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Hearing the cases of the people is, in Nightmare's humble opinion, one of the most boring parts of being a prince. Even sitting in in meetings was less dull; at least then he could offer strategies or doodle. Here, all he could do was listen, and sometimes offer input.
Frankly, it's just as depressing as it is boring, but at least his mother is among the rare rulers that tries to better their kingdom, instead of dooming it. He doubts other rulers are as quick to give aid to border towns, and to hear the pleas of grandchildren begging for a healer to be sent to their village to send their grandparents off peacefully.
("Other kingdoms are not so receptive to their people," their mother, the Queen, had told them as a lesson. "They let their people hurt, and so the people cultivate disdain for their rulers."
"That's so mean!" Dream had cried.
"Yes," Nim agreed. "But it's also dangerous. To allow discontentment to build could lead to ruin. The people could become so angered at being ignored and left to die that they rise against their rulers."
"Bread and circuses," Nightmare had muttered, slightly slurred as he continued recovering from his head injury. At the time, he was still concussed and on bedrest, but his mother and brother keeping him company helped ease the betrayal of being attacked, permanently disfigured, and half-blinded by his favorite nursemaid.
Nim had laughed, stroking his skull gently on the bandaged side. "Perhaps an apt comparison, but ideally you will care for your people, and not just to keep them from overthrowing you!")
In the stoic queen sitting beside him, there was hardly any trace of the easygoing woman who had raised Nightmare and his twin. Every so often though, she would look over at him, with a proud glimmer in her eye.
These days, in the late summer, most cases were requests for healers. Not until late October would there be requests for food, in the event that crops failed before winter. And while that's normal, and normality is nice, it's boring for Nightmare. His mother doesn't need input on things like that.
A low, discontented murmur in the room causes him to focus on the person standing in front of his mother, bowed deeply. A skeleton, perhaps Nightmare's age. His clothes are light, clearly suited to a warm climate, and visible on his scapula is the brand of a thief. When he stands, Nightmare nearly startles.
In front of his body hangs his soul, bright red and circular. His eye sockets are so dark that only one eyelight can just barely be seen, and some kind of thick, viscous liquid dribbles down his cheeks.
"State your business," Nim orders, the quiet authority of her voice silencing the room.
"My name is Killer, and I come from the Sands," he says. "I seek shelter and employment."
Quiet conversations pick up again about the audacity , the gall — !
"Explain to me the brand on your shoulder."
"Lady Queen, those in the Sands prize beauty," Killer explains. "Your family, for instance, would be right at home!" He grins, and Nightmare can feel himself flush slightly. In his periphery, he can see even his mother cracking a small, indulgent smile. "But for myself, it's impossible to find work, or even shelter much of the time. Thus, I was arrested for the crime of trying to feed myself, and spent a year as an unpaid laborer."
"I suppose you were, at least, fed gruel," Nightmare quips softly. His mother gives him a look, but it isn't quite disapproving.
Killer's grin stretches wider, "It was the best I had eaten in years, Lord Prince. If I had known I would get two meals a day upon being arrested, I might have done it sooner!"
Nim's long fingers tap against the wood of her throne as she thinks. "Have you any skills or experience that would help you in our kingdom?"
"I am Graced with marksmanship, though…" Nightmare smirks a little as Killer flusters. It's strangely charming, considering his confidence before. "To tell the truth, Lady Queen, it is only marksmanship with knives. My arrows do not find their marks, but I can hit them a dozen times over with knives."
"Interesting." Very, Nightmare agreed privately. "We shall endeavor to find you somewhere to use your talents. For now —"
"I require a stablehand for Deimos and Phobos, mother," Nightmare interrupts softly.
His mother looks less than pleased, but he can also tell that she's amused and exasperated. For all the disinterest he's shown since he began attending court, of course now he takes an interest.
She pivots her statement easily, though. "For now, you may find the stables, and inform them that you will be taking care of the crown prince's horses."
"Yes, Lady Queen. Thank you, Lady Queen. Lord Prince."
As he leaves, Killer looks right at Nightmare, and winks.
"Of all the times for you to take an interest, Nightmare…" His mother's voice is exasperated, though he can hear the fondness of it, too.
"He's hardly going to sell us out to the very kingdom he fled, mother," Nightmare replies from his perch at the windowsill.
