Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Prince is running for his life.

When Alces had burst into his bedchambers in the dark of night, the Prince’s first naive thought was guilt at being caught up late reading. After Mister Russell had put him to bed, the Prince had affected sleep until the eugief silently slipped back to the servant quarters. The Prince had waited with careful, measured breathing until he couldn’t hear the retreating footsteps anymore, and then waited a bit longer still, as he knew a eugief’s hearing far outstripped his own. Then he carefully slid out of bed, bunched a thin blanket beneath the bedroom door to block the telltale light, and lit his bedside candle. So equipped, he had opened up his favorite book to secretly read by candlelight, hoping he could finish the current chapter before one of his guards came to check on him and caught him in the act. The risk of getting caught made it all the more thrilling, and well worth the many scoldings he’s received for it.

But Alces did not scold him, or confiscate his book which the Prince guiltily held against his chest. Alces didn’t seem to register any of that at all as he slammed the door open with an urgent order to “run, Your Highness!” Alces grabbed the Prince’s thin wrist and dragged him out into the hall. The Prince didn’t even have time to dress properly in an overcoat or shoes, instead being dragged out into the hallway in his nightwear, his free hand still reflexively clutching the heavy book even as Alces picked up the pace into a full-on sprint.

The Prince doesn’t understand what is happening. Why are they running, what is wrong? He wants to ask, but he is already struggling for air as he matches the brutal pace on his own smaller legs. Alces seems deathly serious, and it’s scaring him. As they rounded a corner, the Prince realizes he can hear other noises too, over his too-loud heartbeat. More footsteps and clanging armor, distant but getting closer.

All of a sudden, Alces lets go of the Prince’s wrist and swings his blade behind them, making contact with a stranger wearing a full face mask. The stranger is wielding a sword, and is frozen mid-thrust as Alces skewers them on his blade. The Prince looks on in horror and dawning realization as he realizes that thrust was aimed at him. The stranger had been trying to stab him.

“Don’t stop, keep running!” urges Alces as he tugs his blade free, allowing the body to fall lifeless to the ground.

Keep running where? The Prince can hardly think straight, fixated on the sight of blood. His mind conjures a different scene, full of smoke and death as his home had burned. There’d been blood there, too, so much blood. But as Alces starts down the hallway again, the Prince reflexively follows after, his feet moving without conscious input from his mind.

Yet in the blink of an eye, there are more strangers, more assailants in matching cloaks and masks, and this time they come from both sides. Alces moves to intercept the attacks, and the Prince can only look on helplessly, reflexively clutching his book to his chest as if it could offer any real form of protection against a blade.

The Prince wishes, not for the first time, that he was not so weak. If he’d only taken more readily to Alces’s swordsmanship training which the king had only recently arranged. If he’d been able to learn some of his mother’s magic tricks. If he were a bit older, maybe, and had done more things, maybe he wouldn’t be so helpless, able only to stand fearfully and watch and be protected.

He sees another figure charging straight for him, and Alces is still so far away. The Prince can only watch on and wonder if this is it. If he’s going to die here, after only six years of life, never getting to go on any adventures, never becoming the kind of brave hero he’d aspired to be. It is too cruel. He is afraid. He doesn’t want it to end like this.

In that moment, the book he clutches desperately in his hands begins to emit a faint light. He doesn’t have a chance to register this, though, as at the same time a hand pushes him bodily out of the way, throwing him to his knees and knocking his book to the ground. When he looks up, the Prince sees Dame Hulkenberg has blocked the assailant’s weapon with her own. She’d been the one who had pushed him to safety. He almost died. He could have died.

The Prince is afraid, he’s so afraid, but he knows there’s nothing wrong with being afraid. His anxiety is because he doesn’t want to die. It is this conviction that keeps him going, even when his mother died and his home burned and he was practically locked up in his large chambers to be kept in secrecy by a father he’s barely seen. He doesn’t want to die, but what can he do?

He thinks of all the adventures he imagined, and the brave hero from those adventures, and he knows that hero would be able to fight back. He wishes, he just wishes…

There’s a light coming from the ground near him, around where the book fell, but there’s also sudden movement from the nearest hallway. A magician. There’s a magician swinging an igniter towards him and somehow the Prince knows he’s not going to make it as dark thorns rush towards him. As he faces his death, he feels more anxiety than ever before in his life.

Except something strange happens, and suddenly he feels a bit less anxious, as if that feeling has been siphoned off somehow.

Which is strange, because the thorns are still coming for him, he’s still about to die. Is this some strange instinct of acceptance, allowing him peace in his final moments? If so, he doesn’t want it. He’d rather struggle just a bit longer, so he could tell his mother he really tried the best he could.

And then a heartbeat later he’s not going to die, because suddenly there’s another person between him and the thorns. But it’s not Alces or Hulkenberg. It’s a man with blue hair and a white coat, holding a sword at the ready. The Prince has never seen this man before in his life, but at the same time he knows him intimately, because he’s featured heavily in all of his favorite daydreams. He knows that if this man turns around he will have super-cool mismatched eye color, like his favorite stray cat that had lived in their village, with one being a vibrant gold and the other a cool blue. He knows this man is a brave hero who’s been through all sorts of adventures, and so he can definitely save him now. He knows this man’s name.

“Will!” he calls excitedly to his daydream made manifest.

In his periphery Alces and Hulkenberg both react with confusion to this outburst, and to the appearance of a new person from seemingly nowhere, but the Prince doesn’t care, doesn’t register them at all, his full attention fixed on the coolest thing that’s ever happened to him.

The thorns rush toward his hero, who holds his sword in a parry as if to block an ordinary strike. And the dark curse magic may as well be an ordinary strike to him, as it ricochets off the blade’s surface, repelled by magla so potent that it’s visible as a white glow of enchantment around the blade. The thorns dissolve into nothing, leaving his hero unharmed.

The glow fades from the book at his feet. The glow of Will’s sword doesn’t fade, shining brighter than a torch in the otherwise dark hallways. It illuminates him as he stands ready to take on any attackers, invincible and untouchable.

The Prince is enamored. This is his ideal, yet seeing it in reality outstrips even the ideal itself, a reality surpassing fantasy. He picks up his book and stands shakily to his feet, his heart beating fast for an entirely different reason than before.

The assailants know they can’t win, and so they run away back to wherever they came from. Hulkenberg gives chase, but Will just stands there sword at the ready, making no move to follow. When it’s clear that the enemies aren’t coming back, he lets out a sigh and sheaths his weapon. He turns to turn the Prince for the first time, and his eyes are exactly as dramatic as he knew they’d be. His brow is furrowed in some unknown, probably profound thought. The Prince is so excited his heart might burst.

Behind him, Alces growls and points his sword at Will. “Who are you? Name yourself!”

“...Grius?” Will utters breathlessly.

The Prince can’t hold it in any longer. “That’s Will! He’s a brave hero who’s traveled all over the world helping people! Like in my book!”

Both Alces and Will look a bit taken aback by the introduction, but the Prince can’t help himself. He’s just so excited to meet his hero here in the real world! It’s like a dream! Oh no, what if he is dreaming? He hopes he’s not, or if he is, that he can have this dream every night! He’d even go to bed exactly when he’s supposed to and never stay up reading if he could dream something like this!

Alces looked at Will warily, relaxing his sword but not lowering it entirely. “Is this true?”

Will’s gaze keeps switching between the Prince and Alces, as if he can’t decide where to look. It seems to take him a moment to direct his attention fully to Alces and stumble through an answer. “Ah, um. I mean. That’s… all true. I guess.” He seems a bit out of it, but the Prince supposes that even for a hero who’s been all over the world it might be a bit surprising to suddenly come out of a book and into a castle.

“Hm,” Alces grunted noncommittally. “And how did you get here all of a sudden, Will?” he asked with a hard edge to his tone.

Will looks a bit troubled at this question, hesitating before admitting, “I’m not sure.”

The Prince hurriedly speaks up to explain, “I brought him here! I made a wish on my book!”

Alces doesn’t look appeased at this, although Will’s expression smooths out from troubled into something more thoughtful, so the Prince is glad he spoke up.

Alces stares intensely at Will, who raises his chin to meet his gaze head on. They sustain eye contact for what feels like a very long time. Finally, Alces lets out a sigh, his whole body slumping a bit as if the sigh took all his energy with it. “Fine. I, Arvid Alces, sincerely thank you for saving His Highness’s life. Things might have ended very differently if not for you.” He leans down to pick up the Prince, who reluctantly allows the hold and grabs Alces’s shoulder for support. It takes him further from Will, but also brings him up to eye level with him, so it’s nice. And now that he’s had a moment, he realizes his legs are very, very tired.

“It’s late. We’ll discuss more in the morning. You’ll stay the night in the barracks with the guardsmen,” Alces tells Will. He does not pose it as a request. “I’ll have someone guide you there.”

Will nods in consent, and maybe he says something back, but if so the Prince doesn’t hear it. He realizes, as he closes his eyes and drifts off against Alces’s chest, that maybe all of him is very, very tired.

Chapter Text

Will is confused. Possibly more confused than he’s ever been, even when he had two identity crises on the same day. Because even then there’d been some coherent cause and effect going on.

Will doesn’t know what caused this. Because he’d just been wandering Grand Trad, incognito, overhearing the citizens’ true opinions of the country and its leadership. A hobby he’d found far too useful to stop, despite his friends’ protests. He’d been haggling for a particular trinket, both as cover and because he thought Maria might like it, and then between one moment and the next he was in a dark hallway with a powerful spell headed straight towards him.

On reflex, he had brought up his mother’s sword in defense. The dragon magla within the sword had lashed out at the dark curse, overwhelming the curse’s power with its own and dispelling it before it could bury its roots in a victim.

Will realizes the curse’s thorns look very familiar. Had someone replicated Rella’s curse? Had someone managed to recreate it from Louis’s partial formulas? Reversing the curse had been impossible for even a saintess, but perhaps recreating it wasn’t so impossible. If so, he’s very fortunate it didn’t touch him, as removing the curse from his body would have been much harder than dispelling the attack.

Wary of a follow-up attack, he raises his weapon and gets ready to fight the ambusher and determine who was smart enough to recreate a curse made by the most brilliant magic user of a generation. But to his disappointment, they quickly flee into the dark hallways and out of sight. Will thinks to give chase, but he realizes that he has… no idea where he is. And to where he’d be chasing them.

He hears someone call his name from behind, and after a moment more of indecision, turns to face them. Only to be completely shocked by what he sees.

It’s… the prince. Only. He’s little. He’s so little. Will wonders, is this a dream he’s having? Does the prince need to speak with him about something, like he did when they were separate people? After Will had become the prince, he had still felt some degree of disconnect, like the him who was the prince and the him who was Will weren’t quite the same person. In the same way anyone might view their childhood self or their future self as a different person, and especially so because one of him was barely older than six and the other was mentally eighteen and he’d never actually had the chance to live the intervening years that would have developed his maturity into adulthood.

So in a way, it makes sense that he might have a dream or vision of his child-self. Perhaps he needs to speak and connect with himself as a way of better integrating his sense of identity.

But then this rationalization comes crashing down when he hears a familiar voice cry, “Who are you? Name yourself!”

He knows that voice, even if he hasn’t heard it in over a year. Not since Grius took on that fateful assassination mission, not since his undead body was finally laid to rest.

Tentatively, without believing it, he calls weakly, “...Grius?” Does this still make sense? Would Grius somehow visit as a ghost or memory in his vision of self-discovery? It’s never happened before, though. And he looks younger, more like the memory the prince has of him than of his own memories of a Grius aged by time and trauma alike. And wait, was that redhead earlier a young Hulkenberg?

Is this. The night of the assassination, as the prince remembered it? Only this isn’t how he remembered it at all. In the first place, the prince would’ve been struck by the curse and fallen unconscious. The memory would’ve ended there.

But counter to expectations, the prince is aware and unscathed, and eagerly declares to Grius, “That’s Will! He’s a brave hero who’s traveled all over the world helping people! Like in my book!”

That is… a very flattering description from his younger self. He feels a little embarrassed at the gushing praise, but also warm and pleased that he seems to live up to his younger self’s expectations. There’s still a part of him that thinks of the prince as some other person, a best friend who he’d admired and looked up to, and that part of him thrills at the idea he’s lived up to the prince’s dreams. That the prince is happy with who he became.

“Is this true?” asks Grius, breaking Will out of his reverie.

When asked to tell Grius if it’s true or not, he feels like he’s being put to trial. Can he tell Grius, who died for the cause, that he truly lived up to the resistance’s expectations? That he lived by his ideals, truly and helped everyone? To admit it feels conceited, but to deny it would be to deny his and his friends’ hard effort. And also, he’s just so nervous around this man who was a mentor to him twice over. “Ah, um. I mean. That’s… all true. I guess,” he stutters weakly. He wants to slap himself. What was all that eloquence training worth, for it to fall apart here?!

“And how did you get here all of a sudden, Will?”

That’s what Will would like to know. “I’m not sure,” he answers honestly.

The prince calls from their feet, “I brought him here! I made a wish on my book!” Will looks down and indeed, the prince is holding the very book that first brought Will into existence. How fitting. That was certainly true for how Will was “birthed”, from the prince’s perspective, with a little help from their mother’s magic. It doesn’t quite answer how and why Will is specifically here, in this hallway of the palace, in a vision of the past.

Grius is staring at him, and Will doesn’t know what to do or say, so he doesn’t say anything. He just stares back, taking in Grius’s appearance fully, studying his expression and the way he carries himself, committing the man to memory. It may be his last chance to do so.

“Fine. I, Arvid Alces, sincerely thank you for saving His Highness’s life. Things might have ended very differently if not for you.”

Oh. That’s right, he used to go by “Alces” didn’t he. Hulkenberg called him that. He himself called him that, back when he was just the prince and had never been Will. It feels like that was a long time ago, and he’d since gotten so used to thinking of him as Grius, even if that was only a fake identity he’d adopted in his time in the resistance.

“It’s late. We’ll discuss more in the morning. You’ll stay the night in the barracks with the guardsmen. I’ll have someone guide you there.”

Will has the distinct impression there was an unspoken threat in that statement, an implicit “don’t think of running off before I have a chance to give you a talking to.” He feels a bit like he’s about to get scolded. But then Grius does in fact arrange for a servant to escort him to the barracks and Grius himself walks away with the sleeping prince without even saying his goodbyes.

Will recognizes now about where they are in the palace, and could probably find the barracks on his own, having refamiliarized himself with the palace layout after becoming king. It hadn’t changed much from thirteen years ago, surviving its temporary ascension into the sky surprisingly intact. But he lets the servant woman guide him anyway and gets lost in his thoughts.

If this was a vision, why had Grius and his young self left? Why was he being guided elsewhere? Was he wrong about the purpose of his coming here, should he have followed Grius after all? But then Grius was the one who insisted he not.

Usually his visions were more intuitive and helpful than this. Also, much shorter.

As he’s directed to an available bed, thankfully in a smaller room without any roommates currently present, he begins to worry if this isn’t quite a vision after all. And what it means if it’s not.

The servant wishes him a good night, and says something to the guard on duty in the hallway outside. She returns not long after with a pitcher of water and a measure of bread, which she leaves on the table in offering before leaving once more, drawing the door fully closed behind her.

As her footsteps fade into the distance, and the barracks fade into relative silence, Will reflects that he really doesn’t feel tired. From his perspective, it had just been mid afternoon a few moments ago, and now that it’s suddenly the middle of night his body isn’t registering it. The fight wasn’t especially exhausting either, just a brief scuffle lasting bare seconds. He hadn’t even had to swing his sword.

With nothing better to do, he avails himself of the bread and water. It’s a tad stale, clearly leftovers from earlier in the morning, but the thought is appreciated. It’s strange that he can taste and feel it so vividly. …He’s really not sure this is a vision. Did he ever taste things in the Akademeia? He touched Plateau’s fur and could remember it felt soft and real. Is this place more like that, a “place between reality and fantasy”? But so far he’s traveled a much larger distance than More’s small study. Then again, a liminal space wouldn’t be confined by distance, surely.

He chews over these thoughts as he chews his bread, making more progress on the latter than the former. He doesn’t know, and the longer he spends alone the more he can feel anxiety creeping up on him.

He’s not… stuck here, right? He’s not stuck here alone, is he? Like More was, isolated in a strange dimension for a subjective eternity. He. He doesn’t want that, he really, really couldn’t take it. The anxiety climbs up his spine into his fast-beating heart, and then he remembers the last time he had a panic attack and terrified the whole country and nearly died, and what if he panics so hard he turns into a monster again, yet that possibility only makes him panic more–

“Snap out of it! Will!” comes a voice from his left shoulder, and suddenly he can breathe again, because he’s not alone at all.

“Gallica?” he calls in surprise. Because it is her, it's his first and closest friend, flying by his shoulder just as she always does. “You’re here!” he exclaims in relief. His body still shivers from his recent bout of panic, but her presence is a balm to his soul. She’s a rock in his storm of anxiety.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” she clarifies. “It’s just that I was hiding until the coast was clear and we could speak without being overheard. The guard finally moved a bit farther away, so I don’t think he’ll hear us if we keep our voices down. But then I came back to see you hyperventilating, are you okay?”

