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Once upon a time (for time runs in all directions and to all places), there was a boy and a girl, brother and sister, who lived on a beautiful planet full of babbling brooks and tall, purple-green rakka trees, far from the center of the Empire.
When they were very young, their mother died of the Plague that traveled from world to world, despite everything the Emperor did to try to stop it. Their father, who had loved them both well, nevertheless could hardly stand to look at them after that; he had loved their mother so. They ran almost-wild in the forest that bounded their home, befriending the wild hekkae that roamed there, learning the ways of the razza, that flew in spirals on the Evening-Wind. They had only each other and the Forest, for their father was too bereaved to see to their education or anything else.
After some time, their father remarried. Their stepmother had grown up on the dry reddish-purple prappas fields of a distant planet, where you could see the magenta horizon from far away, and she loathed the Forest and the wild things that roamed there. Even more, she resented the boy and the girl. Every day, the boy grew to look more like his mother, who had the dark curls and darker eyes of her home planet. Every day, the girl grew to look more like their father, with green eyes and an untamed reddish-brown mane. Both of them had skin that glowed golden-tan. Together, they looked like their parents’ love made manifest. Their stepmother could hardly look upon them, and so, perhaps to justify her cruelty, she began finding fault in everything they did.
Their stepmother also had two children of her own, a girl and a boy. Though they were made very welcome, the stepsiblings were consumed with jealousy of their new brother and sister and uninterested in Nature in any form. They were ill-mannered and crude, and focused only on the latest fashions and fripperies from the central Empire. When the children tried to teach their stepsiblings about the Forest and its gentle magic, they shrieked in glee and mocked them unmercifully. “Magic, magic from a boring forest on a boring planet in a boring quadrant of the Empire!”
Furthermore, the stepsiblings resented leaving behind everything they knew to move to their new father’s home. They wasted no time in ridiculing their new brother and sister and making their lives as miserable as possible. They became increasingly bold as they saw how their new father paid little attention to what they did and said. There were so many little indignities they could wreak, from taking all the best cuts of meat to forcing the brother and sister to do not only their own work, but that of the stepsiblings as well (what little there was of it, for they were spoiled and indolent). Whenever the brother or sister complained, their father just laughed and called it typical sibling rivalry. The stepsiblings were careful to never get caught leaving nasty messages on the mirror shared by the brother and sister, nasty messes in their beds, or nasty surprises in their food bowls, nor in delivering the occasional slap or cuff or outright punch. Their stepmother grew ever more bold with her own fists as well.
~
After a span of time, things changed again, as they are wont to do.
“Brother,” said Catta quietly one day (for that was her name), “Brother, I believe Stepmother grows oddly kinder these past weeks. Our sister and brother also, as if they have been told to be gentler. And Father has become... oddly quiet.” Their father was usually bluff and hearty and never quiet. His grief over their mother, instead of making him withdraw, made him if anything more boisterous. It was only if you looked carefully at his eyes in unguarded moments that you could see the shadow there, for shadow there was.
Zakka (for that was his name) looked up from the drawing he was inking on his holopad, for he loved anything artistic and beautiful. “I have noticed it too, Catta. Perhaps the Forest works its magic on her.”
“Bah!” spat Catta, for she was fierce and wise beyond her years. “The only magic working on her is her own hatred of anyone not her. We must be wary.”
Zakka nodded, for he had always relied on Catta to take care of them, and she had rarely been wrong.
He made sure to stay very vigilant, laying out a rush mat on Catta’s bedroom floor rather than be away from her at night, watching the cooks carefully as they prepared meals, while he pretended to be absorbed in a book.
Catta for her part sharpened her knives and spent inordinate amounts of time practicing with the gruff armsmaster: energy weapons and sonic blasters, but handheld weapons too (pistols and garrotes and her favorite, knives). She became even more Zakka’s shadow, just as he had become hers, following in the bushes when he walked to and from the Scribe’s cabin for the surreptitious lessons he received (for their stepmother had stopped their lessons) and sitting on the edge of the stage carving a block of wood while Zakka directed the pantomime he’d written and then cast with local children.
Indeed it came to pass that their father, already wasted in figure compared to the strong, bluff man he had been, grew ill, then still more desperately ill, fighting for each breath, cheeks flame-red and eyes glazed. At the end he called for them, despite his pain. He could no longer speak, but he pushed something into Catta's hands, their Stepmother watching like a hawk from the corner. “This is nothing but a trinket,” Zakka said carefully, elbowing Catta to urge her to open her hands and show their Stepmother what she held, as if to say, nothing to see here, for it looked as if their Stepmother was about to snatch it away.
