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And the hand of the watchman
In the night sky
Points to my beloved
A knight in crystal armor
“Are you leaving this world, too?”
The Wizard looks at the Knight who has spoken — young in years, but with a heavy weariness on his shoulders that is only carried by men thrice his age. The Wizard’s gaze softens.
“I am very old,” says the Wizard kindly, knowing how the Knight has seen too many of his comrades fall, and that he is one of the few companions the Knight has left. “And very, very tired.”
The Knight looks at his old friend. “How were you able to bear it, all these years?”
The Wizard does not need to ask what he means. He looks out over the sea, at where the Knight had finally… let go.
“Perhaps,” the Wizard murmurs, “it is because I have not loved the way you had.”
He carefully lays a hand on the Knight’s shoulder. He very carefully does not look at the way those shoulders shake with the tears that have finally been set free.
“My powers are fading,” says the Wizard, “and my magic will leave this land with me.”
He smiles down at the Knight. “And yet, I think I have enough left in me to grant one final wish.”
The Knight’s eyes widens. “My friend,” he shakes his head vehemently, “I cannot—”
“Yes,” the Wizard interrupts him gently, “You can.”
He lays a hand atop the Knight’s head. He is still at heart a young, innocent boy, for all his years.
“My child…” says the Wizard softly. “Let me grant your heart’s desire.”
And at those words, the Knight finally crumbles.
“Then let me be with him,” the Knight whispers fiercely through his tears. “Please… let me be with my Prince.”
The Wizard looks at him sadly. “You know you cannot follow him in death.”
The Knight’s hands tighten into fists. “Then I will follow him in another life.”
His gaze is unwavering and determined as he stares at his old friend. Finally, the Wizard smiles.
“There will come a time when a new kind of magic will overtake this land,” says the Wizard. “You will be reunited with him then.”
The Knight’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, tentative hope glimmering in his hazel-blue eyes. “What sort of magic is that? And how will I know?”
The Wizard raises a hand, palm facing outward and fingers spread out.
“The time will come when magic will reign in the music of this world.”
A kaleidoscope of light shines from his fingers and spreads to encompass everything in sight. It shoots towards the horizon, over the sea, far beyond where the Prince’s body is finally laid to rest beneath the waters.
“And you will know him,” the Wizard murmurs with a soft smile, “through his song.”
He is named David Roland Cook in this life.
He is pleasantly surprised and thoroughly amused that the Wizard has granted that two of his most trusted shield brothers then has now become his brothers by blood. He is grateful, nonetheless; their warm companionship and riotous antics have served as a healing balm for those nights when the yearning of his heart becomes too unbearable.
He wonders, though, why Adam and Andrew do not remember the life they have shared before. He has stopped trying to persuade them when they’re convinced that their “silly brother” is having a joke at their expense.
(He had glared and bitten his tongue to keep himself from scoffing that this silly brother had been their leader in the battlefield, once upon a time.)
He loves both of them fiercely, though, and much as it had been back then, he is ready to die by their side in a heartbeat.
(Adam had once sacrificed his own life to save David’s, shielding him from the enemy’s sword when it was aimed for David’s heart. He had wept over Adam’s body then, uncaring of how he had been openly grieving in the middle of war.
The enemy is inside Adam’s body now, and David despairs at the fates’ cruel mockery of his inability to protect the people he loves.)
So when Andrew wanted to audition for this American Idol show, David is there to support him.
(It is the least he can do — once, he had underestimated this young knight’s strength, and Andrew had knocked him clean off his horse in a jousting tournament. David had been equally proud of and humbled by him.)
He has not, however, expected to also be sitting in the holding room, waiting for his own turn.
He scans the room, feeling his skin sizzle in anticipation.
Something has compelled the production team to ask him to sing, too. And something has compelled him to say yes.
David stares at the doors separating him from the room where the judges are waiting. He looks down at his chest—he’s number 36214—and tries to quell the rising hope in his heart.
Something is at work here. Something he hasn’t felt in the twenty four years he has been walking on this land, in this life.