Will laughs uneasily, “I don’t know. I was just. I thought I was alone here, and I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. What’s happening? Where are we, Gallica?”

Gallica’s expression goes grave as she answers, “The question may be ‘when’ are we. I wasn’t sure at first, because this is all so strange, but the strangest thing may be how it doesn’t feel strange to my senses at all. The Akademeia has a certain feel to it, like, I could sense it wasn’t fully real even if I didn’t realize how to interpret those senses at the time. But this all feels… incredibly mundane, to my fairy sense. There’s no magical signature in the slightest, except that burst when we first got here.” She concludes gravely, “As impossible as it seems, we might actually have been summoned somehow into the past by that book of yours.”

Will takes this all in, and as strange as it is he can’t bring himself to doubt Gallica. He trusts her senses more than his own, and if she says that what happened, then that’s what happened. Somehow, having her lay it all out matter-of-factly makes it feel less frightening. The implications of being brought to the past, possible with no way home, are staggering, but the fact that Gallica is here with him makes it bearable.

“And Will,” she adds. “Your hair… it’s blue again. Dark blue. You’ve got the heterochromia back too.” She points to one of her own eyes as illustration.

“Wait what? Why?” he protests, because really? His hair color changed again? If it first changed when he merged with the prince, does that mean he… unmerged with the prince? But he still remembers who he is, in full. Doesn’t he? At least, he definitely has memories of being the young prince.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Gallica soothes. “You look perfectly handsome either way. And you’re still you, okay? We both remember everything we went through, right? Meeting in the flowers, finding Grius, campaigning to be king with all our allies, and discovering the truth of your identity… we both remember that, right?”

Will can only nod, because he does remember that and so much more.

“So this doesn’t change anything. There’s just… another version of you running around, I guess. However that works. A baby you and an adult you. Although unless you somehow merge again, this might interfere with your right to the throne…” She trails off in consideration.

And Will isn’t really ready to fully consider that possibility, that he might not be king here in this time, that he doesn’t have access to his six partisans and that most of them are children now themselves. But maybe there could be good that comes out of it too. Maybe he could save Strohl’s parents. And Bastilio’s brother. And… had he already saved Junah’s sister? She… hadn’t successfully cast the curse, so does that mean, maybe, hopefully, she isn’t subject to its backlash?

And oh. His father. His father is still alive, isn’t he. His father will be alive for years to come even if nothing is done about Louis. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. He and his original father weren’t that close; they hadn’t had much chance to get to know each other after his mother died and before he was cursed. His father was grieving, and always so busy. The closest he got to really knowing his father was through knowing More, who probably doesn’t exist in this time, and may never exist. Except as some aspect of his emotionally distant father.

This is all very complicated, actually.

“Helloooo. Will? I said, you’re still you! And I’m still your partner! You hear me?” she tugs on his (indeed blue, now that he’s noticed it) bangs insistently.

Will can’t help but laugh again, even though that was actually a little painful with how hard she was tugging. “I hear you. And I believe you. I won’t lose sight of myself again,” he speaks with conviction. “I was just thinking about everyone who’s still alive. I wonder if we can save them. I wonder if we can bring change to this country a little sooner, or…” his thoughts took a gloomy turn, “if it’s possible to enact change without the bonds we formed through hardship. If the prince takes the throne without showing this country what true tribal unity looks like, can he really make a difference? Even with all my friends at my side, and the approval of a public majority, I’m still not sure if the changes I’ve made in my kingship were enough to truly begin fixing this country. And the prince, he’s not cursed, but he’s… all alone.” Because Will remembers being that little boy, he remembers how isolated he was by his race and his position. His “best friend” from that time was a one-sided, wishful memory. Will was the friend the prince had desperately wanted and needed, and the prince in turn was Will’s courage. But those were Will’s memories, ones he still retained even knowing they were fake. Through the prince’s memories, the ones where Will doesn’t exist, he just remembers being very, very lonely.

“He’s not alone, silly,” Gallica tuts, “he’s got you.”

And isn’t that a shock, because somehow, in this strange timeline, the prince did have Will, even if Will was much older than the prince now. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t still be friends, could they? A part of him – both halves of him, really, ache for that. Like a wound that had never fully healed, the lonely child in him craves to have a friend who would be there and understand him. And the aspect of him that is fantasy thrills at the idea of befriending the prince. In merging, both halves were able to support each other and become their, his truest self. But if the prince could grow up, truly grow up like a normal child and experience being ten, thirteen, sixteen years old. And if Will could be his true friend during that. It would be an entirely new kind of magic.

“And me!” Gallica hastily adds. “He’ll have you and me, and Grius, and Hulkenberg, and we can probably arrange a playdate with him and some of our other friends too, I mean, who would turn down an invitation from the prince himself?”

Will agrees, and imagines a tiny noble Strohl being invited to the royal palace, holding his parents’ hands. Would he be nervous, proud? Will’s not sure, but it’d probably be adorable no matter what.

Like that, Gallica and Will talk about all sorts of plans, big and small, practical or outlandish, forming a new fantasy for what the future might hold, a fantasy which they can both work towards turning into reality. Somehow, they both manage to doze off just as the first hint of daylight starts to illuminate the sky.

Chapter Text

The Prince wakes up the next morning with a sudden jolt, feeling alert and jittery but not yet sure why. There's something tingly and exciting running under his skin and throbbing in his heart but his brain hasn't caught up yet.

Then he remembers. Last night. His dream. “Will!” Or was it a dream? It felt real and he still remembers it so clearly. He has to know if Alces remembers too, he has to see Will again. “Alces!” he calls, this time carrying his voice to reach outside his room, to the adjacent servant quarters where his retinue slept.

“Calm yourself, Highness, I'm right here,” comes a grumble from the foot of his bed. The Prince looks down to see that Alces was seated at the side of the bed closest to the door, his back against the bed frame, still wearing his full metal armor. It looks extremely uncomfortable, but the Prince isn’t concerned about that.

“Alces, did Will really show up last night? Did he really rescue us?” the Prince asks eagerly, hopeful and nervous all at once.

“You really were attacked last night, yes. And that's nothing to be happy about,” Alces counters severely. He has dark circles under his eyes and the Prince wonders if perhaps the mercenary hasn't slept. Perhaps the foot of the bed was too uncomfortable, and now he was grumpy, like all the adults said the Prince would be if he didn't sleep enough.

He can't bring himself to care, though, because that wasn't a no! That means his wish really came true!! He wants to go see Will right now! Unless, what if Will left already? In his daydreams, Will always has lots of adventures to get to. Maybe his hero has to go back to the book, or whatever world he's from, so he can keep having adventures. He hopes not, or at least he hopes he can have the chance to say goodbye and thank him first. Maybe he can convince Will there's lots of adventures he can have outside of the book, in the real world. At least, there's lots of adventures if you're someone as strong and brave as Will. The Prince hasn't been able to go on any adventures at all, but that's just because he's too little and weak.

Which is why Will needs to go on all the adventures for him, so he can experience them through Will. And now Will is here, in the same castle as the Prince, and that's even better! Because Will is real and the Prince can touch him and maybe shake his hand!

But that requires Alces to get with the program, because he's still not allowed to go anywhere without an escort. “Can we go see him? I want to go see him,” he pleads.

Alces is giving him a look that suggests this battle has already been lost. It's a look that says there's no convincing him. A look the Prince generally interprets to mean he should try asking Russell for permission instead.

“I'm sorry, Your Highness, but I don't think that's wise. The king and I need to have a talk with him first.”

The Prince tears up a little, because what if Will leaves and he misses the chance to say thank you? That would be awful. He has to convince Alces otherwise. “Let me come with you!” he insists.

“There are some things adults need to talk about privately,” Alces objects in the usual way that everyone excludes the Prince from anything important. And maybe he's right, but the Prince isn't going to let go of this one.

“He's my friend! Please, I need to see him. I wanna talk to him!” the Prince wheedles with all the sincere urgency he can muster.

“Your Highness…” Alces softens his expression a little, true concern and confusion peeking through his usual gruffness. “This man, how is he your friend. Is he another survivor from your old home?”

The Prince shakes his head no, because Will isn't from there, even if he is an elda like the Prince.

The concerned frown deepens at the Prince's negative response. “Then how can he be your friend? When did you meet?”

Alces really seems to be trying to listen, so the Prince plows through with the truth. “We haven't met before! Not until yesterday when he appeared. Because he's not from this world, he's from the one in my book! I see him in my daydreams and he goes on lots of adventures! Here, I'll show you.”

Alces watches in bafflement, but makes no move to stop the prince as he pulls out his book and starts flipping very intentionally through the pages.

“Here!” The Prince exclaims triumphantly, and he pulls out a loose piece of paper which had been slipped between two of the book’s pages and proudly presents it to Alces.

On the sheet is a childish painting of a person. Of course it's childish, the Prince had painted it himself using the art supplies his father has gifted him. One of many such gifts from early in his arrival at the palace – none of his old things survived the fire, and his father didn't know what he liked or needed, so he gave the Prince all sorts of things. It turns out the Prince didn't especially like painting, but he tried learning for a while anyway so the paints wouldn't go to waste.

The person in the amateur painting has dark blue hair, different colored eyes, and is holding a sword. As poor as the drawing may be, it's unmistakably Will, and he's very proud of being able to bring him into the world in this small way.

Alces handles the paper delicately, mirroring the care the Prince's had shown it. He examines the painting, clearly seeing the resemblance to the hero who saved them yesterday. He doesn't comment on it, though, simply handing the paper back to the Prince who slides it back into his book, careful to avoid creasing either.

“Mm. You can come with, but you have to leave when we tell you to so we can discuss adult business after.”

“Yes!! I promise, thank you Alces!” because Alces had listened to him, he'd really listened in a way so few people had since he'd lost his mother. So even though the Prince is lonely, and Alces can be strict or scary sometimes, he's very lucky to have him.

Alces sighs, like he is already regretting the decision, but that can't put a damper on the Prince's cheer.

—

Hulkenberg is waiting outside the bedroom door after Alces helps the Prince clean and change into proper court clothes. She is on edge, and seems to have dark circles just like Alces.

“The Prince, he is well?” she asks urgently, before her gaze lands on the small form behind Alces. She kneels before him, patting him down for any sign of injury.

“Aye, quite well. Well enough to talk my ear off this morning. He insists on meeting his benefactor.”

Hulkenberg looks up curiously at that. “Is that wise?” she asks worriedly.

“Who knows. But I'll be with him, and there's no denying the stranger saved the Prince’s life. We owe him our gratitude.” In a quieter voice, he adds, “It was too elaborate to be a setup, I think, that was truly an attempt on the Prince’s life. But at the same time, His Highness has so many enemies, and I can’t help but distrust how conveniently the elda man appeared.”

“My sincere apologies,” says Hulkenberg despondently, “if only I had been faster, I could've–”

“Could've what, blocked a targeted curse? Gotten cursed yourself? We're damn lucky that stranger showed up when he did with that magic sword of his. But that just makes it all
the more suspicious.” Alces sighs. “I don't know what to make of it.”

“He's not a stranger, his name is Will!” insists the Prince, who has been listening this whole time even if the adults seemed to forget that.

“Will, is it? I shall have to offer him my gratitude,” she says to the Prince sincerely. To Alces, she adds, “Unfortunately, I was unable to slay the assailant that cast the curse. They and several others got away. I wasn't fast enough.” She has to take a moment to shake herself out of her self incrimination and continue. “The ones we slayed appear to be simple sellswords. As we were unable to capture any of them alive, it will be nearly impossible to determine on whose orders they were acting. I will continue my investigation, however. I will not let those who threaten His Highness’s safety go free.”

The Prince thinks Dame Hulkenberg can be extremely intense at times, and this was one of those times. Especially since she isn't an adult either. But it’s good that she really cares about him in her own way, and he thinks she did really well saving his life and shouldn't seem so gloomy about it. He tells her so.

“Thank you for saving my life when you pushed me out of the way,” he tells Hulkenberg. And to Alces, he adds, “Thank you for coming to get me and helping me outrun the bad guys.”

He bows ever so slightly to show his gratitude, but not so low as to be unbefitting of his station, just as Russell taught him. Alces grunts in acknowledgement, while Hulkenberg’s face turns as red as her hair and she waves her hands in front of her face while stuttering an incoherent denial.

There, he'd thanked them properly. Now he just needs to find Will and tell him thanks as well.

—

It's still a couple hours before he's allowed to visit Will. His caretakers insist that he must eat breakfast first, and Alces goes to update the king and arrange an appointment. Even if the king is his father, the Prince knows he can't visit the king without requesting an audience because his father is always very busy working hard for the sake of the country. He's been told so many times.

Fortunately, the king must not be too busy today because he agrees to see him and Will over lunch. The Prince feels a little guilty that he's more excited to see Will than his own father, but it can't be helped. Will is just so cool! But it'll be nice to see his father too, of course.

They have to clean him up and change his clothes again, so he looks fancy enough to meet the king. He thinks it's a bit silly, since he'd already changed into his nicer clothes, but apparently the ones Alces chose aren't suitable for a luncheon with the king. Mister Russell arrives, looking thankfully unharmed after the events of last night, and picks out an entirely different type of outfit, explaining how this is suitable but the other is not. The Prince tries to follow along since he wants to be able to dress himself someday, so he doesn't have to rely on a servant forever. He used to be able to dress himself, back when his mother was alive, and he was allowed to wear his favorite loose shirts whenever he pleased, even outside. But now that he's the Prince and his father's heir, he learns the process is infinitely more complicated.

By the time Russell has arranged his clothes and hair to his own satisfaction, it's nearly time for the luncheon with the king. They depart right away, because it's important to be early to show respect to those of higher status, explains Russell, because their time is extra important. It's all rather dull, like most of Russell's etiquette lessons, but the Prince tries to pay attention. He imagines how one day he'll be allowed to go places on his own again, and he'll need to keep himself on time then.

The lesson is interrupted when the Prince see’s a familiar and beloved shade of blue, and calls out, “Will!” Quite rudely, he can tell, from how Russell is glaring judgingly at him. But the Prince can't help it, and Will isn't a noble, he's an ordinary traveler with no familial obligations, so it's probably okay if the Prince is a little overfamiliar with him.

Will is accompanied by Alces, who had left to fetch him while Russell was wrangling the Prince’s wardrobe. Will is wearing a similar expression to last night, brow furrowed like he's confused or troubled, as he takes in whatever Alces is saying. But as he turns in response to his name and sees the Prince, his face lights up. It's an absolutely brilliant smile, made especially so because Will is smiling at him, like the Prince is someone worthy of that smile and attention.

As Will and Alces get closer, the Prince tries to calm himself and remembers the words he wanted to say. A hand on his arm, Russell’s, helps gently restrain him from running towards his hero like he wants to, and instead he waits until Will is a polite distance away for conversation, and says, “Thank you very much for saving my life, Mister Will. I'm glad you came out of my book to save me, and I hope you'll want to stay and have adventures here too.” It's a very proper thank you, he thinks, and it succinctly conveys everything he wished to say. Embarrassed, he adds less formally, “Would you shake my hand.” He can see Will, but he still hasn't touched him, and he wants to feel Will himself to confirm that his hero is really truly there, and not just a ghost. Although of course it would be cool if Will could only visit as a ghost, as long as Will didn't mind being one.

Will looks to Alces, looking for permission, which is a little silly because Will is an adult and very independent and shouldn't need to seek anyone else's permission. But he supposes it shows that Will is being very polite, so maybe Will is also good in etiquette like he's good at everything else.

Alces begrudgingly nods, and Will steps a bit closer and offers his hand out for a shake. The Prince matches him, a bit faster than is appropriate, and grabs Will’s large one with his own two small ones. The moment they touch, there’s a sort of tingle that runs up the Prince’s arm, like lightning magic, and Will must feel it too because he reacts like something really surprised him. Prince thinks it's a nice feeling though, not painful, so hopefully it's not a bad surprise for Will. He takes advantage of Will's shock to hold the handshake a little while longer, trying to remember how solid and strong Will’s hand feels in case this is his only chance to touch it. He still steps away before Russell has a chance to get too cross with him.

“Thank you,” he reiterates.

“Uh,” Will says, “no problem.”

The Prince is content he said his piece, so that even if the adults kick him out right away, or even if Will has to go back to his book very suddenly because someone else is in trouble, the Prince won't harbor regrets. Even if there are still so many things he wants to ask Will. About his adventures and about the world in the book.

He doesn't have the chance, however, as a servant opens the door to the king’s chambers and guides them to one of the receiving rooms. This room is outfitted with a rectangular table, and the king is already seated at the head. There are a number of dishes laid out across the long table. More than enough for three people to eat, but modest compared to a full banquet. Alces and Russell take standing positions nearby, while the king’s own servants guide him and Will to their respective seats. He is seated to the king’s right, as convention dictates, and Will is seated across the table on the king’s left, not immediately across from the Prince but little further down to indicate his lower status. It’s all things Russell has taught him before, and reiterated in the hours prior.