It was not merely a trinket, but it looked it: a small toy carved from the heart of a rakka tree. “Your mother...” their father gasped out with great effort, but even as he said it, the light went out of his eyes and he drew his last breath. Their stepmother made a sound that was relieved, and worse, triumphant. She called on the house guards and had the children locked into a cellar room, furnished with nothing but a bucket and two moth-eaten blankets. “Now you will learn your station,” she said.
Their oldest servant protested, but to no avail; he was stripped of his shirt and beaten almost unto death.
After that no one spoke for them, though at odd times an extra scrap of bread or cheese would be pressed into one of their hands. The children were set to work on the harshest tasks possible: scrubbing floors, cleaning out privies, pouring boiling liquid from the heavy cauldrons used for feasts. Any device that might have helped them communicate with the outside world was stripped from them.
Catta of course fought back, standing over her brother armed with nothing but a kitchen-spoon when the guards came for him to sluice out the gutters in the freezing winter wind. Their stepmother seemed almost to delight in Catta’s rebellion; it took six burly guards, but eventually of course Catta was made to kneel.
And so it looked like it would continue indefinitely, with the end result quite clear (their Stepmother was not quite bold enough to kill them outright, but deprivation would do the job in the end, and they had no way to communicate their plight to anyone, or anyone who would help them even if they did). But one clear, cold day, the sound of space-drives resounded in the air. The drivel usually playing on the holoscreens was interrupted; the Emperor’s son, the Prince, was come to visit. Some had vaguely heard of the Prince’s quest to find a suitable mate to return with him as Princess (Empress eventually), but no one had ever thought he would come to this backwater planet. A few whispered that the Emperor’s sister also sought a mate, but no one even knew what she looked like, as she had been gone for years, doing academic studies in the borderlands at the edges of the Empire.
The entire city was abuzz with the news of the Masked Ball the Prince had ordered. The proclamation had gone out: all of-age persons of noble blood from anywhere on the planet must attend, masked as was proper for such an occasion, under royal penalty. More rumors circulated as to why, but the servants’ gossip, which was always the most reliable, said his father had laid down the law: Prince Kevvas must wed within the year, and furthermore must visit this planet in particular before making his choice. No one could say with certainty why the latter requirement, but there were rumors that an old crone in the Empress’s service said it must be so, and the Emperor, respecting the Mother-magic he had been taught in his youth, listened.
“Oh! Only imagine, Sister, how beautiful everyone’s clothing will be! The silks and feathers and leathers and laces and all,” Zakka sighed, late at night in their dank room. “And the music and dancing... it will be so beautiful. Do you suppose they brought their own musicians?”
Catta did not answer, but just paced the width of the cell over and over as she did every night, trying not to notice how her strength was diminished from just a few weeks prior.
“Why do you think the Prince has asked for everyone to come? Do you think he wishes to find true love despite the circumstances? What do you think he will wear?”
“Hush,” Catta said, practicing her martial arts exercises as best she could. “Little good these questions will do us, stuck here like this, while our stepsister and stepbrother fall all over themselves trying to get ready to meet the Prince. ”
And indeed, their stepsiblings did spend every waking moment from the announcement in preparation for the Ball. They forced Zakka to design them new clothing: a dress for their stepsister and a skintight leather suit for their stepbrother (the very idea offended Zakka, but three nights of no supper did the trick). They made him design and create adornments as well; hats and jewelry and ribbons, then sew them himself until his fingers bled. They forced Catta to wait on their other needs, all the while berating her looks, her intelligence, her carriage, her prospects.
The day finally came that the entire planet was anticipating, and the sound of sonic cannons and the sight of blaster-displays rent the air. The Emperor’s son was come, and he would meet all eligible nobles that night.
Their stepmother did the honors herself, locking Catta and Zakka into their basement room, but not until they’d been forced to dress both her and their stepsiblings, for of course their stepmother was attending also, attired in a garish purple outfit.
Once again their stepmother took away their evening ration, for an imagined slight to the stepsiblings.
At the end, Zakka begged. “Please, we are noble too, and by royal decree we are to--”
Their stepmother slapped him, so hard that, weak as he was from no suppers, he staggered back and fell onto the floor. Catta surged forward, but Zakka put out a restraining hand and whispered, “Please, Catta, No!,” for he had seen what happened when Catta defied their Stepmother.