The doors open, and Ryan Seacrest smiles and motions for him to enter.
David smiles back tightly and takes a deep breath to settle his nerves. It is not the audition itself that is filling him with a sense of disquiet.
It is feeling the familiar tendrils of unnamed, unspeakable power curling up his arms, wrapping themselves around his throat, whispering in his ears seductively in a language long dead to this era’s people:
Listen. The magic is here.
He resists the overwhelming instinct to bow when Paula Abdul walks by.
His former liege smiles kindly at him, her eyes betraying no recognition, and she cups his cheek affectionately as she wishes him good luck for this first round of Hollywood callbacks.
He stares at her retreating back as his heart hammers wildly against his chest.
If the Queen has also been reborn in this life… where is her son?
A hand claps him on the shoulder, and he jumps. “Hey there, Mister Three Six Two One Four!”
David whirls around — and finds himself reeling at an all-too-familiar face.
“It’s crazy in here, ain’t it, mate?” the man says cheerfully, and David has to acquaint himself with the fact that his former Lieutenant is now talking with an Australian accent.
“Yeah,” David manages to weakly say, “Crazy.”
“I’m Michael. Michael Johns.” That cheeky, friendly grin is familiar, too, and David resists the urge to pull the man into a tight embrace when he takes the hand Michael offers.
“David. David Cook.”
Michael whistles. “Wow, another David? There’s a lot of you in here.”
David’s forehead creases in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Michael shrugs good-naturedly. “I’ve just met two other Davids before you. They’re waiting in that other room over there.” He jabs a thumb behind his shoulder, in the direction of the hallway where he has just come from. “One is named Hernandez, I think? The other is just a kid. I hope the boy’s ready for this craziness.”
There’s a protective lilt to Michael’s tone that’s strangely familiar—an instinct they have once shared as the closest of shield brothers—but as soon as David opens his mouth to ask, the words die in his throat when he sees the throng of people who come pouring in.
“This…” he breathes in flabbergasted wonder, “cannot be a coincidence.”
He listens raptly when the production assistant calls on them one by one, mentally noting the names they are now given in this life.
Carly, his former shield maiden. Jason, his former squire. Lady Ramielle, Baroness Kristy, Duchess Syesha.
David feels like he can’t breathe. Here, now, are all the people who once upon a time have sworn fealty to his heart’s custodian. All that’s missing is…
There is a flash of familiar golden tresses as the lady walks by, and he has already grabbed her arm before his mind has caught up to what he’s doing.
“Is he here?” he asks desperately. “Is your charge with you?”
The former nursemaid of the Royal Family only gazes at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I…” David says dazedly as he realises there is no recognition in her eyes — just like the rest of them. With a heavy heart, he releases her. “Sorry, I thought you were… someone else.”
“Brooke!” her companion calls out to her from the front of the room. “Come on, it’s almost starting!”
Blue eyes look back at him in sympathy. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Brooke smiles softly, before she moves to sit with the rest of the contestants.
Numbly, David finally lets himself collapse on a nearby seat. He lets his head fall into his hands as he breathes out a shaky sigh.
“I hope so too,” he whispers. “God, I hope so too.”
David rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. He hasn’t felt this tired in a long while.
When he had been at war, there had been moments of lull when even the enemy soldiers needed to rest, or when they would wait in tense silence for the next move, or when they had to temporarily retreat to regroup and plan.
This, he thinks grimly, is a different sort of battlefield altogether. A more brutal and unforgiving one.
He blearily opens his eyes as he looks at his group. They’re all pushing 72 hours without proper sleep—they’ve all headed straight here from the airport after all, barely stopping to eat or rest—and some of them are already falling sick.
He sighs. Even he—as the Captain of the Royal Troops—had not been as much of a slave-driver as the American Idol producers are being right now.
“Why don’t we all take a five minute break, yeah?” he tells his group in sympathy, and they all looked at him gratefully.