Nim rolls her eyes good-naturedly as she sorts through the paperwork left on her desk in her absence. "Yes, you know that, my moon, but our people don't." She fixes him with a stern look. "By your choosing."
Nightmare scowls. "I didn't need my Grace to tell me that he was being truthful, mother," he says, snippier than he intends. "And even if I did , what do you think I felt?"
His mother sighs again, closing her eyes. She looks tired, and almost angry, but Nightmare can tell she's just worried. When she opens her eyes again, it's even plainer. "My moon, you insisted on hiding this wonderful part of you," she says, stepping towards the window and taking his face in her gentle hands. "And I understand it, but others may not, and that worries me."
"The nursemaid was a fluke," Nightmare murmurs absently, resting his head on his mother's breast. "Being from Nix, it's not surprising…"
"We should have known better than to place her with children , whose eyes might yet change," Nim's voice is hard, but Nightmare can feel that her anger is with herself. He can feel his mother's emotions better than anyones, except his twin's.
And by his own choice and rule, his mother and his twin were the only ones who knew about his Grace.
He had been born with purple eyelights, and his twin Dream with yellow, but a few months before their eleventh birthday, his left eye had changed from the deep blue-purple of lupines to bright, unnatural cyan.
He hadn't noticed, not one to look in a mirror, and he had awoken before Dream.
The nursemaid — the Nixian woman who had raised him when his mother was busy doing queenly things — had been the first person he'd seen, and the last person he'd seen with his right eye, before she smashed his skull in with a fireplace poker, caving in the right side of his head.
No one else had seen him with both eyes, and only one guard, sworn to secrecy, had heard the nursemaid's terrified ranting, so most everyone assumed that it was trauma that had left Nightmare's magic a different color. It wasn't unheard of, and it happened just about as often as Gracelings revealed themselves.
After all, in a kingdom like Arbre, wouldn't it be a gift for the crown prince to be Graced? Why should it be hidden?
There was no reason for anyone to suspect he was hiding a Grace, and Nightmare would keep it that way for his whole life if he must. Even if his family disagreed.
He would keep himself safe, because no one else would do it for him.
Evening finds Nightmare on his way to the stables. The castle is less busy near the stables and kennels, and often he much prefers the company of horses to people.
He dislikes thinking of his Grace — dislikes remembering that it exists, really — because it's another thing that makes him different .
Dream could make friends easily, because he wasn't crown prince, and he wasn't so sullen, and he wasn't so awkward. Nightmare had responsibilities, and a demeanor that was, in the words of one soldier that his mother had swiftly relieved of his duty, colder than a witch's tit.
He tried not to begrudge Dream his freedom, but he certainly didn't have as much free time as his brother did. It was fine, really — Nightmare didn't have anyone to socialize with besides their mother anyway, and no hobbies besides reading and tending to his horses.
Deimos and Phobos are already looking at him expectantly as he enters the stables, heads cocked over the inner doors of their stalls. He can't sense horses, or any animals with his Grace, but he can almost hear them going Got anything for us? Hm?
To their credit, he does. He holds out half an apple in each hand, one for Deimos and one for Phobos. Phobos takes his whole half in one crunch, while Deimos is more polite about it, though he does nibble on Nightmare's hand a bit.
"I was wondering when I'd see you again." The voice comes from his right side, his blind side, and startles him enough that he jumps.
"Shit, sorry," Killer is at least apologetic. "I didn't mean to startle you." After a moment, he appends, "Lord Prince."
"I shouldn't be surprised, considering I sent you here," Nightmare replies, embarrassed. "Especially since I was looking for you."
Killer whistles. "Fancy that, the crown prince looking for li'l ol' me."
"You're very improper."
"Well, you haven't reprimanded me yet, Lord Prince."
Nightmare can feel his face flush slightly. "I suppose not." He doesn't know why he continues — something about Killer's easygoing nature, perhaps. "I don't have many people around my own age to talk to, aside from my brother."
"You could probably find a better friend than a street rat, though." Killer's voice is tinged with self-deprecation, and even if Nightmare couldn't hear it, he can feel it. It hangs around Killer like a miasma.
"I'm the crown prince, and I'll choose my friends as I like," Nightmare replies petulantly, and Killer grins.
"Guess I've got no choice then." He drops to a knee, and Nightmare vocalizes his surprise in an incoherent sound. "I'll serve you faithfully, as your friend."