“It’s not right, Ma’am,” their old nurse said bravely. “The Emperor’s decree called for all nobles in the right age group. All.”
Their Stepmother’s face turned even paler than before, as she backhanded their nurse viciously across her lined face. “Lock her up in the other room,” she ordered the other servants. “I will deal with her when I return.”
Zakka and Catta for their part heard the locks click shut, and then an extra chain wrapped around the door. They could vaguely hear the sound of preparations in the distance: their stepsister’s high-pitched giggle, their stepbrother’s imperious shout. Soon they heard the sound of the family’s best car, then silence.
Truly, things were dire.
Zakka curled under the ragged blanket and was silent while Catta prowled the small perimeter of their prison. They had neither of them given in to despair, not in all this time, despite the burden of everything that had happened to them, but despair was close in this moment.
Catta paced, fury growing in heart, for she hated to see her kind brother laid so low. She had sworn to their mother she would protect him, sworn it on her death bed, yet here they were. Their mother...
As if in sync with the direction of Catta’s thoughts, Zakka spoke into his folded arms. “If only our mother were here, she would help us.”
Catta huffed out a gasp of air, for she had just remembered the rakka-charm. She didn’t know why she had forgotten it, but she went over to the bundle of rags in which she kept her hairbrush and some personal items and retrieved it, the small carving made out of rakka-heart. She walked over to where Zakka was and pressed her hand gently on his head, brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Look, Zakka,” she said softly, in the tones she used only with those she loved best. “We have something of mother still.”
They slowly unwrapped the small figure made out of turqoise-brown rakka heartwood from its wrappings of leaves. Even in the dingy light of their prison, it had a faint glow that reminded one of the Forest at twilight.
“Not that it will do any good,” Catta said, “though I will admit, it is beautiful.”
“Glad you think so,” said a voice, neither male nor female.
Catta and Zakka looked a question at each other: Do you hear it too?
But even then, a shape formed in the air, most visible where the room was darkest: a small body that in different lights looked male or female, with large wings. Indeed, it was a Forest fairy, summoned through the power of the rakka-wood carving, a fairy in the form fairies take on that world (for fairies, even more than most things, take on the characteristics of their surroundings). This fairy was greenish-brown and clothed in tiny green and gold clothing. Its wings beat so fast they looked like spun gold.
“Your mother’s love, and mother love, bring me,” the fairy said (though no sound was heard aloud in the room). “For you have done well, children, caring for each other as she wished. And now you shall get your wish and attend the Ball, suitably attired as the nobles and Forest children you are.”
No sooner had the fairy said it than it was so: they each were clothed in rich fabrics and jewels, their hair and faces clean and shiny, with beautiful embroidered masks on their faces to cover their features.
Zakka gasped and ran his now-ringed hand over the plush velour of his breeches, then down to his boots. Wondering, he looked a question at the fairy.
“Indeed your clothing is patterned after the designs you made when you were a child, that you still make in your imagination now.”
Zakka noted the intricate stitching and layering and beading of the boots; vibrant but yet tasteful, something daring and never seen on this world, or any other to his knowledge. All of his clothes were thus: luxuriant and colorful but not garish, form-fitting but elegant. “They’re beautiful!” he breathed. “Sister, what are you--” He stopped short, eyes wide.
Catta stood with her hands on her hips glaring at the fairy, for she was attired in a pink garment with multiple skirts and a bodice with a plunging neckline, sky-high heels and jewelry everywhere. “No,” she said, in the tone that brooked no argument.
The fairy laughed, a sound like bells tinkling. “For so your mother would say of you; ‘My Catta, not some shrinking girl with a head full of air.’ Though she did occasionally wish you would wear a skirt.”
“How did you--Oh!” Catta’ said, for in an instant, her attire had turned instead into a grey-green outfit that mimicked a skirt from a distance, but split into two legs like trousers. It was somehow feminine but in a way that spoke of strength, allowing her curves to show yet emphasizing her athleticism.
“Your car awaits. Go, enjoy. Let the Magic work.” The fairy blinked out of sight, but its voice followed them as the door sprang open despite its locks and chains. “But heed this warning: at midnight by the Third Moon, all will fade away, including the car, so be sure you leave before that. And, so you know, telling people of your plight tonight will be to no avail, so simply attend and enjoy.”
There was much Zakka and Catta would have wished to talk about, but the sleek hovercar, dark brown like the thickest trees in the Forest, was so rapid they arrived at the Ball in no time.