They all disperse and go in different directions: one goes to get himself a drink, one curls up on the floor to take a nap, and one starts scribbling notes on the lyric sheet of the song they’re going to perform in a few hours. David smiles down at them softly, feeling that familiar stirring of a leader’s instinct to take care of the people under his charge, and wonders if he will have to take on that role again, in this life.
… That’s when he hears it.
“I am so high, I can hear heaven.”
David freezes.
“I am so high, I can hear heaven.”
The ancient magic slams onto him, piercing and powerful, rattling his bones and striking straight through his heart.
Blindsided, he stumbles as he desperately searches for the source of that voice.
‘You will know him through his song.’
“Oh but heaven, no, heaven don’t hear me.”
With shaking legs that are barely holding him upright, he reaches the end of the hall. There, sitting in the corner, tucked away from the rest of his group mates and singing softly to himself, is a young boy.
David wants to fall to his knees.
He is as young as the last time David saw him.
… As young as the last time David lost him.
“And they say that a hero can save us, I’m not gonna stand here and wait. I’ll hold on to the wings of the eagles, watch as we all fly away.”
And he is still as beautiful as the day David fell irrevocably in love with him.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
The Knight looks up from his stance in surprise. He has not expected the Prince himself to be there. He immediately straightens and bows deeply. “My Lord. Forgive me for failing to acknowledge your presence.”
The Prince shakes his head and smiles warmly at him. “Forgive me for not announcing myself. I wanted to watch you.”
The Knight feels himself flushing at the words — and at the almost inappropriate geniality of the Prince’s tone. “Is… is there anything you need from me, my Lord?” he asks, and inwardly cringes at the eagerness he has failed to hide.
The Prince is looking at him thoughtfully. “You have a fine form,” he murmurs, and the Knight feels his cheeks warming as the Prince approaches him. “However, your battle stance needs improvement.”
The Knight blinks as the Prince clasps his arm and raises it. “You are holding your sword too loosely. Your movements should depend on the flexibility of your wrist, not on the looseness of your fingers.”
The Prince adjusts his grip on the sword, moving it closer to the guard and curling his fingers tighter around the hilt. The Knight feels his throat go dry both at the sensation of the Prince’s intimate touch… and the realisation that the Prince’s hands are surprisingly just as callused as his.
“Tighten your grip,” the Prince instructs him as he steps back, “and focus on the rotation of your wrist when moving to a different stance, rather than opening your fingers to shift your grip. Otherwise—”
The Prince swiftly draws his own sword and strikes. Distracted and unprepared, the Knight thankfully falls back on his well-honed training as he instinctively raises his own weapon to block the Prince’s attack. The jarring clang of metal against metal fills the training hall, before it is followed by the sound of metal hitting wood as the sword hits the floor.
“Otherwise,” the Prince continues quietly as he moves to pick up the sword he has knocked out of the Knight’s hand, “you will lose your hold on your weapon. And that is when you will immediately lose the fight.”
He offers the sword back to its rightful owner.
“Remember,” says the Prince, “as long as you are still holding your weapon, you will never lose.”
The Knight reaches out to take back his sword. He stares at it for a long moment as he senses the Prince sliding his own sword back to the scabbard on his belt and moving to leave.
The Knight’s grip tightens around his sword in determination.
“How do you know so much about fighting, my Lord?”
The Prince stills.
The Knight raises his head and looks at the Prince—really looks at him. It hits the Knight just then how young the Prince is, so much younger than himself, and the Knight suddenly feels his heart aching at the thought of this boy ever having to fight for his life.
Slowly, the Prince turns around to face him once more. His body is backlighted by the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows, framing his deceptively diminutive form in golden light.
The Knight’s breath catches in his throat at the mesmerising sight — and he feels his heart skip a beat.
The Prince draws his sword once more, and the Knight instinctively raises his. However, the Prince is not looking at him this time. The Prince is staring unseeingly at the blade of his own weapon, the cool metal flashing whenever it catches the light.
“My father has taught me that being born into the throne is not a privilege, but a duty,” the Prince says quietly. “I cannot expect others to do for me what I cannot do myself. I cannot expect to be followed if I cannot lead by example.”