"That's not necessary," he protests as Killer stands.
"You saved my life, Lord Prince. Without you, I would have been on the streets again." Killer's white eyelight glints in the low light of the stables, bright against whatever festers behind his sockets. "Perhaps executed, depending on where I ended up."
"All I've asked is for you to take care of my horses," Nightmare sighs. "And you're offering me your life."
"Well, for a pretty face like yours…" Killer grins. "I'd give up anything."
"You are incorrigible," he grunts, but even to his own ears it sounds amused rather than offended. "...Do not let anyone else hear you speak this way to me."
"Oh, so I can keep doing it?"
"You do seem to enjoy pushing boundaries," Nightmare replies in a non-answer, though privately he thinks Please do .
"If you set any, I'll be sure to listen, Lord Prince." Killer turns to the horses, who look offended to have been sidelined for their talking. ( Flirting? Nightmare wonders.) "Now, we've forgotten these beauties!"
"Yes, the reason you're here," Nightmare agrees, happy to change the subject so he doesn't have to think about whether or not Killer is flirting, and whether or not he enjoys not only the attention, but flirting back. "Their names are Deimos and Phobos."
"Moons, right?"
"Not many people are aware of that, but yes."
"My father was the scientific sort, before he lost it," Killer offers, reaching up to stroke Deimos's face. "Taught me most of the constellations."
"My mother did the same with my brother and myself… though Dream was prone to falling asleep before she'd gotten halfway through her lesson." Killer laughs, and Nightmare smiles. It was a fond memory, his mother whispering constellations to him as Dream snuggled in her lap.
"You look nice when you smile," Killer says suddenly, before turning back to Phobos just as quickly. His face is slightly red, and Nightmare can feel his embarrassment.
Two things to unpack, he notes. Firstly, that he can read Killer so easily; perhaps because of Killer's malformed soul, or perhaps his Grace was strengthening. Secondly, that Killer is actually flirting with him, on purpose.
And he likes that. He likes it a lot, actually — to have the focus of one person, who actually likes him and isn't required to like him just because they're related. Even having secured him a job, Killer wasn't required to like Nightmare, just to be polite.
But he's being nice , and he's not doing it to be polite. He actually likes Nightmare, as a person.
The thought makes him dizzy. He steadies himself with a hand on Deimos's gate. "Phobos is the one you're petting," Nightmare explains, gesturing towards the smoky gray gelding that seemed to be quickly falling in love with Killer. "And this is Deimos," he continues, reaching a hand out to stroke the black gelding's face.
"Anything in particular I should know?"
"Phobos startles easier and is a bit more anxious overall. Deimos is calmer, except in the face of some of the mousing cats." He smiles slightly. "It's quite the sight."
"There are mousers?" Killer asks excitedly. Both of his eyelights are visible now, one bright white, and the other such a dark gray that it still nearly blends in with his socket. It must have something to do with his emotions, Nightmare reasons.
(Absently, he toys with the idea of confiding in Killer about his Grace, in exchange for that question. He's never had a friend to even consider telling about his Grace.)
"Yes, there are quite a few that roam the castle. They tend to sleep in the loft here, or near the kitchens. One of the cooks set up a little shed for them to shelter in."
Killer looks positively exuberant at this news, and the feeling of his joy gives Nightmare a bit of a headache. It happens sometimes, with very positive emotions, and he isn't sure if it's related to his head wound, or to his Grace itself.
"Forgive me, Killer," Nightmare says before the other can continue. "I feel a migraine coming on, so I think I will make my way back to my rooms."
"I wouldn't want to impose, but would you like an escort… Lord Prince?" Killer asks hesitantly.
"No, I should be fine." With a slight smile, he says, "I mostly just get easily annoyed. 'Cranky', as my brother likes to put it."
"You? Cranky?" Killer snorts. "Won't believe it 'til I see it, personally."
"You flatter me, Killer," Nightmare says, trying to will his face not to flush. "I suppose I will see you tomorrow, then."
"So soon?" He seems genuinely surprised, and explains, "I'd have thought you were busier, is all."
"I always make time for the horses," Nightmare says, reaching out to pat Phobos one last time before he retires. "And now I will make time for my friend."
Killer smiles — a real smile, not the confident grin he seems to plaster on. "I'll look forward to it, Lord Prince. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."