A low murmur started when brother and sister walked in, then a surge of conversation, for no one recognized the pair, attired as they were and masked. Indeed they stood out against the crowd of noblemen and women who were dressed the same as each other, Katta in one way and Zakka in another.
They caught the eye of the Prince, also, who was momentarily dazzled by their beauty. Or rather, the beauty of one of them. The Prince approached them, sparing no looks for anyone else in the ballroom. He bowed before them and requested a dance with Catta, as he must, but his eyes were always on Zakka.
“You can relax,” Catta said under her breath. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s royal wife. I came because of my brother.” She watched the Prince carefully and indeed, his cheeks stained pink.
“Your brother...” the Prince started, then caught himself and stopped.
Catta smiled, for the Prince sounded a little scared, and not afraid to let it show.
“My brother... enjoys music and dance and fine clothing. He has had a hard life and I wanted him to--” Catta stopped herself.
“You are a loyal sister,” the Prince murmured, as he twirled Catta in time with the music. “We do have the Reverse coming up, you don’t suppose he’d...”
“I don’t have to suppose. He has been staring at you gape-mouthed since we got here.”
“Thank you. For, for...” The Prince grimaced. "Being kind to me."
“By the way,” Catta said, “Are you aware that there are at least four men here tonight with daggers hidden on their person? Not the costume kind.”
The Prince’s hands on Catta tightened and his mouth went grim. “Knew of three. Damn it.” He shook himself. “Uh, sorry for the language.”
Catta laughed. “My Prince, my wet nurse cursed more broadly than that. And besides, I am not exactly a typical woman.”
“I can see that.” The Prince grinned at Catta, then his eyes roamed briefly over the crowd behind her and the grin turned fierce. “Ah! The gentleman in purple, I should have known.”
“Then you are not just an ornament,” Catta said. “I see you have intelligence and ability.”
“How kind of you,” the Prince said evenly.
“Oh! Oh, I’ve done it, haven’t I, been terribly offensive. I do apolo--”
“No, no,” the Prince laughed. “I crave comments like this. I hate all the sycophants, trust me. And as a matter of fact, I could use a counselor like you.” He looked thoughtful, then shook himself and signalled to his Captain of the Guard, who flushed and apologized once he knew why he was summoned, then dispatched guards to handle the man who carried a dagger hidden on his person.
Before Catta could say anything more, or ascertain whether the Prince was joking, as he must be, but still, what if he was not-- if he was not, she could protect Zakka once again, she could perhaps, maybe someday, travel (travel to distant places being a secret wish of her heart) -- but in any case, there could be no more conversation, for the chimes for the Reverse rang, meaning it must be close on Midnight, for the Reverse was always held a few minutes before that hour. All the gentlemen and ladies tittered, as the Reverse was an occasion for much merriment.
Catta’s eyes had fixed for some time on a gorgeous, tall dark girl with raven locks, who wore huntress green. The girl had been eyeing Catta and the Prince as well, her eyes sharp on the Prince. At times Catta had thought perhaps the girl’s gaze strayed to Catta, but that must be impossible. Undoubtedly she was looking for her chance with the Prince, but... For just this dance, ladies danced with ladies and gentlemen with gentlemen. The Reverse happened only twice a year, at the solstice, and provided laughs for months and months.
“If you will excuse me,” the Prince said, and approached Zakka, who lifted his face and smiled in his direction. “If you would possibly. That is, if you--”
“The honor is mine, My Lord,” said Zakka, coming easily into the Prince’s arms. His movements were lithe, as always, and he knew that the fairy magic had temporarily taken away the effects of the deprivation he had suffered. They moved together unconsciously, fitting together perfectly, the tall, athletic Prince and the slender, graceful Zakka.
Various people around the ballroom laughed as the odd couples hammed it up, affecting mincing gestures on the part of the men, and masculine affectations on the part of the ladies. The Prince did none of that, holding Zakka’s hand and grasping his hip easily enough. “You. You move with grace,” the Prince said in low tones. “Not that--I know this is a joke, of course.”
“Of course. But if this were not a joke, I would say to you that you move with athleticism and power, and that it is rare indeed that my sister speaks to a man -- to any person -- for more than a few seconds. Indeed you must be intelligent to merit her attention that long, no matter your importance.”
The Prince’s hands on Zakka tightened slightly. “If you are anything like your sister, then perhaps despite the beauty of your ornaments you have a head filled with more than simpering idiocy.”
Zakka laughed, head thrown back. It felt... like he hadn’t laughed in a long time, which was true.