He lowers his sword and turns to offer a small smile at the Knight.
“I cannot expect my people to fight for this Kingdom without being willing to die for it myself.”
The Knight swallows tightly at the way his heart suddenly feels too big for his chest. “My Lord,” the Knight says hoarsely. “May I humbly ask something of you?”
The Prince tilts his head curiously at him. “Speak, then,” the Prince says softly.
And the Knight falls to his knees.
“Teach me how to fight for this Kingdom,” is what he says.
Teach me how to fight for you, is what he means.
He keeps his gaze trained respectfully on the floor as he hears the Prince’s soft footsteps padding toward him. For several heartbeats, silence reigns in the training hall as the Prince seems to be regarding him.
Finally, the Prince speaks. “Arise, my Knight.”
The Knight is startled at the possessive title. His head snaps up questioningly, something akin to fierce hope flooding his chest, but he is sobered by the seriousness of the Prince’s expression.
“Draw your sword,” the Prince murmurs.
The Knight quickly moves to obey as he stands and steps back. He draws his sword, falling readily into a battle stance when the Prince slowly circles him.
The Prince raises his own sword and points it toward him.
“Prepare yourself then,” says the Prince, “and remember what I taught you.”
The Prince lowers his body into his own fighting stance, the fire in his eyes enflaming the Knight’s own.
“Hold on tight,” the Prince murmurs. “And don’t let go.”
And he leaps to attack.
David watches hungrily as the boy finally flutters his eyes open when his voice trails off, pausing in his singing.
Several millennia may have gone by since he last saw them with his own, but he can never forget how those hazel-green eyes never fail to take his breath away.
And he can never forget every unique nuance of emotion those eyes betray.
There is a sadness in those eyes now that David cannot name, for it seems to carry a deep, heavy loneliness that David finds himself recognising.
It is a sorrow as ancient as his own.
David inhales sharply. The boy hasn’t seen him yet.
“Someone told me, love would all save us.”
Those hazel-green eyes widen at the sound of David’s voice as he picks up the song where it has been left off. David sees the way the boy suddenly straightens and frantically searches the room for the source of the voice, the source of the magic. David’s heart leaps when he sees something come alive in those eyes as the ancient power courses through the boy’s body—just like it has done with his.
He slowly steps forward into the boy’s line of sight.
“But how can that be? Look what love gave us.”
And when finally, finally those hazel-green eyes catch on hazel-blue… David nearly falters in his singing as he finally, finally sees in them what he has heretofore failed to see in all the others.
Recognition.
“A world full of killing and blood spilling. That world never came.”
“Don’t cry,” his Prince tells him softly. “Please, my love… don’t cry.”
Trembling fingers reach up to cup the Knight’s cheek. The tears fall on the Prince’s face, mingling with the dirt and blood.
“Stay with me,” the Knight whispers fiercely as he presses their foreheads together and tightens his hold on his Prince. “I cannot win this without you.”
The Knight can only watch in despair as the Prince struggles to keep his eyes open even as the light in them is slowly fading. “Remember… what I taught you,” the Prince manages to gasp out between shaky breaths.
He reaches down and clasps his Knight’s hand one final time—the hand that is still tightly gripping the hilt of his sword.
“Hold on tight.”
And with the last of his strength, the Prince pushes himself upward to press his lips lovingly against his Knight’s.
“… And don’t let go.”
With those words, he exhales his last warm breath against the Knight’s suddenly cold mouth.
The Knight buries his face in his Prince’s neck… and screams.
David doesn’t know who between them is more visibly shaking. The boy is slowly standing up, his gaze refusing to relinquish David’s, his open, expressive face equally enraptured and fearful, as if David will somehow suddenly disappear in as little as a blink of an eye.
David can’t blame him. He feels exactly the same way.
“Now that the world isn’t ending, it’s love that I’m sending to you.”
The emotion behind the words lends a raspy undercurrent to his baritone as David continues to sing, twining the magic tighter and tighter around them both.
“It isn’t the love of a hero, and that’s why I fear it won’t do.”