They wait a moment until the king invites them to sit, and then take their seats which the servants pull out for them. The king grabs food from the offering first, and only after he begins to eat to the Prince and Will begin to serve themselves from the offerings. The Prince notes that Will seems surprisingly familiar with the royal etiquette, maybe more so than the Prince himself. But he supposes that makes sense. Even though Will comes from an ordinary background, as an adventuring hero, Will has probably saved any number of princes and princesses and been invited to eat with kings lots of times.

The food is good. There’s lots of options with meat and fresh fruit and warm bread. He recognizes a few dishes as traditional eldan cuisine, which makes his heart hurt a little but he gratefully adds it to his plate, noting that Will does the same.

The king still hasn’t spoken, so the Prince keeps carefully silent, even if it feels awkward, and focuses on making sure he’s using his fork and knife exactly right. He’s a bit afraid to look at his father, because it might be rude and because he’s a little afraid of what expression the king might be making, so instead he steals glances at Will between bites. Unfortunately, Will’s attention seems to be entirely focused on the king. The Prince wonders who or what the king is looking at, but can’t bring himself to check and instead slices his green beans into increasingly tiny pieces.

After a silence so long and suffocating that the Prince almost regrets inviting himself along, the king finally addresses them. “Son. Are you well?”

Startled, the Prince accidentally sends a piece of green bean flying which he’d been trying to skewer on his fork. He flushes in embarrassment at the mistake. “Oh. Thank you, Father. I’ve been well,” he answers dutifully.

“You are unharmed after the events of last night? Remember, if there is anything you have need of, you need only ask. This kingdom shall provide for its prince.”

It’s not the first time his father has made this offer, and he appreciates how generous it is for the king to favor him this way, but still he shakes his head. He can’t think of any gift his father could provide that would make the palace less stifling. And his father had already refused his requests to go out and interact with the people outside the castle walls. It wasn’t safe or appropriate, he said. “I’m fine,” the Prince insists. “All my needs are provided for.” And he’s only lying a little.

The king turns his attention to Will, and the Prince relaxes a bit to have that heavy gaze no longer focused on him. The king’s presence is something else. All his training doesn’t feel enough to handle it.

“And you. I hear I have you to thank for my son’s good health. Your name is Will, yes?”

Will sits up a bit straighter, his posture conveying confidence and resolve. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’m grateful I was able to help. No child deserves to be put in danger.”

The king nods. “What allegiance do you hold, Will, from whence do you hail? Who do you serve?”

Will stiffens a bit at the intense questions, but holds his shoulders firm. “My village is no more, and I do not currently serve under anyone. I’ve made money from hunting bounties and fulfilling requests. My creed is to help anyone who needs it,” he speaks smoothly and with conviction. The Prince is in awe.

“Anyone, you say? A lofty goal.” The king’s eyes narrow in calculation. “And what if the requester has no money to offer?”

Will actually smiles at this question. “Those people are the most deserving of help. And even without money, I may gain other things by helping them: personal growth and mutual trust. Every bond of trust, however small, becomes my strength.” Will speaks exactly like a hero from a storybook, and it’s amazing because he doesn’t sound hesitant or artificial at all. His eyes are shining with conviction.

The king seems a bit taken aback by the force of Will’s charisma. But something about him seems to soften, too. “That’s very good,” he proclaims. “And are you here on someone’s request? Is there any matter we may help with?” he offers magnanimously.

“Ah, no.” For the first time in the conversation, Will shrinks a little bit. “I’m actually between requests. I haven’t made my plans for my time here yet, but I’m sure I’ll find my way.” He smiles, but it’s dimmer than before.

“Hmm.” The king considers, and the room waits for him to gather his thoughts. “In truth, Will, the purpose of my inviting you here was to offer you a reward for saving my son. But also, I have a request of my own. If you do indeed help anyone, will you hear me out?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Will replies, alert and earnest.

“My son has only recently taken his place in the royal palace, and he finds himself in need of attendants. I’ve sought out tutors and guards for him, but his household is still much smaller than would befit his station. It has been. Difficult. To find individuals I can trust for such an important role. My reward to you who saved my son’s life is a position by his side. I would have you as his royal aide.”

Alces protests from behind Will, in a flagrant disregard of etiquette that could have him severely reprimanded, “Your Majesty!”

But the king silences him with a glance, and turns his attention to Will, who has pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Will asks cautiously, “What would being the Prince’s royal aide entail… exactly?”

“An aide can be many things. A trusted advisor, often, to help guide a royal in his decisions. It has no formal obligations, but you would be expected to stay by the Prince’s side and answer whenever he has need of you. You would be compensated generously and hold great authority, only inferior to the Prince and my own royal household.”

Will appears conflicted, his eyes skirting to the side for a moment. “That’s…” he starts, but stops himself, leaving the concern unvoiced.

In contrast to Will’s withdrawal, the king leans forward a bit. “I told you I also have a request. My request for you, as a father and king, is that you protect my son in ways I cannot. Yesterday, you showed me you can protect his life. Today, you have shown me a kind of idealism that puts my own to shame. I don’t know what experiences formed you into the man I see before me, but I hope that you could share some fraction of it with my son. To protect his hopes and dreams from a world that will crush them. If you truly help anyone in need, that is my request to you.”

The Prince is overwhelmed. He’s never heard his father speak like this, about hopes and dreams. He’s never seen evidence that his father cared about those kinds of things at all, and he certainly didn’t assume that the king would support him in entertaining such fantasies. Sure, his father had given the Prince his favorite fantasy book, but his father had given him many things that didn’t mean anything at all.

He’s faced with tangible evidence that his father might care more than the Prince had ever imagined. And that perhaps his father’s inquiries and offers were made out of more than obligation.

And beyond the Prince’s feelings towards his father, there is also a dangling possibility that he would get to keep Will, insomuch as any person can keep another. That Will could stay. If the King asks Will to stay, then no one could force him to leave, not even Alces at his grumpiest.

But that’s only if Will wants to stay.

Nervously, full of more bated hope than he feels he can safely contain, the Prince watches Will through watery eyes.

Will moves to stand, and puts his right hand in a fist over his heart. “I understand. I accept your request to guard the Prince’s life and ideals. I swear on my life.”

And the Prince actually starts crying as the hope inside his chest bursts into something so intense and burning he’s not sure what to call it. He’s just. So overwhelmed. Because it’s too good, and he’s been so lonely, and it feels like drowning in love and care after being lost in a desert.

The king looks alarmed for the first time, although the Prince can’t see it through his tears. “That is, of course, if the young prince agrees,” he adds with less than his usual decorum.

“I… I…” the Prince sobs, “I do! I really do! I want Will to, to stay!” He wants to tell them all that he’s really happy, truly, even if he can’t stop crying. But he’s only six, and he can’t make any more words come out even though he has so much he wants to say to both of them.

But maybe his father understands, because he settles back into his seat and smiles weakly. “Then it’s settled. I will make the official announcement tomorrow, but you may begin your duties immediately. Russell will see you outfitted and your room appointed. You may ask him if you have any questions.” The king stands, indicating the luncheon has come to an end. The Prince hastily rises to his feet as well, still trying to rub away his unseemly tears.

As the king moves to leave the room, likely due for one of his many other appointments, he puts a hand on Will’s shoulder and speaks in a low voice, one intended for Will that nonetheless carries in the small room. “I am putting my hope in you, Will. I see something in you that might be just what this country needs. …I pray I am not mistaken.” The Prince isn’t sure if the last part is a threat, but the king sounds strangely vulnerable during the short exchange.

But then the moment is over and before the Prince can think more of it they are being politely but firmly ushered out of the king’s chambers by the briskly efficient staff. Before long, it’s just him, Will, Russell, and Alces standing in the hallway outside the king’s chambers. Except unlike before, Will isn’t kept at a distance. Will is standing so close to the Prince that the Prince could reach out and grab his hand, although he doesn’t. Alces is fuming, clearly having misgivings about the arrangement, but as a mercenary guard and swordsmanship tutor he has no authority to question the king’s decision. Will, as royal aide to the Prince, technically outranks him now. Russell, who is the Prince’s de facto steward in addition to being his primary tutor and sometimes nanny, could perhaps be considered Will’s boss, but the elder eugief seems completely serene with the new addition to the staff.

Russell guides Will away, and the Prince feels a bit relieved that someone else will be the focus of the scholar’s lectures for a time. After lunch is usually when the Prince would do his lessons, and he wonders if this means he will have the afternoon off today. That expectation is quickly dashed as Alces guides the Prince down a staircase, grabbing a training sword from storage and guiding the prince outside to his private courtyard.

The Prince is very fond of this courtyard, generally. The tall bushes act as a wall so he can’t see outside from here, but he can see the sky at least and the wind is pleasant. He likes to lay on the benches here to read when the weather is good. It is also where his swordsmanship drills are conducted, which are much less fun than reading and always leave him feeling shaky and weak. Still, he does want to be strong, so he tries his best at them even as he wonders if he’ll ever be allowed a chance to use them for real.

Although last night proved that even if he isn’t allowed outside yet, there may still be times when a sword is necessary. Will has always been carrying a sword every time the Prince has seen him. His sword, and that of Alces and Hulkenberg, had saved the Prince’s life. If the Prince masters the sword, then maybe he could be a bit more like Will. Even just a little. And then maybe he could save someone else one day.

The training that day is harsher than it’s ever been. Alces seems to be channeling all his worries for the Prince’s safety into a regimen that pushes his body right up to the limit. But the Prince imagines, as he sweats through dozens of practice swings, that his sword is sharp-edged and glowing bright, and that his body is bigger and taller, strong enough to take on even huge monsters. And the fantasy strengthens him enough to get through the entire lesson without complaining once.

Chapter Text

Will is kind of stunned, yet again.

The offer of a formal position in the palace was quite generous, even if it was a step down from his former authority as king. He’s not really familiar with the concept of a royal aide. It wasn’t a role that he’d sought to fill in his own court. It sounds quite nebulous, rather like a title for title’s sake. He was hesitant to accept a position which he hardly felt he’d earned, but reluctant to turn down an opportunity to get closer to the prince. This position might allow him to enact the changes which he and Gallica had been fantasizing about.

But then his father shared his “request” and all of Will’s misgivings scattered like ash under the pure conviction coming from His Majesty’s words. Will felt for the first time like he was listening not to King Hythlodaeus V, but to More, his good friend who had inspired and guided him when they both knew nothing of their respective truths. This, then, was the idealism that the king had buried deep in his soul. Hidden, but never lost.

And what could he do? Will had been born to carry on the prince’s hopes, he was those hopes made manifest. How could he, in any life, turn down a request that resonated with his innermost soul and echoed the very purpose of his existence?

So he had agreed without hesitation, and he doesn’t have time to process what’s just happened before he’s swept off to wherever Russell is taking him.

For measurements, it turns out, because of course they’ll need to know his size to arrange for a wardrobe befitting his station. It’s not unfamiliar to him, having had to go through the ordeal prior to his coronation. Most people don’t manifest their clothes through the sheer force of ideation. (Which was something he’d never fully understood, how his fantasy clothes had followed him even onto his real body. But he was very fond of the outfit and didn’t bother to question it further.) His current clothes are sufficient for day-to-day use, Russell soothes as Will looks longingly at the jacket he was forced to set aside, but if the prince needs to attend any formal events then Will will be expected to attend and look the part.

He is then taken on a tour of the palace, and shown all the places he’s expected to be familiar with. For the most part, it’s all things he already knows, but most of the servants he’s introduced to are new faces for him. Most of them must have either retired or met some grim fate in the next twelve years. He’s also shown some of the servants’ rooms on the lower floors, including the kitchen and a shared dining area for the servants where he may take his meals. These are places he was shooed away from when he tried to explore them as king. It’s pleasant to have the staff treat him more casually, although part of that seems to stem from the ambiguity of his position which Russell is keeping discrete until the king’s official announcement.

The tour ends at the Prince’s chambers, an area that brings Will a strange sense of dissonance. The room is familiar, he made so many of his childhood memories here, memories he can recall more clearly than the village and mother he lost too young or the fevered retreat to the Eldan Sanctum where he'd barely been lucid and his periods of consciousness had been increasingly short. after the curse set it.

Even though physically he's spent the majority of his life in the eldan forest, he can recall only a scant handful of memories from his time there. And half of those memories are fake.

So these rooms are some of the most familiar from his memories of being the prince, but also… he's big now. The furniture is exactly the same but at his full height he can see how small some of it looks. There's a short desk in the corner where the prince has been taking penmanship lessons, some of his writing still laid out to dry. The toys scattered across the room are sized for a child's hand.

In the future, all of this was gone. Either disposed of or put in storage after he was declared dead. He'd never thought to look for it either way.

He was shuffled through the suite into a side room that was accessible via a hidden door in one of the walls. The room appeared to have been serviced during their tour, as not only was the bed made but there were some loose fitting garments in the wardrobe he could use for sleeping or underwear. The room was small and there was no window, but it was private. A lit oil lamp provides enough light to see by.

“Are you literate?” Russell asks abruptly after they’re both in the room and the door is shut.

“Oh. Yes,” Will agrees.

Russell raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't question further. Merely says, “Very good then. I'll procure you a copy of the Prince’s schedule, and a few books on decorum.” He looks at Will sharply. “Although your manners at the luncheon were impeccable.”

Will isn't sure if there's an accusation hidden in the compliment. But it warms him, nonetheless, to get praise from his one-time tutor. “Thank you,” he accepts sincerely, with a soft smile and mirthful eyes.

Russell pauses a bit, perhaps not expecting that response. But nods his head professionally and drops the subject. “It's grown late. You may spend the evening as you wish, but I ask that you not visit the prince tonight. He's had a long several days and needs rest. I have a feeling if he sees you, he'll be impossible to put to bed.”

Will laughs aloud at that, startling himself, but there's something about the mischievous look in Russell's eye as he says it, as if sharing an inside joke. It's true that his younger self has been very… excitable, whenever Will has seen him so far. It's a bit overwhelming, but so endearing too.

Russell quietly takes his leave, leaving Will alone in his new lodgings. Will sinks into the bed, mentally if not physically exhausted.

“Is he gone?” Gallica asks, poking her head out of Will’s satchel.

“Yeah, he’s gone,” Will confirms, and Gallica happily leaves her hiding spot with a big stretch of her shoulders and a little loop-de-loop flourish. She takes in the small room with interested eyes, flying this way and that before eventually settling back into her rightful perch on Will’s shoulder.

“You know,” Will says, “you don’t have to hide if you don’t want to. I can introduce you anytime. I’m sure everyone will be happy to meet you.”

“Hmm. Maybe later,” Gallica hedges. “I think I can probably get away with more if no one knows I’m here. I’m like your trump card!” she declares, smiling confidently.

“Okay. Just so long as you know it’s your choice. I’m sure the royal aide would be allowed to have his own royal fairy guide,” he teases.

“You know, I should get my own title!” Gallica readily agrees. “Maybe you should’ve declared me your royal aide!”

Will smiles. “I offered to give you a position in my court, remember. You said that you didn’t want to be beholden to ‘a bunch of judgy politicians’, and that you were happy just to be by my side.”

“And I stand by that,” confirms Gallica sincerely. “Which is why I’m going to stay in the shadows a little while longer. Maybe I’ll thin my magla to do some invisible scouting. We know who was behind this assassination attempt, of course, but we don’t know what else they might try now that this attempt has failed.”

That’s… a really good point. “Thanks Gallica, that’s a fantastic idea. Can I at least introduce you to the prince, though? I think he’d be over the moon to meet a fairy.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” Gallica agrees. “You’re super cute at this age, you know? And it’s nice to see the prince looking so lively. …It’s hard to forget how still the prince looked under the curse. Before I joined the resistance, when I was aimless and purposeless, I would find myself drawn to his, well, your sleeping body. There was something so sad about seeing someone so young be so still… I guess that’s why I ended up joining. I wanted to see the prince open his eyes.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” Will speaks quietly.

“Ah, I guess it never came up? But the point is, seeing him able to run around feels like I’m seeing that wish fulfilled. Oh! I mean, I know you’re the same person! And we did save you, in the end, or at least you saved yourself. But there’s something different about it, seeing him so young, it’s like…”

“Like regaining lost time,” Will finishes for her. “I feel the same. I want the prince to be able to grow up and have a real, normal childhood.”

“Mm,” Gallica agrees. “You turned out okay though, Will, more than okay.”

“Thanks to everyone. I don’t think I could’ve become the full person I am today if I hadn’t met so many people and inherited their dreams.” And that was still bitter, to remember how many people he’d lost in his displacement. But even if they don’t remember, he still carries their dreams and ideals within himself. He owes it to them to try to make the future a little brighter.

Will considers going out for a walk, but he thinks he’s done enough for the day and has earned a break. He pulls out his favorite book, a book which has apparently manifested him into existence twice now. And manifested itself, after a fashion, since it and the other contents of his satchel had come with him. He’s grateful it wasn’t left behind, as it’s always been a source of comfort to him, and just touching the cover now calms him a little.

He sits down to read, and entertains the possibility he might be able to visit the Akademeia. He tries, consciously, to immerse himself in the flow of the story, to let his mind slip into the fantasy in a way he knows from experience could send him to the liminal space of More’s study room. He does get truly immersed in his reading this way, but unfortunately, he can’t reach that other dimension at all. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, More shouldn’t exist yet in this time. But he thought, since he and Gallica had been brought here that maybe… he sighs, trying not to be too disappointed.