“Oh, there I go. I have a mouth like, well. My father and mother always say I will be lucky to find a, uh, wife, despite my rank, because I have a mouth like, like, well.” The Prince’s mouth turned down.
“Well,” Zakka said, pressing himself boldly forward a bit more into the Prince’s arms. “It is lucky for you that I appreciate men, er, people with sharp tongues, so long as they have the wits to match them.”
The Prince’s head snapped up, for Zakka was dancing so close now, it was almost as if, as if... “Are you,” he started to ask, breathy, but caught himself in time and didn’t finish the question.
Zakka looked up then, caught by something in the Prince’s tone and the way his fingers curled around his hip and shoulder. The Prince was the only one not masked at the Ball, for such was the way of it, so Zakka could see his deep-brown eyes staring down at him, see an expression like want cross his face. Boldly then -- for Zakka despite his artistry was as brave as his sister -- Zakka tipped his head up a fraction, so their mouths were but a breath apart. “Were this not a mockery,” Zakka said low, “I might consider you fascinating and handsome to boot, and I might think how your mouth is... right there.”
The Prince shivered and clutched Zakka harder. “And were this not a mockery,” the Prince replied, voice husky, “I might consider how it would be if I were to lean in just a fraction and press our mouths together, were I lucky enough to find you willing.”
Zakka swayed closer to the Prince, and things might have taken a very public turn had there not been an interruption. For a shout came from close by, a nobleman yelling at a servant, who cowered a few feet away. “Pick it up, you clumsy hag. Were we not at a noble function I would teach you your lesson right now. Instead we will do it at home where I can beat you senseless.”
The old servant shook, but bent to pick up the glass that had shattered.
Zakka didn’t even think, but, fleet of foot as always, interposed himself between the servant and the shards of glass. “No need, Grandmother,” Zakka said. “I will clean this up.” For Zakka had had his fill of bullies for a lifetime, and besides, his mother had taught him and Catta well that servants were to be treated with respect. Not to mention, old women.
The Prince watched, face neutral, while Zakka swept the shards of glass up, then rose gracefully and bowed deeply to the servant woman and then -- to barely the depth required for it not to be an insult -- to the nobleman.
The nobleman sputtered and turned red and opened his mouth to say something disparaging to Zakka, for Zakka was slight and dressed in fanciful clothing and was not identifiable as from any of the important noble families. The nobleman’s hand went for Zakka’s mask, which he started to rip away so he could know who had offended him so.
Before he could make good on the attempt, however, the Prince said, “Hold!”
The nobleman dropped his hand, looking furious, but then a hush fell over the room, for the Prince had advanced on Zakka with warmth in his eyes and was speaking. “Truly you are of noble disposition,” he said, loud and clear for the whole room to hear. “For as it is said, the way one treats those less powerful than oneself is the mark of a man.”
“Indeed,” Zakka said, looking back at the Prince significantly.
The Prince flushed, then covered it by looking Zakka up and down as if concerned he’d been harmed. “Your boot is unlaced,” he said, and then knelt in front of Zakka, gathering up his lacings.
The entire hall was full of gasps and exclamations and whispers, for it was scandalous, the Prince (and future Emperor) kneeling before some common noble, who perhaps wasn’t even a noble, for who was he anyway? No one knew him.
“I will never be ashamed to kneel to help a worthy person,” the Prince said quietly but firmly, while Zakka stared down on him in wonder. Wonder and, and--
Their eyes caught and each flushed at their positions. Zakka’s hands, that had found their way to the Prince’s beautiful dark hair, tightened fractionally in his curls. The Prince’s hands, that somehow had ended up on Zakka’s thighs, grasped harder. Zakka’s breaths grew faster, as did the Prince’s. Pitching his voice carefully to a timbre he knew no one else could hear except the Prince, Zakka took a deep breath and whispered, “I would kneel before you in a different way, my Lord.” He added, his heart tripping like a brook in the Forest,“If you. That is, if you...”
“And I you,” the Prince whispered back, eyes hot on Zakka.
Just then, the giant ornamental clock chimed the hour: one minute until Midnight.
“Brother,” Catta said, suddenly at Zakka’s side.
“What,” Zakka said, eyes still locked with the Prince.
“Midnight approaches. We must depart.”
Suffice it to say, it took Catta practically dragging Zakka away to get him to leave, the Prince protesting and, at the end, asking for at least a way to contact Zakka again. But Catta got Zakka away just in time, which meant there was no time for tallking or anything at all. It was only when they were back in the car, racing towards their home, that they realized that Zakka’s lacing was missing, the special delicate braid of his own design, that used brightly colored lengths of silk all twisted together with feathers and beads and jewels. For the Prince had still been tying his boot when Zakka ran away, and so the lace had come loose into his hand.
