched.
When at last the dusk began to give way to dawn, Diah was finally satisfied with her handiwork. Her eyes hurt with the strain of having to work with such intricate precision all night under the dim light of the oil lamp, but her heart was satisfied.
Small as the gift may be, she had imbibed it with a mother’s love - and the omamori amulet would be her token to the little Prince, and she prayed to the gods that the child may flourish and bring joy to his mother, the way her own had done.
***
As the day of the ceremony dawned, Diah cleaned her house and fed her child, dressing him in a fine pair of tunic and pants. Then, donning her own set of robes that she reserved for a special occasion, she made her way towards the palace, with a toddler in one hand, and a gift for the Prince in another.
Idris was cold that morning. The skies were gray and the winds were faster than was the norm for the season. As she felt her little boy shiver against her bosom, Diah inwardly chided herself for not carrying her shroud with her. Tucking her little one closer, she quickened her footsteps, knowing the two of them would be warm inside the castle.
At the gates, Diah produced her invitation that the bellman had presented her with days ago.
“Who is this?” the guard nodded at the sleeping child in her arms.
“This is my son, sir,” Diah said with no small amount of pride.
“The invite does not mention a child, madame,” the guard said, not unpleasantly. “Only you. Can you not leave the boy with your husband for the day? Or a neighbor, perhaps?”
“All he has is me,” Diah said with a small shake of her head. “And all I have is him. But I assure you, sir, he will not cause any trouble at all. He is very mild mannered, my boy.”
When the guards continued to look uncertain, Diah relented. “I can go back, if you so wish. If my child cannot be here, then this is no place for me either.”
Perhaps the guard was moved by the young mother’s resolve, or perhaps he too became enchanted with the adorable child, who was grinning at him widely.
Perhaps the guard feared the Queen’s reaction when only six people showed up, instead of the seven as the family was expecting. An invited civilian not showing up at the palace would certainly be seen as a slight to the royalty.
Whatever the reason may be, the guard, after minutes of deliberation, finally relented.
“Very well,” he said, stepping aside to allow her entry. “You may go in.”
“Both of us?” Diah asked again, just to be certain.
The guard gave the woman a look. “Both of you, yes. Go on along, before I change my mind.”
***
The Queen and the King of Idris held court inside the Great Hall. Towards the end of the room, on a dais raised a little more than a foot off the ground, stood two tall, arresting, majestic thrones draped with a rich crimson, crafted with gilded wood of the finest artisanship. The aureate throne coruscated with a deep brilliance, reflecting the light of a thousand lamps that were artfully scattered across the ceiling of the lavishly decorated hall. On the bassinet next to Queen Maryse’s throne, slept the beautiful Prince Alexander, smiling gently to himself.
A crimson carpet, made from the threads of the finest velvet and silk, trailed from the pedestal, traveling down across the length of the hall, and ending at the entryway. On each side of the aisle were elegant settees - upholstered canapes that seated the nobles who had traveled from far and wide to pay their respects.
Huddled at the entrance to the hall was a visibly nervous Diah along with six other citizens, flanked by the Royal Guards on both sides.
The Queen nodded to her lady-in-waiting, indicating to her that the people to be allowed in, and at the half-raise of her hand, the chatter happening on both sides of the aisle went down to a soft lull.
“Form a queue,” the guard commanded, and Diah nervously shuffled over to the end of the line. Her son was fidgeting a little in her arms - the splendor of the palace was clearly a sight to behold for her little one, and Diah wanted her boy to satiate his innate curiosity and look his fill.
Angels knew this would be the only time her son would ever get to see the inside of a palace, so she moved to the end, if only to allow her son a few extra moments to look around. To Diah, the sight of wonder and marvel in her son’s eyes was more beautiful than all the luxuries of this palace combined.
First in line was a short and portly fruit seller, who slowly and carefully made his way to the regents. Standing a few feet away from the dais, he bowed before King Robert and Queen in a deep curtsy, receiving a gracious nod of acknowledgement from them in return.
“Your Majesties,” the businessman said stoutly. “I humbly bring to you and the Prince, the finest White-Jewel Strawberries and Yubari Melons in all the land.”
At this, the attendant whispered something in the Queen’s ear, who nodded swiftly.
“Thank you, good sir,” Maryse smiled at him. “Our royal commis informs us that the produce from your farm has been a staple of our desserts for many, many years. We thank you for coming all the way to offer your regards. May your trade flourish with each day that transpires.”
The man bowed in reverence, before handing the fruit-laden basket to the King’s personal steward, who deposited it on the marble table next to the dais. Then, approaching the bassinet, the man bent down, and under the watchful eye of the Queen, whispered a blessing in the little Prince’s ear.
This happened five more times. Diah felt increasingly embarrassed as her precursors presented an expensive assortment of flowers, jewels, fabrics and antiquities to the child. And there she was, with a measly, handmade talisman as her only gift. She belatedly wished at that moment that the kind-looking guard had turned her away at the gates when she had first arrived at the palace.
Finally, it was her turn to walk forward, and therefore, with anxious, measured steps, Diah made her way to the end of the aisle, holding her son tightly.
Despite wearing the nicest clothes she owned, in a crowd of people dressed in their finery, Diah felt shabby and out of place, every bauble in the palace jeering at her, telling her that she had no business being here, reminding her of her own abject poverty.
But there was nothing to be done except plough on with her head held high, and ignore the sniggers and audible whispers around her. She would go back to being invisible once again in a few short moments, when all of this was over.
“Your Majesties,” Diah began once she had reached the anointed spot. “I thank you for your kindness in inviting me into your home, for allowing me a glimpse of your newborn child. I am very grateful to be a part of this joyous occasion.”
The King and Queen seemed positively surprised at how articulate the ordinarily-dressed woman was. Everyone preceding her had boasted about their offerings, explained to them in detail how exquisite their presents were, but the first thing this woman had done was thank the two of them for inviting her here.
She certainly had the mannerisms of a noble, Queen Maryse noted, despite not wearing the garb of one.
“I am a poor woman, your Majesties,” Diah said, her voice steady, wavering only the slightest bit. “But I am also a mother. And, if you will allow me, I would like to offer a modest gift unworthy of the Prince - it something I made by my own hand, and something every newborn in my family wears to ward off evil.”
With a humble bow, Diah produced before the new parents, the red and gold amulet that she had stitched the other night.
“Is that an Omamori, I wonder?” King Robert asked curiously as the Queen looked on. “I have only ever seen it during my travels to the subcontinent.”
“For luck and protection, sir,” Diah nodded. “I made a similar one for my boy when he was born not two years ago.”
Her own son’s charm was much more simple, a red threadbare fabric with symbols inscribed on it by ink from a borrowed quill. Still, as her grandmother had explained to her many years ago, it was the intent that mattered, and for all her follies -childhood mistakes made in the heat of the moment that had rendered her a penniless mother at sixteen, Diah’s intentions had only ever been pure.
“Thank You, Madame, for your kind gift” Queen Maryse bowed to the young woman. “What could be more precious to my son than a mother’s love? I humbly accept your offering. You are free to put it on the Prince, and whisper your blessings, should you wish.”
Gingerly, Diah stepped up on the dais. Wrapping her arm around her son, lest he get any ideas about crawling away, Diah had just managed to lean forward when her son stretched his hand forward, touching the babbling baby behind the ear.
There was a deafening silence, as all of a sudden, a brilliant white blaze rose up around them and illuminated the palace in a billowing, shimmering light of gold and blue.
And then there was darkness.