“Get up,” the Wizard commands. He raises his arm high in the air; white-hot light bursts forth from his staff, striking down all the enemy soldiers that are coming at them from all sides.
There are many more charging at them from behind the fallen.
The Wizard spins around and furiously wrenches the unmoving Knight up from his prone position on the ground.
“GET UP!”
The Wizard staggers at the fierce, hazel-blue eyes that stare back, angry tears flowing freely down his face. The Wizard glares back determinedly and grabs the Knight’s arm, raising it.
He is still gripping his sword.
“Do not let him die in vain,” the Wizard hisses, his ancient power thrumming through the blinding aura emanating from his form. “You are not the only one fighting for him.”
The Knight’s eyes widen as the Wizard releases him to strike at the enemies charging behind him. Dazedly, he looks around… and realises that everyone has surrounded them.
The soldiers have all formed a circle around their Prince, protecting him even in death.
To his right, his Lieutenant has drawn his sword. To his left, his Shield Maiden has her quiver and arrows ready.
In front of them, the Wizard raises both arms high in the air, his staff taking on a powerful blue glow.
“For our Prince?” the Wizard’s booming voice surrounds them.
“For our Prince!” the Shield Maiden yells, her cry being echoed by her archers.
“For our Prince!” his Lieutenant shouts, fuelling the impassioned response of his swordsmen.
They are only waiting for one final command.
‘Hold on tight. And don’t let go.’
The Knight finally raises his own sword and whispers: “… For our Prince.”
And this time, when the Knight screams, everyone else roars with him.
All around them, the spell takes its hold as everyone falls silent at the combined power of their joint voices.
“And they’re watching us,” David sings the melody.
“Watching us,” the boy softly sings the second voice, and the Knight shivers at how he can feel the power caress him from the inside out, like a lover’s longing touch.
“They’re watching us.”
“Watching us.”
“As we all fly away.”
In a scene reminiscent of the last time they were all together like this, David can sense them all coming up to surround them, almost as if they are enchanted. To his left, Carly looks on with something akin to pride. And to his right, Michael gazes at them with unrestrained awe.
“And they’re watching us,” the boy sings.
“Watching us,” David answers, and he sees how the boy’s eyes flutter close at the visible shudder that wracks his frame, and David suddenly aches to touch him.
“They’re watching us.”
“Watching us.”
“As we all fly away.”
Their voices finally meld together in a seamless harmony in the last few bars of the outro, and the notes seem to wrap themselves happily in each other, the dual magic rushing and clinging and spinning around each other like a long-awaited reunion of lovers separated by time and space.
Hazel-green locks on hazel-blue—separated by death, reunited by destiny.
Both of them are breathing heavily, and everyone else seems to be holding theirs.
The doors to the auditorium burst open. “Groups ready?” the production assistant calls out, her gaze fixed on the clipboard she’s holding and completely oblivious to the spellbound people in the hallway—and the enchantment she has just broken.
Murmurs steadily arise among the crowd as they all disperse once more, and David can see the people blinking and visibly shaking themselves out of their stupor.
The boy jumps as a hand lays gently on his arm. “Let’s go?” she says brightly.
David watches the interaction before him with a grin. Of course it’s Brooke who takes care of him, even in this life.
The boy smiles at her and nods. Brooke beams and motions for them to go inside, and the boy moves to follow.
“Wait!”
David inhales deeply as the boy turns to face him once more, gazing up at him from beneath those unfairly long lashes.
“I…” David swallows. “I don’t even know your name.”
The boy tilts his head thoughtfully in a gesture that’s sharply familiar, and it sends a pang straight through Cook’s heart.
“You know who I am,” the boy says so softly that David knows he’s the only one who hears — and for the first time in this millennia of waiting, David’s soul has finally relearned how to sing.
The boy offers his hand. “David James Archuleta. At your service.”
And David steps forward, feeling like his heart is about to burst out of his chest—and return to its rightful owner.
“David Roland Cook. At yours.”
Their hands close over each other, and finally—
Finally, they’re home.
‘Hold on tight. And don’t let go.’