Zakka and Katta’s clothes disentegrated as the seconds ticked off. The car took less than no time (as it was magical of course) so they arrived home just at Midnight. They could hardly bear to look upon each other, so great was the difference in their appearance, and so smitten were their hearts to see the other laid so low again.
That night, they each tossed and turned a very long time, thinking about the person they had danced with. Zakka we know about already, but Catta too had had a memorable dance, with the raven-haired beauty who had eyed the Prince so intensely. The girl was smart (very smart, with advanced degrees), and funny, and she had fit in Catta’s arms perfectly. “You are so strong,” she had whispered at one point, into Catta’s ear. “I can feel it.”
It had made Catta oddly tongue-tied, but she’d managed to respond: “And you so beautiful.” For Catta was never one to hide, well, much of anything.
“Oh,” the girl had said. “Oh. I think I’m going to be glad to have met you,” she said, pushing herself forward to press subtly up against Catta along the length of their bodies
.
Catta flushed, for though she knew what she wanted, she was inexperienced. “I’m not actually very--”
“I’m sure you could handle me just fine,” Avvas (for that was her name) said.
Catta felt the jut of Avvas’s breasts and the lushness of her thighs against her and felt a rush of passion for this bold girl who looked like a queen on the outside but was funny and warm and brave. “Maybe I could, indeed,” she said, letting her fingers roam over the seam of Avvas’s bodice.
Avvas laughed and Catta felt her mouth turn up involuntarily into a smile. She immediately frowned, because she did not as a rule smile at all, let alone to strangers. This made Avvas laugh more, with twinkling eyes like she understood what Catta was thinking. “I’m sorry if I broke a frowning record for you or something,” she said, eyes dancing.
Catta shook her head, battling yet another smile. “Why would I smile looking upon you?”
“Why indeed,” Avvas said in a sultry voice, low in a way that shivered up Catta’s spine. “Oh, crap,” Avvas said in a different voice, full of intelligent awareness.
Catta turned to where Avvas had been looking and took in the scene -- her brother on the floor, the angry nobleman. She tensed and moved instantly into a combat stance without thinking, Avvas shoved behind her.
“That was incredible and very arousing,” Avvas whispered in Catta’s ear, “but. Wait yet a moment to see what my brother will do...”
“Your brother!” Catta exclaimed, while at the same moment the Prince knelt in front of her own brother and chaos ensued in the ballroom.
That was when the clock struck and Catta had known there was but a minute until they were ragged and covered in dirt, faces bare for all to see. She had remembered the fairy’s warning and knew that nothing would stop time and magic. She considered throwing themselves on the Prince’s mercy against their Stepmother, but had thought on what they would look like without the magic, had thought of what it would likely mean to violate the terms of the fairy’s gift.
“I’m sorry,” she had yelled back to Avvas even as she ran towards Zakka, then grabbed him and forced him away.
Now, lying on her pallet in their rank prison -- for prison it was -- Catta allowed herself to sigh.
“She is very beautiful,” Zakka whispered from where he lay.
Catta huffed out a laugh. Of course her brother had seen, and knew, just as she had seen him with the Prince, and had known.
“Catta fancies someone,” Zakka singsonged in the taunt of their youth.
“Takes one to know one,” Catta said, smiling despite everything. “And go to sleep. For tomorrow dawns soon.”
~
The very next day, the Prince sent out proclamations throughout the land, asking for whoever had danced and spoken with him the night of the Ball to come forward. His heralds had the brightly-colored lace from Zakka’s shoe to serve as a kind of check. The story was put forth that the lace would lead to the man who was brother to the lady the Prince sought. “The man with the matching lace is the man I seek,” the Prince announced. “Or his sister, whose raiment looked like a forest just before dusk.”
Of course, they had no way to respond to the proclamation. These days they were locked up almost around the clock, and if not, were under constant guard.
The stepsiblings eagerly set to scheming. For since the Prince had not seen the face of either party, they thought it would be easy to fool him. They cackled together over their scheme, then set Zakka to work making the stepsister a garment the color of the Forest, and the stepbrother lacings of brightly-colored silk. Zakka was so dispirited by this point that he simply did as they bade, though someone with a sharp eye might see that these garments did not have the sense of rightness that the ones his imagination (and the fairy) had conjured up a few nights before. And indeed, since the garments did not fit the personalities of their wearers, they seemed oddly off to even a fairly casual observer. Normally this would chafe at Zakka’s heart, for he created things that flowed from the inward heart of a person. But now, all he did was sigh and bend to the task.