A sharp knock on the door gives him only a moment's notice before someone lets themself into the room. Gallica has just enough time to zip into his bag unseen. Will looks up, startled, to see a familiar face. “Gri– I mean, Alces. It’s good to see you,” he says sincerely. Grius had been the fantasy Will’s first real loss. He thinks the journey might have gone smoother, perhaps, if Grius had been alive to help.

Grius is not so happy to see him, though, based on the scowl he’s wearing. “You may have the king’s favor but I don’t trust you,” he growls. “You haven’t explained how you appeared out of thin air, and your claimed identity is suspect at best. And– why do you have the prince’s book?” He asks suspiciously as he notices the volume in question. Will hadn’t bothered hiding it when the door had opened, so it still lay before him opened up to one of its distinctive illustrations.

“It was a gift. From a friend,” Will answers as vaguely and truthfully as he can. It was a gift twice over, first from his father and then from the prince. And the implication that he’d pilfered it rubs him the wrong way.

“A gift, you say?” Grius is obviously not convinced, and steps forward to take a closer look. Thankfully he doesn’t try to grab it, as Will is sure he wouldn’t react well to that and he does want this younger, no-less-skeptical Grius to like him.

“Look, see?” Will shuts the book and shows the sides of the pages which are stained with dirt and other messes despite Will’s best attempts at keeping the book sheltered. “It’s very dirty because I’ve been traveling with it for a long time. I doubt a book belonging to a young noble would look like this.” He knows for a fact that the prince’s copy should be comparatively clean, right now, having only had to endure the eager hands of a child and nothing worse.

Grius furrows his brows, seeming more perturbed than suspicious now. “Strange. That you’d have the same book. It couldn’t be a coincidence, surely…” he says more to himself than Will. It reminds Will of his own reaction to finding the book in Louis’s study. He supposes Louis must have gotten his copy from King Hythlodaeus as well. Whether it was freely given or something Louis pillaged as a trophy after killing the king, he couldn’t be sure, but Will had felt there was a kind of fate to it.

Will decides to offer a kind of explanation, even if Grius might not believe it. “This book is actually magic, you know,” he says conversationally.

Grius gives Will his full attention, and doesn’t immediately scoff, which is a good sign. Will decides to keep going.

“It’s a fantasy book with the magic to transport people to other worlds. Usually only for a short time. I can’t really give a demonstration right now, so it’s up to you if you believe me or not,” he chuckles weakly. But he doesn’t drop eye contact, and he makes it very clear that even if he’s laughing this isn’t a joke to him. “So maybe that’s how I got here. Maybe the prince’s book is magic too, and he brought me here with that.” He says the truth as if it’s a theory. He has nothing to lose by the admission, and there’s something thrilling about telling people fantastical things.

He waits with bated breath to see how his true fairy tale will be received. Grius looks about as incredulous as Will expected. The man isn’t much of a romantic.

But instead of denying him outright, Grius just shakes his head and sighs deeply. “How is it that you and the prince have barely exchanged words, and yet spout the same nonsense.”

Will wonders what nonsense of the prince Grius is referring to, but the mercenary doesn’t elaborate. He does seem a bit less aggressive, though, which is more than Will had hoped for.

“Have you read it? It’s good,” Will offers.

Grius scoffs. “And if I do, will that send me to another world?” he asks half sarcastic, half suspicious.

“Only metaphorically, like any other storybook. I told you I can’t demonstrate the magic right now.”

Grius bristles a bit. Maybe he thinks Will is making fun at his expense. Will tries to keep his expression open and inviting. Grius looks away and admits, quietly, “I’m not much good with my letters.”

And it reminds Will so much of Maria, who isn’t even born yet, that his heart breaks. “Well if you have time, I’d be happy to read it aloud to you. Really, nothing would make me happier. It’s kind of how I bond with new allies.”

Grius scoffs again, but there’s no heat in it this time. Will waits a little longer, patiently letting the offer linger. Until Grius says, “Some other time, perhaps. …Maybe you can read it together with the prince. He’d probably like that.”

“I’ll do that,” Will agrees, because that sounds amazing actually.

Grius takes his leave with a gruff nod of farewell. Will waves him goodbye with a smile, feeling warm and full and like he’s maybe regained a bit of what he lost.

Chapter Text

The Prince is sore everywhere.

He is awake but he really doesn’t want to move. All his muscles are in pain. Maybe he can just stay in his bed all day today.

He says so to Mister Russell, who has come to wake and dress him as usual. The scholar chuckles. “You’d like to stay in bed today? I suppose you won’t be taking breakfast with Will, then.”

And suddenly the Prince is sitting bolt upright because Will! Is! Real! And! Here! They told him Will was busy yesterday afternoon and to leave him be but now he gets to have breakfast with him?

The Prince is springing off the bed and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He demands that Russell get him ready away! The Prince’s schedule includes no plans to go outside his private chambers today. He rarely does have business outside, and yesterday was a notable exception to that. This means that after a quick wash up and grooming of his hair he’s allowed to attend breakfast wearing his most comfortable loose shirt. Since Will is assigned to him now (which is so thrilling he’s still not sure how to process it), the Prince isn’t required to be presentable before him like he would for any other court official.

The Prince barely sits still long enough for Russell to finish tying his laces before he’s bounding into the dining chamber. And his eagerness is rewarded, because there’s Will already sitting at the table, nursing a cup of fruit juice. A cup of milk has been set at the Prince’s usual seat, and there’s a buffet of fruits, cheeses, and meat spread out on the table. The Prince likes breakfast because he can usually eat it with his fingers and not get scolded.

“I’ll leave you both to your meal, but you can ring that bell there if you need anything. I’ll be back in an hour to start the prince’s lessons,” says Russell as he closes the door behind him

The Prince eagerly climbs into his chair, and greets, “Good morning, Will!”

“... Good morning, Your Highness. You seem in high spirits,” Will answers. His hero reaches for a piece of cheese. The Prince consciously selects a morsel of the exact same kind.

“That’s because you’re going to be my aide, now! That means I can ask you about all of your adventures!” he explains happily, before popping the cheese into his mouth. The flavor is a bit sharp and the Prince reflexively scrunches his face, but stubbornly takes another piece of the same.

“Ah. Yes. Are you… very familiar with my adventures?” Will asks, sounding a bit baffled.

And oh, of course, he should’ve thought of that! Of course the Prince knows all about Will, because Will is his friend from his book that he daydreams about all the time, but has Will ever met the Prince in any of those daydreams? He doesn’t think so.

The Prince has had lots of training about how to introduce himself, so he stands up and puts a hand over his heart. “I am the crown prince of Euchronia. I welcome you to these lands and hope your stay will be fruitful,” he proclaims seriously, bowing just slightly at the end.

Will mirrors him, standing up with hand on heart. “I am Will, a traveler pursuing my ideals. From today on I will be serving as Your Highness’s aide.” He bows lower than the Prince had, at a respectful angle, and holds it for a moment. Then ruins it by breaking into giggles as he straightens up.

The Prince is a bit shocked to suddenly be laughed at, but he supposes it is a bit strange to be finally introduced to his long-time friend in this way, and he can’t help but giggle too. And they maybe both look foolish like that, but there’s no one else around to judge.

“I have one more introduction to make, actually, but it’s something of a secret,” Will says with a finger to his lips.

A secret? His new-but-not best friend is going to share a secret with him? That’s so exciting! The Prince leans in eagerly to match Will’s own surreptitious posture. He sees Will go for the flap of his bag and lift it slightly. And then a blur of motion and suddenly he’s looking at a tiny winged person.

“This is Gallica. She’s a good friend of mine.”

The fairy, because she’s clearly a fairy, waves in greeting. “It’s good to meet you, Your Highness!”

Will has a fairy companion? How did he not know that Will has a fairy companion? This is the coolest thing ever, and it makes sense because of course an amazing hero like Will should have a close companion by his side that he trusts with his life. He feels like all of his daydreams were inadequate now for not featuring Gallica, Will’s trusted and wise adventuring partner.

The Prince has seen fairies before, of course, since there were a lot of them in the eldan forest, but they didn’t usually stay very long and they could be hard to understand. His mother said that’s because fairies don’t think the same as people. He’s never had one introduce themself before!

“It’s good to meet you too, Gallica!” he echoes brightly. To Will, he asks curiously, “Why is she a secret?”

Will grins mischievously. “That’s because Gallica is also a member of a covert resistance that fights for the safety of the crown. So she might go on secret missions sometimes to keep you safe.”

The Prince’s jaw drops. He is gobsmacked. The fairy is part of a secret resistance?? A secret resistance to protect him?? He isn’t sure how to handle this information. His brain might explode. It’s just too epic.

“I won’t tell a soul,” he whispers intensely.

“If it’s someone you trust, and you feel they should know, then tell them,” Will contradicts. “Just try not to draw attention to her. Fairies are very good at hiding their presence, but it's easier when no one is looking for them.”

The Prince nods so hard he makes himself dizzy. He can definitely do that.

“Now that introductions are done, let’s get back to breakfast, shall we. We shouldn’t let this good food go to waste,” Will suggests, returning to his seat. He grabs some cured meat this time. The Prince also takes his seat. And this time the fairy joins them, grabbing a small piece of fruit that’s still nearly as big as her head and then perching on top of the water pitcher to eat it. It’s incredibly adorable.

“You didn’t answer my question, I don’t think,” Will says after they’ve all had a bit more to eat. “About how you’re familiar with my adventures.”

The Prince nods. “Well, I recognized you right away, of course. Because you’re exactly how I always pictured you in my daydreams. And in those daydreams you climbed up tall mountains, and visited huge cities and beautiful gardens. Sometimes you fought bad guys or monsters. But I’m sure you had lots of other adventures I haven’t daydreamed about yet, and I thought maybe you could tell me about those.”

Will blinks. He blinks again.

He doesn’t answer, so the Prince fills the silence. “Or you could tell me about the utopia you’re from, I’d like to know more about that too. It sounds lovely. The people choose whoever they want to be in power, right? How does that work?”

Will seems more confused, not less. That’s not good. The Prince frets, “Maybe I’m not explaining it right. It’s all in my book. I’ll show you.” He moves to stand and grab his book from the other room.

“Wait,” says Will, “you mean this book, right?” And from his satchel, the same one where he hid his fairy, he pulls out a thick and familiar tome.

“You have my book!” the Prince cries in amazement. He moves over to Will’s side and peers at the volume. Will obligingly opens it up on his lap, flipping through the pages with intent before he reaches the chapter about choosing a ruler. It’s one of the prince’s favorite parts. It’s definitely the same book, inside and out.

Will hums affirmatively, but doesn’t match the Prince’s excitement. He seems serious and a little sad. “Your Highness. The world of this book, it isn’t a utopia,” he says.

And the Prince feels a bit like his own world is being shattered. “It’s not?” he asks, upset and confused. Will had been looking at him oddly the entire time the Prince was explaining things, like the Prince had been saying something wrong. The Prince understands Will perfectly, he thought, but Will doesn’t seem to understand him. All the other adults might not get it, but Will is the friend he wished into this world, he has to get it.

“No, it’s not,” Will explains gently, and the Prince hates it. Adults are always gentle when they’re telling you something terrible. “Because even though the majority of people get to choose who’s in charge, there’s a minority who didn’t choose the new leader. Did you know that?”

The Prince sniffles a bit. He shakes his head. He hadn’t thought about that before.

“The people who didn’t want the leader can be very angry sometimes. Even if the leader is a good leader, who wants to help everyone, his attempt to help one person might make another person jealous or resentful.”

“Why would they be angry about the leader helping people?” the Prince wonders, his curiosity overcoming his distress as he finds himself drawn into the tale.

“Lots of reasons, but often it’s because they either don’t understand or don’t agree with the leader’s dreams.”

“But you said this was a good leader!” the Prince protests. “You said their dream is to help everyone!”

Will smiles, sad and knowing. He puts a warm hand on the Prince’s back. “They definitely do want that. But helping everyone is hard, and takes a lot of hard work and change. Some people don’t want to change things because they like the way things are, or are afraid the change will make things worse for them.”

“Don’t they trust their leader? Why would the change be bad?” the Prince asks.

“They hope it won't be. But they know their leader is a person just like them, and makes mistakes sometimes. It’s actually good that people have doubts or disagree, you know. It means they’re thinking for themself about what they want the world to look like. A wise leader will listen to those doubts so he can learn how to help people better.”

“I, understand. I think,” the Prince says, although he’s not sure he does. That was all very confusing and abstract, and not at all as simple as it was in the book.

Will rubs his hand in soothing circles on the Prince’s back. He lets the words linger a while and gives the Prince time to process. The Prince grabs onto Will’s leg, and it helps to have something stable to cling to.

“My world…” Will starts hesitantly. “My world isn’t a utopia. It doesn’t really live up to the ideals written in this book. But we’re trying. That world is trying its best to make those ideals a reality. And it’s not always nice or easy but I can tell you more about it if you want.”

The Prince isn’t sure he can handle more right now. But he does want to know, about all the parts of that world that aren’t in his book, even the sad or difficult parts. Maybe that’s just a side effect of fantasy becoming real. The real thing is more awesome than his wildest dreams, but maybe it’s also more complicated than he had imagined too. Will probably had times in his adventures where he struggled or was sad, even if the Prince hadn’t witnessed it.

He buries his face further into Will’s leg in lieu of answering.

“I can also definitely tell you about my adventures. Do you know about the time me and my friends flew a gauntlet runner to a floating island?”

And the Prince has to unbury his face to look up at Will in shock. “Your gauntlet runner flew?” he asks in awe.

“Mhm. On wings and everything, like a bird. We could reach anywhere in the country in just a few days. It was really helpful for taking on a lot of bounty requests at once. We were able to reach the top of the rankings that way.”

“No way! Really?” The Prince is completely enthralled. Even if Will’s world isn’t really a utopia, Will himself is clearly perfect. Or maybe he’s not perfect either, but doesn’t that just make him more awesome? That Will is a person with flaws just like him, but can still do all these amazing things?

“Or I could tell you about the time my friends and I got swallowed by a giant worm. It was super gross and smelly inside, and full of monsters!”

“Eww, no way. How can there be monsters inside, wouldn’t they have gotten digested?”

“That wasn’t the strangest thing. There was an old man who’d been living in the worm’s throat for years! To study creepy crawly bugs!” Will wiggles his fingers menacingly to illustrate.

“No way, you’re just making this up to gross me out!” denies the Prince.

“I swear to you it’s all true. I couldn’t believe it either, like, what did he eat in there?” Will makes a face like he’s exceptionally grossed out, so at least the Prince isn’t the only one. “And you’ll never guess how we escaped.”

“How?” the Prince asks, leaning into Will’s space fully.

“Through its–”

The reveal is interrupted when the door is slammed open loudly and suddenly. The Prince jerks up to see who it is. Was Mister Russell back, was it time for lessons already? But to his surprise, it’s Dame Hulkenberg who stands at the door. “Will, come with me. You are needed.”

Wait, what do they want with Will? And why is Hulkenberg moving so urgently? It occurs to the Prince that he hadn’t seen her barely at all yesterday. He wonders where she’d been.

To the Prince, she adds, “Russell is waiting in the study. You should join him for lessons now.” The Prince’s alarm must be evident on his face, because she adds, “Nothing is wrong. There’s been some news on the investigation into the palace intruders.”

Knowing what happened makes it a bit less scary, and the Prince tries not to worry as Hulkenberg personally hands him off to Russell, and then takes Will with her and leaves. The Prince tries to focus on the lesson but it doesn’t really sink in. His mind keeps swirling with everything Will told him long after his friend’s departure.

Chapter Text

As Hulkenberg guides Will down the palace halls, he notes for the first time how small she looks. Well, no, not small, really. They're of the same height. But he's used to Hulkenberg towering above him, with her high heels and imposing shoulder pads. She always had a dominating and intimidating presence.

This younger Hulkenberg is clearly a strong and skilled knight. She'd have to be, to have been chosen as the prince's protector. But she lacks the lines of experience on her face, and her speech betrays a bit more forced bluster compared to the natural confidence she will wear in the future.

Also, the short hair really reduces her presence a bit. The older Hulkenberg's tresses were massive by comparison. They definitely added to her looming silhouette.

It occurs to Will that this younger Hulkenberg is almost cute. Like a younger sister. He's not sure what to do with this epiphany.

These thoughts distract him until Hulkenberg turns into a spare room where Grius is already leaned against the far wall waiting for them.

Hulkenberg closes the door firmly behind them and, having so established privacy, doesn't hesitate to dig into the meat of the conversation.

“There’s been news,” Hulkenberg announces as the three of them gather around a table in the center of the small room. Neither Hulkenberg nor Grius move to take a seat, so Will remains standing as well. “The church has discovered who was behind the attack.”

“Who was it?” demands Grius.

“Louis Guiabern. The military prodigy who’s risen sharply through the ranks in the past several years. It appears his success may come from unseemly tactics, and this was the latest ploy in his bid for greater power,” Hulkenberg diligently reports.

“That scoundrel,” curses Grius. He slams an angry first against the table. “How dare he! I’ll have his head for this!”

“Alces, I understand your fury, and I feel it deeply myself, but we cannot act recklessly lest we leave His Highness unguarded. Louis is young, yet his power surpasses even season war veterans like yourself. I fear even with a joint assault we’d stand no chance against his magical prowess,” Hulkenberg cautions.

“Even magicians have to sleep. I’m no knight, Hulkenberg. I’ve no honor I need to uphold. If this upstart is after the Prince, I’ll take him down in the most underhanded way possible.”

“Wait,” interrupts Will, who has been listening as this conversation grows eerily familiar to one from twelve years in the future. “Wait just a moment. Please.”

They both turn to face him, surprised, as if they had forgotten he was in the room. Even though Hulkenberg was the one to insist he be here for this. He’s glad she did, though, because this is all wrong.

“You’ve got the wrong man. It wasn’t Louis.” Because they need to know, he can’t let them make the same mistake they’d all made in the future. And Louis, he was a twisted man, but maybe his heart would be a little less dark if he hadn’t been subject to these false accusations.

“You would speak in his defense? Do you know the man?” Hulkenberg inquires, doubtful but curious.

“Yes, I mean, no, not personally,” Will stutters. Because he very much does know Louis but this Louis doesn't know him and he'd like to keep it that way. “And maybe he’d be capable of something like this, but he wasn’t behind this attack.”

Hulkenberg scoffs. “And how could you possibly know that? What evidence have you of his innocence?”

Part of Will doesn’t want to tell them, because what if he unwittingly condemns Junah’s sister twelve years early. But if he doesn't speak up now, Louis will take the fall and the church will have gotten away with their second assassination attempt with no one the wiser.

“I don't have evidence. And I really can’t explain how I know. But I can give you enough information for you to confirm it yourself,” he offers, praying it will be enough. “You need to speak to Rella Cygnus. She’s a young mage, twelve years old–”

“I know the one. A prodigy able to wield healing magic. How does she relate to this?”

And this is it. It's do or die. He knows the whole truth behind what happened that night, but can he explain it in a way that absolves Rella? And how willing is the Hulkenberg of this time to doubt the church, which maintains a reputation of absolute moral authority?

“Rella is, as you said, a prodigy. Her talent for magic isn't as powerful as Louis’s, but she has more control. She could be capable of equally great things if she had the ambition,” he begins.

“Do you mean to imply that Rella attacked the Prince? But why? She has no motive to do so, surely.”

“No, she doesn't,” Will agrees severely. “Rella is a well loved scion of an influential noble family. She excels in school. The church has taken an interest in her. Her future is practically guaranteed.” He pauses to let this sink in. “But by that same token, she's never had to question the authority around her.”

“Speak your point plainly,” Hulkenberg demands impatiently.

“A man of influence in the church called her for a meeting. It probably wasn't his first time speaking with her, everyone knows the church is angling to recruit her. He told her he has a mission for her from God, to serve the good of the country. And for that, someone had to die.”

“You speak as if you were there,” Hulkenberg accuses, bewildered.

Will ignores her, plowing on. “Even a twelve year old, no, especially a twelve year old can understand that murdering a child isn't in line with Sanctist morality. She refused. But the man had a trump card. Rella’s adopted sister, Junah. Rella loves her more than her own life, and the man threatened her, saying it was the prince’s life or Junah’s, that she had to choose. He presented a false dichotomy and pressured Rella into agreeing to something she never would've chosen. That's the truth of the incident that night.”

Grius interjects for the first time since Will began his story. He'd thus far seemed content to listen and see. “It's a nice story, very compelling. But it's just that. A story. You've not a scrap of evidence that any of that happened.”

“No, I don't,” Will agrees. “But Rella should. Hulkenberg​, were you able to wound the attacker at all?”

“Yes, I got them on the back as they retreated, but…”

“Rella will have used her healing magic to recover, but she should still have a scar. You can check for yourself if it matches the swing of your blade. But please remember, even if she was the attacker, she wasn't the mastermind. Her testimony will be our best chance of bringing the truth to light. If you can promise asylum for her sister, she should be willing to help.”

“If you knew of these treacherous plots, why not warn us sooner?” demands Hulkenberg. She’s practically gnashing her teeth, but Will knows it’s not him she’s truly angry at.

“I would have if I could. Believe me. I only want the prince to be safe. That’s a goal we share, I swear to you on my honor,” Will intones, hand on chest.

“While you’re in a chatty mood,” says Grius, “how about sharing who in the church was behind it. Do you have a name?”

Will does, but he's not sure that accusing the Sanctifex will go over well. “I think that’s something that you had better hear from Rella herself.”

Both Grius and Hulkenberg are clearly dissatisfied with this nonanswer. But Will has said his piece. It's up to them what they do with that information.

Hulkenberg and Grius glance at each other, communicating something with their expressions that Will can't guess at.

Hulkenberg squares her shoulders, “I will follow up on this lead immediately. If your information should prove false, you will be harshly judged.” She turns away from him with a swoosh of her cape and storms off.

This leaves Will and Grius alone in the room together. Grius gives him a flat look. “Did you learn all that from your magic book too?” he asks.

Will scratches his cheek nervously. “Not exactly.”

Grius harrumphs, and follows Hulkenberg out the door. Will hopes he hasn't made a big mistake.

—

The prince is still taking his lessons once Will returns. The meeting hadn't taken long at all, really. Will shouldn’t distract him, so he retreats to his private room instead. He flops on the bed face first, letting his limbs hang everywhere.

“Gallica?” he says into the mattress.

“Right here, Captain,” she answers from above his head.

“What are we gonna do about Louis?”

Several beats of silence. Then he can feel a tiny hand on his forehead. It rubs back and forth. “Do we need to do anything about Louis?” she returns. There's no judgement in her voice as to what she thinks his answer should be.

Will rolls over onto his back, tilting his neck up to look at her upside down. “Well, yeah?” he answers, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “I mean, even if he hasn't tried to assassinate anyone, he's still gonna start creating humans in a few years. That's going to hurt so many people.”

Gallica hmms. “Like you said though, not for another few years. Which means if we change what happens now, maybe that will change too.”

Will sighs, because that was also his hope, but, “Rella said that she read his magla during the investigation after the assault. That's right now. It means that Louis is already set on his plan at this point.”

“Shoot, you're right,” Gallica agrees with a frown. “That's not good. And he already has all the notes from the Eldan Sanctum that he used to figure out how to make his vision a reality.”

“Yeah.” Will lays flopped on the bed for a bit. He doesn't feel inclined to move. Gallica mirrors his posture and drapes herself against his forehead. Her wings twitch a bit against his face, and it tickles pleasantly. “Do you think I could talk to him? Would it make a difference?”

“As one elda to another? Maybe. But he doesn't know who you are, so probably won't listen to what you have to say. Given how hard it was to get his attention in the future.”

“Yeah, he said he only respects power,” Will agrees. Then realizes the full implications of that. “Which I have now, actually? Louis hasn't reached his full strength, I could probably beat him in a fight at this point.”

“Yeah, but would losing to you once cause him to give up? That man is really stubborn,” Gallica grumbles.

“Or.” Will pauses as the thought takes form in his head. “Artificially turning people into humans has got to be pretty complicated magic, right?”

Gallica nods, “Yeah, I mean, he said it involved flooding people with magla, but if that's the case it should have happened way more often during the church's igniter experiments. From what I could sense when he cast it on you, he was doing something really specific.”

“So,” Will suggests, holding up a pointer finger into the air, “what if we go with our plan two? Steal the magic formula.”

Gallica flies off Will’s face to stare down at him. Then she laughs. “How come we're in a completely different set of circumstances, yet we're still down to either killing Louis or robbing him? It's like we're back at the start of our adventure.”

Will laughs with her a little, but his heart isn't in it. Morosely he admits, “I'd really rather not kill Louis if I can help it.”

“Well yeah. He's another survivor from your home. You both share the same pain. Of course you don’t want to kill him. So let's not. We can confiscate all of his research materials so he has no way to hurt anyone!” she declares.

“You seem a little too excited about theft,” Will teases with a smile. He can't help but smile at her, he appreciates her so, so much in this moment. She understands him better than he understands himself sometimes. He'd be lost without her. “But yeah, it's a good idea. If it doesn't work, if he finds a way even without his notes… I guess we'll figure that out when the time comes.”

“It's a plan, then. I can follow Louis from a distance and try to look into where he keeps his things in this time period.”

“That'd be a huge help, Gallica. I’d like to come with, but I'm not sure I should leave the prince alone right now, in case Forden tries to finish the job. Just, be careful alright?”

“You too, Will.” She says, and then disappears. It makes him uneasy to see her go, but Will knows he has to trust her on this one.

His room feels significantly darker without the glow of his fairy friend, and suddenly he doesn't want to be here anymore. Maybe he'll go check in on the prince's lessons after all.

Chapter Text

The Prince is so done with this lesson.

He has checked out completely. At some point Mister Russell is going to ask him a question and the Prince will have no idea how to answer.

“Your Highness, what can you tell me about how the tax rates of grain fluctuate in times of poor harvest.”

The Prince has no idea. Theoretically the answer should be in the account books he has in front of him, but the numbers all kind of blur together.

Russell is gonna scold him again…

As the Prince is wondering which answer he can best fake to get in the least amount of trouble, the door to the lesson room opens. “Mind if I sit in?” asks the voice of his hero.

Russell replies, “Not at all. Perhaps your presence can enrich the lesson.”

Will takes a seat next to the Prince.

“Will?” the Prince asks, “Do they have taxes in your world?”

Russell raises an eyebrow steeply at this. He seems surprised. The Prince remembers he hasn’t told Russell yet that Will is his friend from another world.

“I think they have taxes in every world,” Will laughs. “Actually, I know someone who was campaigning to be leader under the premise that he’d get rid of all taxes.”

“Would that actually work?” the Prince asks, curious and a bit eager. He would love to have an excuse not to learn all these complicated tax codes, if that’s an option.

“Hm.” Will doesn’t answer immediately. “Your Highness, what do you think taxes are for?” he asks instead.

Oh, now Will is quizzing him too. But he knows this one, he thinks. “It pays for the king’s army so he can protect everybody. And also it pays for everything in the palace, like the clothes we wear and the food we eat.”

“Russell, does that seem correct to you?” Will asks.

“More or less. There’s more detail into how the palace budgets its income, of course, but we haven’t gotten to that in the curriculum yet.”

To the Prince, Will asks, “And how do you suppose the people benefit when the king eats good food and wears really fancy clothing.”

This seems like a trick question. “Um. It helps maintain his authority,” the Prince guesses. “If the king wears fancy clothes, people know they need to listen to him.”

Will smiles at him. “That’s very good, yes. But it’s also true that the king could spend much more money on food and nice things, way more than he needs to establish his authority. Then he might raise the taxes to afford those nice things, and none of the common people would benefit.”

“Oh. So are taxes not necessary after all?” The Prince really isn’t sure where this is going. Did he give the right answer or not?

“Did you know, I actually argued with this candidate personally once. I told him, he wouldn’t actually like it if there were no taxes at all. Because like you said, the taxes help pay for the army that protects everyone. It helps with other things, too, like building walls or roads. His suggestion of entirely removing taxes would harm more than help,” Will explains.

And wow, Will just straight up told a person who might become a ruler that his ideas were wrong? He wonders if the other person listened. Probably. The Prince can’t imagine anyone not listening to Will.

“But you know,” Will says, “I don’t think I really gave enough thought to his feelings about it. He had to pay a lot of money to the king and he didn’t have any guarantee his life would be better for it. I think what that candidate really wanted, and what a lot of people would like, is some guarantee that their king will use the money fairly in a way that helps the most people. If the candidate had instead campaigned for accountability, for the people to have some visibility and voice on how much money is taken and how it's used, I think that would’ve been really something,” he says wistfully.

The Prince screws up his face. “But wouldn’t that be hard? Like you said before, everyone has different ideals and dreams for what they want. So they probably all have different ideas for where the money should go, too.”

“Exactly right,” Will agrees wholeheartedly, and the Prince glows under the praise. “We haven’t really figured that part out yet. For now, we mostly hope the leader will be wise and empathetic and listen to a lot of people, and that he’ll make the best decision possible, for the right reasons.”

“And if he doesn’t, then the people can make them leave and choose someone else as leader, right? That’s how it works in your world?” the Prince asks eagerly.

Will makes a weird face. “Um. Oh. Yeah, of course,” Will says, much less eloquently than usual. “I’m… not too sure about the details of that though. I’ve never seen it happen myself.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” the Prince asks. “That means your leader was good.”

Will smiles but it’s sad. “I think our leaders all tried their best.”

In the lull in the conversation, Russell says, “You seem very informed, Mister Will. Perhaps I should have you teach some of these lessons.”

“I’m flattered you think so. I’m still learning a lot myself,” Will demurs. “I’ve just realized it’s important to ask questions about why things are the way they are, and whether we actually want them to be that way. To really think and talk about how we might like the world to work instead. Even it may not be clear how to effect that change.” His speech carries with it a weight of experience. The Prince can tell he isn’t saying this offhand, that this is something Will believes in deeply to his very core. Then, in contrast with the intensity of the moment, Will adds with a laugh, “I don’t think I could explain tax codes, though. I think I’ll leave that up to you, Russell.”

Does Will realize how radical that way of thinking seems in this world? He must not, given how easily he dismissed his own abilities. The Prince has never heard anyone say anything like this before. His book is the only thing that comes close. And sure, he’s only six and doesn’t go outside much, but he’s pretty sure he’s right. He thinks this world would be a much better place if there were other people like Will in it.

“I’ll take that into consideration when revising the lesson plan. Thank you, Mister Will. And Your Highness,” he adds with a knowing look, “try to pay attention next time. We will go over this content as many times as it takes for you to recite it from memory.”

“...Yes, Mister Russell,” the Prince groans.

—

Russell calls an end to the lesson early, for which the Prince is very grateful. He’s encouraged to use the free time for play. Normally, the Prince’s first instinct would be to grab his favorite book and go read in the courtyard, but since Will is physically here in the real world now, that seems like such a waste! Not that he doesn’t still love his book. He’s extra grateful to it since it brought him his new friend. But still!

Now that Will is here with him, he doesn’t have to imagine adventures, he can go on adventures!

…Or so he’d like to think. But he’s still not allowed outside his chambers. This puts a bit of a damper on his plans.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here,” Will says after the Prince shares his complaints. “I can try and ask the king about taking you on a day trip sometime. But it might not be for a while,” he cautions before the Prince can get too excited. “Now isn’t a good time to go outside.”

“Everyone always says that,” the Prince grumbles.

“Maybe, but it’s exceptionally true now. But maybe we have a little adventure of our own in here?” Will suggestions, gesturing to the play room they’re both in.

It’s a nice room. Large, with soft carpet. It has a toy horse and a toy castle and lots of books with pictures. It’s nice, but it’s not that special. The air is stale. There’s no magic or adventure to be found.

“Oh, that’s…” Will is looking in the corner.

The Prince follows his gaze, and sees a sword in a stand in the corner. He feels sad looking at it. “That’s my mom’s. It was one of her only possessions to survive the fire,” he tells Will.

“I’m sorry,” says Will. “That you lost her. That must’ve really hurt.” He kneels down so he’s the same height as the Prince when he says it.

The Prince shakes his head in denial. “I don’t… I don’t even remember her. I can’t ever picture her face anymore,” the Prince admits as tears run down his face.

Will puts his arms around the Prince and pulls him in close. “But you still miss her, don’t you.” It’s not a question, and the Prince is too busy crying to answer anyways. “It’s sad and lonely that she’s not here. It’s sad because you can’t see her anymore.”

“I. I miss her. I miss home. I don’t like it here, it’s dark and lonely and there’s no magic and no one looks the same as me, and, and, and I know they don’t want me here anyways but they won’t let me leave so I’m just stuck here!” cries the Prince. He’s not sure what he’s saying but he feels awful and he can’t stop. “And I try to be a good prince like father wants, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m just not, not good enough. For him, or for anyone. I miss my mom!!”

He’s sobbing like a baby and it’s embarrassing but it’s also not because it’s Will and he knows Will is nice and won’t make fun of him. Will who is still holding him in a loose embrace, who moves one hand up to thread into the Prince’s hair. Who pulls the back of the Prince’s head into his own chest. Will, who says nothing at all but holds him steady as the Prince crawls onto his lap and cries more than he’s ever been allowed to before. Because Will is safe and the Prince is sad. Maybe he has been sad for a long time now.

It's an unknowable time later when the Prince's sobs peter out. His body is shaking and he feels physically exhausted. But his head just feels kinda tired and empty.

Will is rubbing soft circles on his back while the other hand still cradles his head. “It's not fair, is it,” Will says quietly. “It's not fair that your mom is gone. You didn't ask to be the prince. And you didn't choose to be born an elda. Yet because of this, so many burdens are placed on your shoulders.”

“It's st-stupid. Why does it matter that I'm an elda. Why did they burn down my home?” he asks through hiccuping sobs.