Catta for her part spent a lot of time pacing and thinking. She brought out the rakka-wood charm many times, trying to get the fairy to reappear, or, short of that, trying to obtain some sign as to how to improve their situation. But it remained a block of wood.
~
Eventually the day came when the Prince’s representatives came to their estate. The stepbrother and stepsister presented themselves in their garments, and they were taken to the Prince.
“Oh, great Prince,” the stepsister said. “We are most honored that you called for us.”
The Prince raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” Clearly, this was not the sharply honest and non-sycophantic girl he had so enjoyed conversing with at the Ball.
“Yes, my sister has done nothing but pine for you ever since the Ball,” their stepbrother said.
“I see,” the Prince said, slouching dejectedly in his chair. He laughed unhappily to himself. “And how have you felt, since our encounter?” he asked the stepbrother, for the Prince was not above having sport with someone who had tried to take advantage of him.
“Fine? I, uh, made some more of those lacings, you see,” he said, pointing to his boots.
“Indeed,” the Prince said. “Then you will be so kind as to make another set now for me,” and he called for his servants to bring the materials. For even though the Prince was a kind man, he could be cruel when people tried to fool him. “And as for you,” he said to the stepsister, “you will proceed to arms practice with my Guard.”
Of course the stepbrother and sister protested and tried excuse after excuse, to no avail. The Prince eventually sent them away in disgust, and published a warning to anyone else who would try to trick him.
And he did one more thing as well, for he was far from an ornamental prince.
So it was that when the stepbrother and stepsister got home, and their mother greeted them with caustic words about their failure to snag the Prince, tracker-bots surrounded the property until the Prince himself and his Guard could arrive. For the Prince had noticed that while the stepbrother’s lacings seemed ill-fitted to his personality, and the stepsister’s forest-green oddly nauseating against her coloring, they still had a distinctive style and mark of artistry about them. And so his heart had surged with hope.
“Search the premises,” the Prince said curtly, and search they did, despite the wailings of the stepsiblings and the protests of the stepmother. Still, the basement room was hidden behind a false wall, and the Guard did not find it.
“Nothing, Your Highness,” the Captain of the Guard reported to the Prince.
The Prince bowed his head and sighed. He had thought that perhaps, finally, he had found--
He bit his lip and straightened his back, for a Prince must never show grief or uncertainty at such a thing. “We will leave,” he said.
Fortunately, the magic of the universe is stronger than even the schemes of a hardened heart. For down in their dank basement prison, the little charm of rakka-wood came suddenly alive in Catta’s hand, where she had clutched it all night with the remnants of faith. It filled the dark room with a lovely green light. “Brother,” Catta whispered. “Brother, look.”
Zakka stirred, bleary from hunger and exhaustion, but he smiled seeing the light, for it reminded him of their mother.
“There is something we must do,” Catta said. “This is telling us so. But what?”
“Well, it is rakka-heart, from a mother-tree. Perhaps we must think of our mother, and our dear departed father.”
“Think, yes, but what else...”
Then Zakka, moved as always when thinking of their mother, began to sing, a simple song from her people that they had learned in childhood and that she sang often when going about her day. For it was she from whom he had inherited his love of beautiful things. His voice started out reedy and small, but soon grew clear and strong, seeming to intertwine with the light now beaming even more strongly from the charm. They could almost see fairy-wings in the air, almost feel the presence of magic, the strongest kind, the kind that grows from love.
Catta, deeply moved (for though she was strong of body and spirit she had a loving heart), joined in with her contralto.
Together their voices intermixed and blended and then soared, out through the dank wall and the chains and then the false wall, then even through the hallways until they reached the Prince’s ear.
“At once,” he ordered his Guard, and he himself led them to the basement, and used his axe to splinter the chains they found behind the false wall.
The Prince’s face contorted with emotion when he saw them.
Zakka momentarily felt shame that this should be the way the Prince first saw him unmasked, covered in filth and wearing rags, pale and thin with deprivation. But it was only for a moment, and then he straightened and held his head high and put his hand on Catta’s shoulder for mutual strength. “My Prince,” Zakka said formally, waiting for the Prince to ride away now he had seen.
Of course the Prince (being a true Prince) did no such thing, but strode forward until he was close enough to touch them and raised his hand. As if without conscious volition, his fingers cupped Zakka’s face gently. “Oh, you are--” he said wonderingly. “Oh! Oh, my apologies,” he said then, suddenly realizing what his hand was doing.
“No need to apologize,” Zakka said, grabbing the Prince’s hand back and pressing his face against it. “For I, I--”
Just then there was a loud stir and a blur of movement and sound; Avvas, who had followed her brother, assuming he would need consolation after his fool’s errand. She was brought up short at the sight before her; her eyes darted from her brother and Zakka, who were staring into each other’s eyes, to Catta, standing tall and proud next to them in her bedraggled attire. “Oh,” Avvas said. “Oh. She reached a hand to Catta as if compelled, which Catta grabbed onto. “I thought I would never find you again.”
“Now that you have found me, whatever are you going to do with me?” Catta asked huskily.
Avvas' smile was like the sun coming out after Winterdark. “I think between us, we can figure it out,” she said.
And they did.
Oh, it took a while, for there were legalities and details to work out.
But before long, the planet (and the Empire itself) rang out with the news: there was to be a royal wedding.
Actually, two royal weddings.
Catta, being the smartest of them all and also a strategist, was the first one who figured it out. Once she said it, it became obvious; who should marry as far as the public was concerned, and who would actually be married to whom.
So Catta became formally the wife of the Prince, meaning she would be Empress one day. She was indeed the counselor and friend he had always wanted, and became a legend for her own peacemaking missions, which much of the time involved daggers and blasters and daring exploits, but often included diplomacy and persuasion, for she was gifted in all those things. She loved travelling throughout the worlds, and loved just as much or more coming home.
The Prince’s sister for her part became wife in name to Zakka, and they spent many a happy hour designing beautiful things to enrich people’s lives: pottery and glass and fabric, but also music on the special computers made just for composing.
That was their public side. But when they were not before the public, the Prince and Zakka were as one, as were Avvas and Catta. The Prince and Zakka for their part continued as they had begun; having eyes only for each other and delighting in each other’s mind and heart and body. Zakka proved a wise counselor himself, and ensured that the Empire encouraged kindness and beauty in all things. The Princess and Catta grew ever more close as well. Sometimes the Princess would accompany Catta on her less-dangerous missions, and they would grin at each other, flying low over helium-plant fields or gaping ice chasms full of frost-snakes or simply over tables in rustic inns on backwater planets.
Rumors spread around the Empire, as rumors always will. At first the Prince said nothing in response, for the Empire had been in a long period of traditionalism.
But as time went on, and as royal children were produced (for fairy magic did one last thing, creating life in the wombs of Catta and the Princess that mixed their genes with those of their husbands), the Prince grew unhappy at the deception. Eventually, he made it known who his real love was, and whose was that of his sister. When he did, Zakka smiled a special smile at him, for it was brave of him indeed.
It has been true through all of time: people follow strong leaders, and the people did follow the Prince (now Emperor) in this, though in some cases haltingly. There was a flowering of possibilities throughout the worlds, as people were free to consider their true hearts.
Most of the time, all four of them were in residence on the Empire’s central planet. But every year, they all came back Catta and Zakka's planet, and the estate they still held there. Always, they traveled first to the heart of the Forest to give thanks to the ancient magic. Catta still carried the rakka-charm close to her breast, and both she and Zakka taught their children the songs and kindness of the forest-magic.
They did not visit their stepmother and stepsiblings, but they did check on their welfare, for of course the moment it had become clear they were found out, they had all fallen to their knees and begged the forgiveness of Catta and Zakka. Catta was not keen to do so; indeed, Zakka had to restrain her from drawing a sword. “She was wife to our father,” he said quietly. “The ways of magic are complex; do not add any more grief to that which has already occurred.” Eventually they found their stepmother and stepsiblings a clean, simple home back in the region their stepmother had come from, and provided them a small but adequate living. They never saw them again, though. On that they were agreed.
As in all such tales, they all lived happily ever after. Not to say that life did not throw sorrows in their way, for such is life. But each day together was a joy for the Prince and Zakka, and for Catta and the Princess, as they never forgot how rare and indeed magical their finding each other was. As they grew in their love, they were gratified to see other couples like them spring up like new growth in a forest all throughout the Empire.
And if you visit the Forest on the planet of Catta and Zakka’s birth, perchance you might see the rakka-tree, whose heart runs warm with mother-love, the source of much magic even to this day.
For time runs in all directions and to all places, and so does love.
~~The End~~