Will strokes the hand on his back up, then down, then up again. “Sometimes…” he starts hesitantly, “sometimes when people are scared, they look for someone to blame. Because they're afraid, they lash out and hurt other people. But that doesn't make it okay. You didn't deserve that. None of the elda deserve it. How they treat you isn't okay.”

“If I become king, can I make them stop?” the Prince asks a question that's been on his mind for a while. “Can I make this a country where it doesn't matter what you're born as, and no one hates others for things they can't control?” Like in the book. That's his favorite part, really. The most fantastical part. If he can make another wish on the book, he thinks he'd like to make that part become real too.

Will doesn't answer right away and it makes the Prince nervous. He knows it's a fantastical idea and it's not realistic. But he wants it so badly.

“Yes,” Will says. “It won't be easy, and it won't happen right away. You'll have to stick to your ideals and convince others to accept and share those ideals. And even after you do, it won't be perfect. But you definitely can. I'm sure if it's you, you can do it.

“And,” Will adds, “you won't be alone. I'll share your ideals with you. And if you feel overwhelmed, I'll support you. It's a promise.”

The Prince sniffles. He's glad Will believes in him. Really he'd be crushed otherwise. But he's also really tired from having so many feelings today.

“Hey Prince,” Will asks, “do you want to see some magic?”

Chapter Text

When Gallica had first talked about the prince's sword riding hobby, it hadn't occurred to Will to think much of it. He'd been focused on getting a chance to ride a floating sword and trying not to hurt himself or others. It had been a throwaway comment.

Will can personally confirm that riding on a flying sword is extremely dangerous. He has fallen. He has cut himself. He has very narrowly avoided impaling innocent passersby.

It's not really a hobby a child barely older than six should be trusted with.

Looking at the Legacy Sword now, and the young prince, Will can vaguely dig up his memories of that period. It'd been after the curse, and after the retreat to the Eldan Sanctum. The prince had run off on his own a lot during that time. He'd been more reckless, impatiently so, because could feel his body failing him day by day.

There were fairies everywhere in the forest, of course, and a couple had stumbled across his little hideaway under a tree where he'd curled up with his father's book and his mother's sword for company. One of the fairies had excitedly recognized the sword as belonging to their late and much beloved queen, who was well known for flying on it and doing stunts before an adoring public.

She had asked the prince if he could fly on it and give them a show. Will knows now that most fairies are a bit… disconnected with the concerns of most sentient life. They don't have much concept of life, death, age, and danger. They just care for what is fun and interesting. So it was ignorance rather than malice that fueled the request.

The him back then, the prince, had been shocked and thrilled that his mother's sword was magic and could be ridden on. But he apologized that unfortunately, he didn't know how. He couldn't use magic yet.

The fairies had both protested that this was no problem at all. They channeled magic into the sword, just as Gallica had done for Will when they first arrived in Grand Trad, and it rose just ever so slightly above the ground.

After that, the prince had of course hopped on to the sword, only to immediately crash spectacularly, sending him and the sword flying in opposite directions. The fairies, of course, thought this was quite fantastic and cheered him on for another go.

The fairies gossiped among each other, and soon most of the forest fairies knew about the prince’s sport, and there was always someone willing to power his sword with their magic (and several others eagerly gathered as spectators). Whether the prince succeeded or failed, the fairies thought it great fun, and the prince, encouraged by their enthusiasm, took to it with determined resolve.

It had been fun, Will reflected, but also wildly dangerous. It's a miracle he didn't get injured beyond a few scrapes and bruises. He's not sure if any of the elda or Resistance had known about it, because it seemed like the kind of sport any responsible adult would put a stop to.

Given this line of thought, what he intends to propose might be a bit hypocritical.

“Magic??” the prince asks from Will's lap with a distinct twinkle in his eyes.

“Mhm,” Will says seriously. “Did you know,” and here he leans down a little, speaking lowly as if imparting a great secret, “that your mother was a great mage?”

“She was?” the prince asks, starstruck and a bit heartbroken. And that hurts Will a little, to remember that no one had talked to him about his mother after her death. His father was the only one in the palace to have known her, and he'd been too grief stricken to mention how wonderful she must've been in life.

Will is maybe a little bitter about that. But now isn't the time.

“Yes,” he answers the prince, “one of the best. The elda know many magic secrets, and she was the greatest among them. And do you know, her sword was magic too.”

“It is??” the prince asks excitedly, looking to the sword and back to Will repeatedly.

“It is. It was forged using magla, so it can channel magic. And here's the special things.” Will cups one hand to the side of his mouth and speaks in a performative whisper, “It can fly.”

The prince immediately leaps off of Will's lap and runs over to the sword, circling it and staring at it intensely as if he could find some secret switch that could trigger the magic. Thankfully he does go so far as to grab or touch any of the sharp bits.

Will takes the sword from its stand and holds it carefully away from the eager prince. It occurs to him that he's now holding the same sword in his hand as is on his hip, although the latter has a constant glow of enchantment so it's unlikely anyone will make the connection. Likewise to how no one is likely to make the connection between Will and the mini-me at his hip.

Will sets the sword down towards the center of the room, where there is the most clearance. The area isn't huge, but it's enough to move in a wide circle.

The first time he'd flown on the sword, as Will, Gallica had been the one to channel magic through it. But Gallica was still off on her scouting mission. Still, by now Will has enough experience with the mage Archetype and with channeling magic through his sword in combat, it should be no trouble to do on his own.

Before he does so, he faces the prince (who is still circling the sword at a barely-safe distance with increasing interest) and warns him, “Flying on a sword can be extremely dangerous. Your mother was very good at it, but it took her a lot of time and practice to get there. So I need you to promise me you won't try riding it on your own without me there to supervise.”

The Prince looks up at him in shock. “You can fly on the sword?!”

Will smiles, “We both can, so long as you're very very careful. I'll give you a hand and help you balance. But try to not make any sudden movements and to keep your weight centered. If you're not careful, we'll have to stop right away, okay?”

The prince nods so vigorously that Will worries for his neck. “I'll be careful. I can be the most careful!” the prince declares at an uncomfortably intense volume.

“Okay. Just remember, it's still a weapon.” And with less flourish than usual, Will carefully stands on the sword and channels enough magic into to lift off the ground.

The prince’s response can't be categorized as words so much as an incomprehensible and excited sequence of shrieking.

Will puts his back foot on the ground for stability and motions the vibrating prince to stand in front of him. He offers the prince a hand up as the prince puts one hesitant food on the flat of the sword nearest the hilt.

“It's really holding me up,” the Prince says to Will, looking stunned.

“Did you think it wouldn't?” Will asks with a laugh. “Here, try putting your other foot on. You can hold on to me for balance, although with practice you should be able to rely on me less and to use your muscles to compensate for the shifting movement of the sword. Bending your knees can help a bit. You'll want to face sideways, not forwards, and to put your weight on the ball of your feet– there, yes, just like that.”

There's not much room on the sword for two people, so Will stays towards the rear of the sword with his left leg and keeps his right on the ground. He places his hands on the sides of the prince’s torso so he can steady him if necessary. And then, as gently as he can, he pushes forward with his right foot.

Almost immediately, the prince loses his balance and starts tilting backwards. Will secures his grip in response until he's basically supporting the prince's whole weight.

“Careful. Try to see if you can steady your center of gravity over the sword. You did very good keeping your feet steady, that's better than I did on my first try.”

Determined, the prince pushes against Will to come back to an upright standing position again. He bends his legs again, a little more than necessary, but those are the kind of details that come with muscle memory and practice.

This time, when Will pushes off with his back foot, the prince only wobbles a little, but otherwise keeps himself braced against the forward momentum. Will carefully pushes them in a slow, wide circle of the playroom. They nearly complete a full semi-circle before the prince suddenly loses his footing and falls forward to the floor. Will immediately stops the flight and grabs the sword before it can fall to the ground. “Your Highness, are you alright?”

One look confirms that the prince is relatively unharmed, because the boy is pushing to his feet and giggling uncontrollably. “That was amazing!” the prince shouts. “Again, again, please can we go again?” He doesn't seem injured, thankfully, and learning to fall safely is an important part of picking up a sport that will necessarily involve a lot of falling. So Will supposes it could've gone worse.

Will offers a few tips on how to fall safely away from the sword if the prince notices he's going to fall again. And otherwise he helps the prince back on the sword, which takes much less time than the first attempt now that the prince knows how to find his footing, and once again starts them on a slow guide.

The prince falls another couple times, but he picks up the necessary balance quickly and is able to stay on longer with less support from Will on each subsequent attempt.

It's to the scene of Will and the prince trying for just a little more speed this time that the door opens to admit a tired looking Grius.

“Your Highness, it's time for– What the devil is going on here?!”

—

Grius is very unimpressed with the both of them. After he has a moment to calm down and assess the situation, the guard proceeds to yell at the prince and his aide about the recklessness of their activity and how they could've gotten stabbed, and was Will trying to get His Highness killed?

The prince is very vocal in Will’s defense saying that Will had taught him how to be safe and careful and had been holding him the whole time. This earnest appeal seems only to make Grius angrier, but it also directs some of the ire away from Will and may be the only reason Will is not made to face worse consequences.

As it stands, Grius confiscates the sword. “Magic sword flying most certainly falls under swordsmanship lessons,” Grius argues. “You'll not be attempting this again without my explicit permission and supervision. And you can bet you'll not be getting that until I'm convinced you know your way around a sword forwards and backwards.” He glares at the both of them something fierce. “And that counts for you too, Will. I expect you to join us for the next swordsmanship lesson. I plan to make sure you can properly use that hunk of metal on your hip.”

It's harsh, but it's not as bad as it could be. Underneath all the bluster and protective fervor is the implication that Grius will let them try for sword riding lessons again, eventually.

(Will could still fly on his own copy of the sword, of course, but best not to let that on to Grius or the prince. He really can't afford to have the Dragon’s Legacy confiscated for a moment of whimsy.)

“I'm sorry I got your sword taken away,” Will says to the prince after Grius has finished his tirade and stormed off. Apparently his initial purpose in coming to the play room had been to summon the prince for lunch, so now Will and the prince were both taking lunch together in the dining room.

“It's alright,” the prince brushes off, “That was so worth it. I got to fly on a sword, like in a real adventure! And now Alces is gonna teach me to fly on a sword, too. Which means he's gonna hafta teach me magic!” The prince is beaming, so he really must not be too sad about them getting in trouble and losing his heirloom.

“Can Alces use magic?” Will asks. He didn't think Grius had ever studied as a mage.

“He can use an igniter, like everyone else. I want to try using one too, but Alces says I'm not ready yet,” the prince kicks his legs under the table, which serves as an indication of his impatience but also a demonstration of how short his legs still are.

Oh shoot. Right. Igniters. Those are still the predominant form of magic in this time. Well, they had been in the future too, but with Brigitta’s help he'd managed to do away with the unsafe varieties and also root out and ban every last remnant of the illegal experimentation labs. Which hasn't happened yet.

Of course, the mage academy also hasn't shut down yet, so igniters also don't have quite the monopoly they'd had at the start of Will’s journey. He's not sure exactly when the unethical experimentation had started. The church had become increasingly bold in the years prior to the king's death, he thinks, but had they been operating this far back? And had it been open or a secret? Does the king know about it and condone it through inaction?

It doesn't help that he has no memories of the ten year period between when the prince had fully succumbed to the curse and when Will had first awoken. He has a lot of gaps in his knowledge of current (now future) events compared to an average citizen.

He puts the thought to the side for a moment, and tries not to think of a certain band of paripus brothers suffering torture at who knows what location. He doesn't even know if that's happened yet.

It has to stop, regardless. Will needs to figure out a plan. He'll probably have to seek the king's support to have any chance of shutting down an operation of that size.

“Will, are you listening?” the prince asks.

Will was not, in fact. “Sorry, I missed that. Could you say it again?”

The prince pouts at him. “You seemed like you were thinking about something very hard.”

“Oh, just some ideas I have for this country, I guess. I'd like to run them by the king sometime, if I can get another audience with him,” Will admits truthfully while omitting most of the detail.

“I'm sure you could. The king likes you,” the prince says, putting a spoonful of soup into his mouth. It's said matter-of-factly, but there's a hint of underlying petulance.

Will stirs his own soup thoughtfully. “I've been wanting to talk to him about you as well, actually,” he admits.

“...Why?” the prince asks, clearly fearing a negative answer.

“I was thinking it might be good for you to make some social connections with your peers. It’s a good move politically, and it’s important for you to get practice meeting new people. At least,” Will says with a cheeky grin, “that’s how I plan to pitch it to the king. Mostly, I just think it’d be good if you could make a friend closer to your age.”

The prince’s eyes seem to literally glitter. Will’s not sure how they’re doing that, but the effect is intensely adorable. “Would you really? Can I?”

Will can’t actually guarantee it, since the king has the final say, and he almost regrets bringing it up to the prince first because the child will definitely be devastated if Will fails to deliver. Maybe he could sneak the prince out? Would that be treasonous? No, he’ll just have to convince the king no matter what. He can’t let down this expectant face.

“Yes, count on it,” he promises.

Chapter Text

The Prince has had his entire life turned on end. He’s not entirely sure he didn’t die and go to heaven in that attack. Will has just made everything better.

He’s happy to note that the other members of his household have seemed to warm to Will. Which makes sense because Will is the best and really nice and it’s hard to imagine anyone not liking him. Even Alces seems to be warming up to him. He’s sure Will would have gotten in a lot more trouble yesterday otherwise.

It is the day after Will and his sword riding adventure, and the two of them are standing at attention in the courtyard under Alces’s sharp gaze. The mercenary is clearly still cross with them for playing with swords behind his back, but the Prince can’t find it in his heart to be sorry about it.

“Will, you will join His Highness in his practice drills today. I will be evaluating your form and the prince’s progress. But I’m not getting paid to teach you, Will, so if you fall behind, don’t expect any favors.

“After that, provided Will can prove he knows the basics, he’ll be joining me in a practice duel. Your Highness, I expect you to pay close attention. There’s no substitute for training your muscle memory, but you can learn a lot from watching a proper sword fight.”

The Prince has his usual wooden practice sword, but Will wields his own sword, the one he arrived with on that first fateful day. It continues to glow a bright white, as it always does when it’s removed from its sheath, but the effect is much subtler in the bright morning sunlight.

The Prince and Will are both instructed through the Prince’s usual series of drills: mostly practice swings, but with some footwork exercises mixed in. The Prince quickly feels the strain even with the relatively lighter wooden sword. Will, the Prince can see from his periphery, doesn’t seem to tire at all. The older elda is holding a much heavier sword, but his swings are steady and controlled from start to finish. His arms don’t shake at all even on later reps when the Prince’s own muscles are shaking and his form worsens for it.

Alces motions the Prince to stop his own swings. The merc has told him before that if he’s too tired to do the motions correctly, it’s better not to do them at all. But he demands Will to keep going. With Alces setting the pace, the two adults swing with additional speed and force. The Prince watches, arms numb, as the two complete at least twice as many reps as he himself had done. He didn’t realize until this moment how easy Alces has been going on him, relatively speaking. It’s a bit embarrassing.

He knows they both must have trained for a long time to get where they are, and he can’t grow up all in one day. But he can’t help but be frustrated. The Prince is quite sure that he must be lacking talent in this area. His muscles aren’t very defined, and he never feels any less tired after practice.

Meanwhile, the two have halted their swings and are both visibly sweating now.

“Not bad, lad. You’ve got stamina and a strong grip,” Alces praises.

“Does this mean I pass?” Will asks cheekily.

“Now don’t get a big head. But you’ll do well enough for a spar. I’ll enjoy putting you through your paces properly,” Alces says with a vicious grin.

Both men gather in the center of the courtyard, and the Prince is shuffled off to sit on a stone bench where he’ll be in sight but safely out of range. The Prince bounces in place and kicks his feet in anticipation. He grips the front of the bench tightly.

The combatants both take ready positions facing each other with swords raised. There’s maybe three armspans of distance between them. Alces calls, “Your move, brat.”

“If you insist,” answers Will before he ducks low and runs right at Alces, swinging his sword in a wide horizontal sweep toward the other’s waist.

Alces parries it smoothly, with only a small grunt indicating he felt the blow at all. “Transparent. You project your attacks from a mile away,” he critiques while pushing Will’s sword away and smoothly carrying the momentum into a fierce strike of his own.

Will is forced to jump back to narrowly evade the blade. Alces makes no move to press his advantage, instead returning to his ready stance. “Again. Surely you can do better than that?”

Will grits his teeth. This time, he dashes around from the side and aims low toward Alces’s legs. The mercenary sidesteps the assault and kicks at Will, causing the younger to stumble and nearly fall. “You overreached, boy. You’re full of openings. Do you expect to win fights on offense alone?”

Will’s expression only grows more determined. He adjusts his stance, and closes the gap with a series of blows in rapid succession. “That’s more like it,” says Alces as he counters each swing, “You’re really bringing your strength to bear. But your opponent isn’t going to sit there and take it!” In a maneuver too fast for the Prince to follow, Alces dodges under Will’s overhead slash and slams the butt of his sword into Will’s gut, causing the latter to stumble backwards. “If I’d used the sharp end for that, you’d be dead.”

Before Will can regain his footing, Alces is bearing down on him with a sequence of heavy strikes, forcing Will to take a step backward as he parries each one. “Your footwork is garbage. I’ve got you completely off-balance. Your stance is fine when you stand still but you lose your stability as soon as you’re forced to move.” Each critique is emphasized by the ringing of steel on steel.

With a final clang, Alces knocks Will’s sword arm out and kicks him in the chest. Will, who is already overbalanced, falls gracelessly to the ground. Alces brings his blade to Will’s throat and uses his left foot to step on Will’s right wrist, which is still clutching onto his sword. “You’re faster than me, stronger too, but it’s a hundred years too early for you to think about beating me,” Alces pronounces from his position of absolute domination.

After a moment, Alces lowers his blade and offers Will his hand. Will grabs it and uses it to leverage himself up.

Will shakes his head, audibly panting. “It’s been a while since I’ve fought with just a sword. I might’ve overestimated myself,” he admits sheepishly.

“Is this not your usual weapon, lad?” Alces asks curiously as he wipes the dust off his blade and returns it to its sheath.

“Ah, no, I mostly use a sword. I mean, sometimes as needed I’ve used a lance or blunt weapons but I haven’t trained with any of them. It’s more that I’m a bit more used to using, well, magic in my fights. Maybe I’ve been relying on that too heavily.”

“Magic’s powerful, aye, but a blade will serve you in ways magic cannot. You keep that in mind too, Your Highness.”

The Prince has been watching with rapt attention as his hero was overpowered by his swordsmanship instructor. He thinks he has discovered a newfound respect for Alces. Will isn’t weak, after all, so Alces must just be that strong!

“Will. You’ll be joining us for every one of the prince’s lessons going forward. It’s a waste for someone with so much potential to be so utterly haphazard with a blade.”

—

“I think you did really well!” the Prince assures Will loyally after they’re dismissed from the lesson. “You were super fast, and your sword was like wham! Bam!” The Prince illustrates by making slashing motions with his arm to accompany the sounds.

Will laughs at this. “Thanks. But it’s fine, I’m kind of glad to lose to someone who’s trying to help me instead of kill me for once.”

“Do people try to kill you a lot?” the Prince asks curiously. He knows in the utopia that people don’t solve disputes with violence, but he also knows that Will fights baddies and monsters so maybe his world isn’t so peaceful after all.

“... A bit,” Will admits. “There was this one man who really believed that power was the highest ideal to strive for. To him, power was society’s ‘justice.’ I had to stop him from hurting a lot of people.” Somberly, he adds, “I ended up having to use force to do that. And in a way, it was like I was agreeing with his ideals and meeting him on his terms. I’m not proud of that, but even now I’m not sure if there was any other way.”

The Prince tugs on Will’s coat. “I’m sorry the bad man tried to kill you. It wasn’t your fault. That’s what Russell tells me, he says that the bad people who try to hurt me are doing it for bad reasons, and it’s not my fault. So it’s not yours either.”

“Russell is very wise,” Will agrees. “You’re right. It’s not either of our faults.”

The Prince watches Will’s face carefully. Will really doesn’t seem to be sad, so that’s good.

“What kind of magic do they have in your world? I thought the book said your world doesn't need sorcery.” He’s very curious about what kind of magic they might use in another world.

“Oh. Well, uh, not needing isn’t the same as not having,” Will explains. “And the magic my friends and I use is very rare, besides.”

“Can I see?” the Prince asks eagerly.

“Uh, no. I don’t think this is a good place for that.” Cupping his hand to his face and leaning in close, he clarifies, “I’m keeping my true abilities a secret so I can catch the bad guys unawares.”

Ugh!! That’s so cool!! But also so disappointing! The Prince feels so conflicted!

“Alright. But you have to show me eventually, okay? Otherwise I might die of disappointment,” the Prince warns seriously.

“Sure thing,” Will agrees easily. “It’s a promise.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a couple days since Will last saw Hulkenberg, so when she shows up one afternoon and demands Will follow, he’s more relieved than nervous. He gets a sense of deja vu as she once again strides through the castle and shoves him into an empty room. Once again, Grius is already there.

Hulkenberg locks the door behind them, and takes them into a second inner room which she also locks. Only then does she turn to face Will fully. “Sanctifex Forden?! Really?!” she half whispers, half yells.

“You talked to Rella, then, I take it?” Will asks even as he knows the answer.

“Sanctifex. Forden!!” Hulkenberg repeats at a louder volume. “The head of the largest religion in Euchronia. The man who all citizens trust to act according to the will of God. THAT is who ordered the prince dead?!”

Will is very glad he decided not to provide a name and instead left it to Rella. This seems to have been the right choice based on the current explosion of disbelief.

Will can only confirm what she already knows. “The very same.”

“How are we meant to protect the prince against the entire church of Sanctism? Are we meant to murder a man of the cloth? The people would riot!”

Hulkenberg seems to have been holding this rant in for some time. Grius doesn’t look overly surprised, so Will assumes he was told slightly earlier and has had some time to process.

Grius speaks up, “Even if we could, someone else’d just replace him. It would only give the church cause to retaliate.” He shakes his head and frowns. “If the entire church is against us, this is a battle of politics now. It’s beyond our means to fight. The king is the only one with a chance of condemning the church.”

“Then we tell the king. He must have the Sanctifex deposed at once!” demands Hulkenberg with righteous fury.

“It’s not that simple,” Grius counters. “The king isn’t popular himself right now. If it’s his word against Forden’s, he might not come out on top. Where’s the girl? Can she testify?”

“I’ve taken her and her sister and given them shelter with a noble family who I know to be loyal to the king. I believe, if we can ensure their safety, that Rella would be willing to testify.”

Will interjects, “It’d probably be safer to get a written confession. Having her appear in person risks her life, or her being pressured into silence.”

Hulkenberg agrees, “I can assist her in writing a full testimonial report, which should hold up as evidence in any legal proceedings. But her word against the Sanctifex won't be enough. We need hard evidence.”

Grius snorts, “You think the Sanctifex can be taken down by following proper procedure? Bah. Everyone knows the man controls the Senate. Doesn't matter how much evidence you find, none of it'll stick.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” cries a frustrated Hulkenberg. “We can't stand idly by and let this pass unchallenged! To do so would be to declare the prince’s life forfeit!”

“Like I said, we bring this to the king. He's the one who will need to see this through,” Grius answers simply.

—

As this doesn't quite qualify as an emergency, they stop short of barging in on the king's current meeting, but after a short but passionate appeal to the king's steward it's agreed they may see the king this evening when he would usually retreat to his study for a moment of private repose.

“This had better be as urgent as you say,” the steward cautions crossly.

“Thank you,” Hulkenberg responds with a bow, “I can assure you it is a matter most pressing to the royal family. And it must be handled with absolute discretion. I can tell no one but the king.”

The steward looks down his nose at Hulkenberg and then at Will and Grius behind her with careful neutrality. “If that's all, I'm quite busy and must be going,” he excuses himself and walks briskly away.

The time before the meeting seems to drag on. They split to go about their usual duties. Will tries to put the matter out of his mind as he accompanies the prince in his daily routine, but he knows he's poor company. His mind won't stop swirling over everything Forden’s done and will do.

He retreats to his room for a time to gather his thoughts. He desperately wishes Gallica was here, but she's been gone two full days now. He hopes she hasn't gotten into trouble, and hates that he has no way to check. He's just going to have to trust in her and her ability to see this mission through and, more importantly, to return safely.

In the meantime, he gets out a writing set that had been provided with his room and sketches out what he knows.

The Senate as it is today consists of five seats. One of those is the king, acting as the supreme general of the royal army. Two others belong to the princes of Oceana and Montario respectively, and are representing the interests of their annexed countries. The Prince of Montario specifically has close personal ties with Forden and is rumored to have been the one who ensured Forden was selected as Sanctifex. Forden and him will present a unified front on most issues.

Then there's the head of the Igniter Consortium, which seems like an odd choice for a Senate seat. Of course, it's good to have merchant and economic representation, but for it to specifically be only the Igniter Consortium who are represented, and for multiple generations of leaders at that, is quite skewed. It also helps explain why they were able to so easily commit atrocities in the name of research. They, too, are effectively being puppeteered by the Sanctist Church at this point.

And of course the last seat belongs to the Sanctifex, Forden himself, representing the country's religious interests. What this means is, in effect, three of five Senate seats will act as Forden dictates. The only somewhat neutral party is the Prince of Oceana, but even he can hardly be considered an ally. Oceana still has generational resentment towards Euchronia for invading their borders unprovoked and forcing annexation via war.

It means that in the kingdom’s Senate, which is meant to consist of advisors, there are none who truly stand on the king's side. The only real authority the king has is his control over the standing State Army, which is actively suppressing any attempts at rebellion from the neighboring principalities. The same army which Louis is actively winning over with his charismatic and powerful influence.

It's not a good situation.

Will thinks, from his own experiences as king, what would be his options to handle this? Then he shakes his head. He’d had his Partisan supporters, and most of his competition had died before he took the throne. It's not comparable.

What are King Hythlodaeus V’s options to handle this? He can deploy the army to apprehend Forden, but without public support, the Sanctifex could be painted as a martyr and the church's followers would indeed riot. He can publicly denounce Forden, but given time Forden would be able to spin the narrative in his favor. Any offense against Forden must be absolute but also beyond reproach. It's no small thing.

Sighing, Will takes his notes and burns them over the candle. He'd written of certain future events that he'd rather not have to explain should someone go through his things. He watches the paper burn slowly until it’s only ash.

Will supposes it should be near about time for their meeting.

—

After meeting up with Hulkenberg, who seems to have been pacing a hole in the carpet as she minded her post guarding the prince’s chambers, the two of them make their way to see the king. Grius, it’s decided, will stay behind to protect the prince.

The steward waves them into a different room than their last meeting, this one a large study where the king sits at his desk writing on a stack of parchment. Will gets a strange sense of deja vu to his first meeting with More, although the room is nothing like the large blue hall that existed just outside reality. The room is appointed in royal reds, with lush carpeted floors. A comfortable looking chaise and a lit fireplace add a sense of coziness.

The king gestures them in, and following his motion Will and Hulkenberg both sit on the chaise, across from the king.

“I hear you have news. Has your investigation borne fruit?” he asks to Hulkenberg. “In truth, rumors have already reached my ears about the young Louis Guiabern.”

“Indeed, but this intelligence proves false, Your Majesty. We have reason to believe the accusation against Louis merely a ruse to hide the true culprit.” Hulkenberg visibly steels herself, squaring her shoulders, before announcing, “The true culprit behind the attempt on the prince’s life was Sanctifex Forden.”

The king’s expression seems to instantly sink, adding years to his apparent age. It is a face of wrinkled grief, and it makes him appear much closer to the wizened and wrinkled king Will had seen him as in those ghostly memories in the castle. A man aged prematurely by years of sorrow.

“Is that right,” he replies simply.

“Are you not surprised?” Hulkenberg asks, seeming confused over his underreaction.

“Sanctifex Forden has never been shy of his distaste for the tribes he considers lesser. He is no stranger to me. I know him and his influence well,” the king says.

“Then, Your Majesty, what are we to do?” asks Hulkenberg urgently. “How shall we bring him to justice?”

The king stares at her blankly, as if he’s not really seeing her. Something in his eyes is almost lifeless. “There is nothing to be done. Guard the prince as you have been. That’s all I ask.” He says it sadly, as if he’s already accepted defeat and sees no meaning in fighting any longer.

It’s absolutely heartbreaking to watch, especially when Will had seen the spark in the man’s eye just a few days prior.

“Are you giving up because you couldn’t save your lover from him?” Will asks in a deceptively neutral tone that does nothing to soften the brutality of the question.

The king drops his quill in shock. “You. You dare mention her,” the king utters furiously, a hint of tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Did you know that it was Forden who ordered the attack on the elda forest? That it was Forden who mobilized this kingdom’s soldiers to burn down the elda village, killing every elda they could find, including their beloved queen?” Will is aware his questions are harsh, but he hates that look in his father’s eyes, and he needs to know, suddenly, whether the king had followed Forden’s directions knowing full well he was the man who killed the queen. “Were you not able to investigate the massacre that led to the prince fleeing here, or did you investigate but do nothing, just as you would do now?”

The king is shaking. His hands are clenched in tight fists. “What would you have me do? My love is dead. No justice can bring her back,” he bites out despondently.

Hulkenberg is staring at Will in absolute astonishment, motioning him to silence, but Will isn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. The king shouldn’t have been left to wallow in these feelings. He should have had someone by his side to help him pick up the pieces, to call him out when he falters and demand he be better. It’s awful that he doesn’t.

“Her son yet lives. If you don’t act against Forden now, you will lose the last precious gift your lover left for you,” Will argues, and he wants to scream at this man, his father who failed to be a father. “She died saving him from the blaze. It’s only if the prince’s life is lost to Forden’s schemes, only then will your love be truly lost.” All of the king’s regrets are useless if he can’t see that. He’s just like Heismay, lost in his grief.

“The prince still lives,” he declares, rising to his feet, “So you have to choose. Do you really choose to wait for death, or will you confront the threat before you?!” He lets his words ring, an echo of the guiding voice that had spurred him and his friends into action.

For a moment, the room is silent except for Will’s heavy breathing. After a beat, Hulkenberg hastens to apologize. “I’m sorry Your Majesty, that was highly inappropriate–”

“How,” the king says, quietly, but Hulkenberg immediately shuts her mouth. “How can I carry my dreams for this country without her beside me. How can I hope for a future when she’s not in it?” Tears openly flow down the sides of his face. “How can I still believe in myself when she’s not there to believe in me?”

“Then I’ll believe in you,” declares Will boldly. “If I can protect the prince’s ideals, let me fight for yours as well. But you can’t give up. You have to face those feelings of overwhelming doubt to be able to face the future. So tell me, what is your choice?”

The king is still crying, but a small and frail smile graces his lips. “I thought I’d already given up. But you remind me so strongly of her sometimes. Fine. I’ve made my choice. Even if this whole country is against me, I will fight for my son’s future.”

Will half expects the king to tear his heart out, but the resolution instead rests gently on the king’s shoulders. There’s no explosion of magic, but the conviction clearly has some dramatic effect as the weight of years seems to slough off him like an ill-fitting cloak and there’s a spark in his eyes that breathes life into his very being. This isn’t the depressed king who’d lost everything, nor is it the idealistic More who’d yet to have his ideals tested. Before Will is a man who’s been through a crucible and may yet come out stronger for it.

“Very well,” says the king, looking firmly determined. “Tell me everything you know of Forden’s crimes.”

Chapter Text

The strategy session with the king goes long past sundown. A servant at one point interrupts to provide drinks and snacks which are a welcome refreshment in the hours of intense, focused discussion.

“I’ll begin making the arrangements and have the invitations sent to the appropriate persons,” the king concludes, “I’ll have to clear my schedule if I’m to meet with the relevant parties in time, but I believe this plan has the highest chance of success. Can I count on you both for support when the time comes?”

Will speaks solemnly, “I’ll be there by your side to provide protection and act as backup.”

Hulkenberg follows, “And I will stay with the prince, and ensure he’s kept far away from the proceedings and the ensuing backlash.”

“Very good. I trust you both understand that everything discussed today must be kept absolutely secret. If Forden catches wind of our true intentions then our scheme will come to naught.”

Will and Hulkenberg nod seriously. “By my honor as a knight,” Hulkenberg vows.

By the time they leave the king’s chambers the halls are completely dark. Will has to navigate to his quarters by memory more than sight. He feels around for the doors and eventually reaches his room, where he doesn’t even bother lighting a candle. It’s much too late. He’ll just go to sleep.

He’s about to do so when the room is suddenly illuminated in a soft glow as Gallica reappears in front of his very eyes. “Where were you?!” she cries angrily. “I’ve been waiting here for hours!”

“It’s good to see you, Gallica,” Will smiles. “I’ve been consulting with the king all evening, I must’ve just missed you. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, but more importantly, I found Louis! He’s in the capital right now! I was able to stake out his office here, but he’s going on deployment tomorrow so if we want to grab his notes we have to act fast or who knows when our next chance will be?!” Gallica explains, urgent and excited and agitated.

“Wait, you want us to steal from him tonight??” Will asks in disbelief. His mind is exhausted from planning and from the late hour and he wasn’t expecting this on top of everything.

“He’s got a lockbox in his quarters. I wasn’t able to peek inside, but that’s the most logical place for him to hide it, and the rest of his room is completely bare. It’s too big for me to carry, but it’s small enough you should be able to just grab it and run! We can unlock it after we’re safely back here with none the wiser.”

“With none the– Gallica, how am I supposed to sneak into a military base unseen? I’m not Heismay!” Will protests.

“So maybe someone sees something, but what if they don’t see you?” Gallica counters with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Will has a feeling he’s not going to like her plan.

—

Will is not a huge fan of this plan. He’s currently waiting, clothed in darkness, for Gallica to signal that the guard isn’t looking his way. This is the third lookout they’ve passed so far as they’ve snuck further into the base.

The one advantage Will has is that he’s hiding on the ceiling. This likely the only reason he’s yet to be caught despite being twice his normal height and covered in metallic spikes with an impractically bulbous head.

“Go, now!” Gallica whispers to him, and he swiftly crosses from one corner of the room to the other with an agility only possessed by Heismay and the Thief Archetype which Will now wears like a second skin. “Great, you’re nearly there, it’s just around this corner. I don’t think the rooms have any locks on them, and Louis should be asleep by now. You just have to be quick and quiet.”

It’s his first time wielding an Archetype since coming to the past, and fortunately it came as easy to him as ever. Even though his friends may be far out of his reach, their support still gives him strength. He can still feel the power of each and every bond he made, plus the yet-new one he’s formed with the prince for, appropriately, the Prince Archetype.

So, with Heismay’s bond clothing him in stealth and agility, he carefully opens the door to Louis’s room in the officer’s hall. The room is dark and still, with only a faint hint of starlight coming from outside through a narrow window slit. He leaves the door subtly ajar behind him, enough to make a quick getaway, but not enough to be obvious from the outside, and goes to where Gallica had described the box as being hidden. As he’s leaning down to pick it up, he hears a voice behind him.

“Now you’re a strange visitor. I’ve had multiple attempts on my life, but none quite so fascinating as you,” says an unfamiliar voice in a familiar cadence. It’s a young voice, belonging to a boy who is not yet a man.

Turning around, the lockbox firmly gripped in clawed hands, Will faces the voice. With the improved night vision granted by his Thief Archetype, Will can make out the details of a youthful face, maybe fifteen years of age. It’s framed by short, fluffy yellow hair that barely reaches the chin, and crowned by horns that Will knows to be fake.

Will faces the fearsome military prodigy Louis Guiabern and realizes he is looking at a teenager.

“Indeed,” continues Louis, “I’d love to fight you properly. There’s no space in here, but perhaps we could take this outside? I’d leave the box alone if I were you. I keep anything of real value on my person,” he says smugly, tapping against his military-issue uniform that he apparently wears to bed. It’s nothing like the iconic white suit he favors in the future. Instead, he wears the same dull navy fatigues as the rest of the military.

With Hulkenberg, Will at least had memories of her younger self from his childhood as the prince. But this is his first time seeing a young Louis, and he’s both everything and nothing like Will might’ve expected.

“You are intelligent, yes?” Louis taunts. “Do you speak? Or are you a human beast here to plunder according to your strange instincts. I’ll have your head either way.”

“No more human than you,” Will replies, though his throat is locked up with nerves. He has so many feelings and traumas towards Louis all bubbling up to the surface, anger and frustration and fear, feelings he’d not resolved so much as discarded after Louis’s death. “And I’d like to keep it that way, so I’d rather not let your research continue.”

“Oh? Interesting. What do you think you know about me?” Louis questions with a quirk of his lips. As always, the man, no, boy is unflappable.

“You think this country isn’t worth saving. You think it should be burned to ash like your home was. You think the king has betrayed the elda and betrayed his ideals. But you’re wrong,” Will proclaims. His voice echoes tinnily as it comes out the mouth of his Archetype.

Louis’s eyebrows are both raised towards his forehead. “My, you do know quite a lot, it seems. But I’m afraid I can’t be swayed by empty words any longer!” With a shout, Louis brings his sword, which had been loosely at his side, in a swift attack towards Will’s flank. There’s no room to dodge in the tiny room, so Will blocks it with one of his Archetype’s bracers, while the other holds onto the lockbox by one handle.

“They’re not empty words!” Will cries, urgent and desperate to get through to this boy who is hurting, yes, but is still so young. There’s so much time for him to change and grow still, if given the right impetus. “Forden was the one who burned your home! Your hatred of the king is misplaced!”

“Even if that’s true, the king has done nothing to seek justice. He has not apologized or atoned, and instead sits impotent on a throne of lies and dead bodies,” condemns Louis as he assaults Will with expert sword strikes in the cramped space.

Will manages to draw his katana, a basic weapon that formed into being as part of the Archetype transformation, and block maybe half the blows. He struggles to fight back with one hand, as his off-hand is still holding the lockbox. Thankfully, the strikes which break his guard deal only superficial slices to his Archetype’s thick hide, and the damage won’t extend to his true form.

“Maybe so, but that’s about to change. The king has overcome his grief to find new conviction. He will see justice served to the Sanctifex. This country will change,” Will promises between clangs of steel. They’re making such a ruckus they’re bound to be swarmed by the military any moment, although it’s questionable if anyone outside could so much as get past the door without risking life and limb.

“Empty promises from empty ideals. Only those with the strength to back up their words have the right to lead,” Louis declares his familiar creed. And he’s not fully wrong, but…

“Then let the king show you his strength. On Forgiveness Day, in the castle’s grand ballroom, the king will bring a revolution,” Will speaks as if in prophecy. “If the king can prove his strength by overcoming Forden and seeing justice for the elda, then by your logic, he has earned the right to rule, yes?”

Louis laughs aloud, finally breaking off his fierce assault. “Marvelous, what a bold plan. Certainly, that would be something to see.” His smile is feral and manic. “If he fails to deliver, I will crush him and every other false leader under my heel.”

“Then if he succeeds,” counters Will, seeing a bargain to be made, “abandon your plans for destructive ruination, and instead stand as a pillar of the State to carve out corruption and build something better in its place.”

“Fine,” spits Louis through his grinning teeth, “If you can prove that useless fossil has any power and integrity left, I’ll consider aiding you in your naive plans. If only so I can strike you down when your ideals inevitably falter.”

“We’ve got company…!” whispers Gallica harshly from her nearly-invisible position at Will’s side. Louis looks sharply in her direction, so it seems his magla sensitivity is high enough to detect her even in her diffuse state. Hopefully he can’t make out any identifying details.

Even as Gallica gives warning, the door bursts open and several armed guards flood the room. They look at Will’s looming figure with shock and dismay and collectively brandish their weapons at him. It looks like it’s past time for Will to make his exit.

With no time to properly consider, Will leaps not towards the door but away from it, towards the far wall with the window slit. There’s no way Will could fit through the slit even in his smaller elda form, so instead he rolls into a ball and headbutts the wall with enough force that it crumbles apart, and lets his momentum carry him in a barely controlled roll that launches him outside the building to the ground three stories down. With the Thief’s reflexes, he’s able to land gracefully on his feet, and before anyone can react, he’s fled into the alleyways nearby. From there, it’s trivial to sneak onto the roofs and dash back to the castle under the dark of night. With any luck, no one there will even realize Will left.

—

“What was that?” demands Gallica once they’re safely back in his room.

Thankfully, the castle was deserted this late at night, once he’d snuck past the guards at the gate and detransformed in an empty room. He’d passed one kitchen maid, but she easily accepted his excuse of wanting a late snack. Thanks to that, he was currently sharing a few strips of cured meat with Gallica. It’s a bit tough, but the maid had also offered a fresh jug of water which they now use to wash it down.

“What?” Will retorts dumbly.

“You! You! You just revealed the king’s plans to Louis? What kind of stupid idea was that?”

Will has rarely seen Gallica be properly angry at him, and usually when she is angry it’s because she’s worried. This time is no exception. Will knows Gallica shares his own fear of Louis for very similar reasons.

Will had only had a chance to give Gallica a very rough recap of their meeting with the king before they’d been busy focusing on their heist. But even a brief summary was clearly enough for Gallica to be very unimpressed with him now.

“The king needs allies. His strongest political strength lies in his absolute military authority. As it stands, one of the biggest risks to his rule is military unrest and insubordination. Louis, for everything else wrong he’s done, is set to become a charismatic general who the army will rally behind. If we can get Louis on the king’s side, that would solidify his position like nothing else,” Will explains his rationale.

It’s something he’s been mulling over since Hulkenberg’s return this morning – well, yesterday morning, rather, since it’s so late it’s certainly a new day by now. About where the king’s strengths are, and who can be persuaded to their side.

“And, well. He had my father’s book. At first I thought maybe he just raided it from the king’s chambers when he killed him, but. Just now. On Louis’s side table. He had my father’s book even this far back. And there was a bookmark in it. He’d clearly been reading it before bed. I don’t want to believe that someone who loves my father’s book as much as I do is beyond redemption,” Will admits. Maybe it’s the idealist in him that wants to believe that Louis can do as much help here as he did harm in that other timeline.

“...I understand,” Gallica says. “If that’s what you think is right, I’ll trust you.” She meets his eyes seriously, and he can feel her conviction and belief. “But!” she adds, breaking the moment, “that’s still no reason to leave him with his magic formula notes?! If his words are to be believed, this chest is useless!” She bangs a fist on the lockbox in question, which she is currently using as her perch. Will had managed to hide it before the maid noticed, and now the prize rests safely atop Will’s desk. Neither of them have the energy to try breaking into it right now.

At this, Will grins. “No worries, I wasn’t that careless. Look.” Smugly, he pulls a thick stack of parchment from inside his coat. “Thief Archetype,” he says as explanation.

“Brilliant Captain!” Gallica praises and flies over to peer at the inky scrawl. Will obligingly holds it up for her inspection. “This looks right. There’s a lot here, but I can tell it includes multiple variations on a spell formula, so it should be his drafts. With any luck, this will stop him from creating any artificial humans even if we can’t convince him to join our side. We pulled off a two pronged attack!” Gallica does an excited little swirl around Will at this proclamation.

Will appreciates her enthusiasm, but he’s just about at the end of his rope. Using an archetype for such a sustained duration was really draining, and now that Will has dropped his transformation and gotten to a safe space, he’s really feeling it. He carelessly sets the parchment next to the lockbox on his desk, vowing to deal with both tomorrow.

As he drifts off to sleep, he can faintly hear Gallica’s voice. “Goodnight, Captain.”

Chapter Text

The Prince is disappointed to not see Will at breakfast this morning. Apparently his friend hasn’t been out of his room yet today. When the Prince asks why, Mister Russell tells him that Dame Hulkenberg and Will were up late last night speaking to the king.

The Prince wonders what that’s about. Maybe Will will tell him after he gets out of bed. Russell joins the Prince for breakfast, so it’s not lonely, but it is annoying because his tutor insists on making a lesson out of it, correcting the Prince’s posture and where he places his wrists between bites. Apparently there’s even manners for how to eat food with one’s fingers. It really takes all the fun out of it.

He spots Hulkenberg after breakfast and waves at her. “Dame Hulkenberg! What were you and Will talking with the king about?” he asks.

“That's not– I mean. Well. We were talking about how you… haven’t had a chance to leave the castle much. And how His Majesty thought you were. Mature enough to handle an, excursion. Yes.”

The Prince thinks that sounded very strange and not at all like how Hulkenberg normally talks, but that detail doesn’t matter nearly as much as what she said. “An excursion?! You mean like I could go outside?? Could I talk to other people??”

“Ah, yes. You still must be cautious of talking with strangers, but there will be new people there who His Majesty trusts, and you can meet them.”

“That’s amazing, I’ve been wanting this for ages! And Will got father to agree?! When do we leave?” he asks excitedly, literally running in a circle around Hulkenberg.

Hulkenberg seems a bit overwhelmed, but answers, “I’m still making the arrangements but if all goes well we’ll depart tomorrow at dawn. Russell,” she says to the tutor who’s peacefully watching the Prince’s excitement from several steps away, “I’ll give you more details later, but please prepare a travel chest for His Highness with about a week’s worth of supplies.”

“A week?!” the Prince asks, astonished. “That’s so long! Are we going somewhere very far?” The Prince had been imagining that perhaps they’d go on a tour of the capital and visit the local shops. He hasn’t had a chance yet to visit the city he’s supposed to rule out of one day, despite being able to see it from his window.

“Not so far,” Hulkenberg says, “But we’ll be staying several days, and it’s good to pack extra supplies to prepare for all eventualities.”

“We’re going to do an overnight trip?! I have to tell Will thank you. It’s gonna be our first real adventure together!” the Prince doesn’t know what Will did exactly, but he knows that before Will came his father the king had shut down every suggestion of leaving the castle, so his agreeing to this must be Will’s doing. Will had even said he was gonna ask the king if the Prince could socialize more! He kept his promise!

“Will won’t be joining us,” Hulkenberg states matter-of-factly, crushing all of the Prince’s visions for their trip. “He has matters he needs to attend to here in the palace.”

“What?” the Prince pouts, confused. “What matters? He’s my royal aide isn’t he? What business does he have staying back in the palace if I’m leaving?”

“It’s a directive from the king, which takes precedence even over his duties to you as his aide,” Hulkenberg explains.

The Prince tries to wheedle more answers from her after that, but no matter what he asks she refuses to elaborate more than that. It’s to this impasse that Will finally stumbles out of his room, looking groggy.

The Prince immediately descends on him. “Will, Hulkenberg says that I get to go on a trip but that you can’t come with! Why? I want you there!” he whines earnestly.

Will blinks the sleep out of his eyes, before kneeling down to put a hand on the Prince’s head. He looks the Prince in the eye and says seriously, “I have a secret mission from the king. I need to help him catch a bad man who’s putting the country in danger. Otherwise, I’d love to come with you on your trip.”

This explanation makes sense. He knows Will helps all sorts of people, so it’s understandable if Will needs to save the country. The Prince can share. “Okay,” he agrees. Hesitantly, reluctantly, he suggests, “Then maybe we can delay my trip. I can wait to go on an adventure until you’re done.”

“That’d be a shame,” Will says, “I was hoping you could tell me all about your adventure with Hulkenberg later, so I would have something to look forward to while I’m doing my very important mission. And you know, knights make excellent adventurers. I’m sure she’ll be a good, stalwart companion for you.”

The Prince pouts at this. He doesn’t want to leave without Will, but he also really doesn’t want to turn down a chance to go on an excursion outside the palace. What if the king changes his mind because the Prince was too stubborn?

“Okay. I can be brave so I can tell you about it when I’m back,” he concedes. “But you have to go on an adventure together with me later, okay? You have to!”

“Absolutely, Your Highness. I am at your command,” Will promises with an overdramatic bow. The Prince can’t help but giggle.

“You really have a way with him,” Hulkenberg says, looking at both him and Will in faint awe. Will just smiles in response.

“That’s because he’s the best,” the Prince explains, because it’s true and more people should know it.

After that Hulkenberg dismisses herself to “make arrangements”, and Russell quickly swaps his planned lesson for one on reviewing local geography, regional nobility, and customs for visiting another’s home as a guest. The final of these three is a new etiquette which the Prince hasn’t had cause to learn before, and takes to with great enthusiasm. Will obligingly helps roleplay the host for the Prince to practice on.

“Mister Alces,” the Prince asks his swordsmanship instructor when it’s time for sword training, “will you be joining Dame Hulkenberg and I on our adventure? Or are you going to stay in the palace and help with Will’s secret mission?”

Alces turns to Will, who has dutifully started his practice drills, with a perturbed expression. “What have you been telling the Prince now?” he asks.

Will stops swinging his sword to answer. “Just the truth. Has Hulkenberg brought you up to speed?”

Alces nods, “Aye, I’ve heard the long and short of it. It’s a sound strategy. I think I’d be better equipped to serve here at the palace. So no, Your Highness, I won’t be joining your, ah, adventure. But you’d best bring your practice sword and practice your swings every day in my absence. You’d better not use this as a chance to slack off.”

Russell, as it happens, will be coming along on the adventure, to attend to the Prince’s dress and hygiene as usual.

“An adventure, you say,” Russell laughs when the Prince asks, “at my age. Imagine. Alright, Your Highness, yes, I’ll come on the adventure. But I’ll have to leave the fighting up to you and our royal knight, I’m afraid.” He winks as he says the last part, and chuckles again.

It’s easy for the Prince to forget, since Russell’s job as his tutor means that he has to stop the Prince from relaxing and playing how he likes, but the old man has a weird sense of humor too. The Prince doesn’t really get him, sometimes.

Like this, the day flies by as everyone makes their preparations, whether staying or going, and the Prince daydreams about what his first adventure will be like until eventually the daydreams slide into the true dreams of a night’s rest.

—

Leon Strohl, as a young noble, has been raised with a strong sense of responsibility. But he has not, up to this point in his ten years of life been called upon to carry much responsibility yet. So he's quite honored that his parents entrusted him with looking after their recent guests.

Their guests are a couple of pretty young ladies, near to his own age. One of them, the elder, is a rather sad looking ishkia with short pale hair. Her sister is a nidia with long, bright yellow hair who smiles a lot but it doesn't reach her eyes. The nidia seems nervous, and spends a lot of time watching her sister.

Leon has never met two siblings of different tribes before. He wonders which parent they share in common. But he knows it would be very rude to ask. In fact, he's not meant to ask anything about their family background at all.

Leon admittedly doesn't know much what to talk about other than background. It seems to be the major driver of conversation at all the social events he's been brought along to thus far, which is admittedly not many. He's still too young to be a proper debutant.

Which is all the more reason to make a strong positive impression on his guests. “Is the food to your liking?” He asks. He's had the servants arrange for an afternoon tea in their garden. It's not the largest of gardens, but it's well maintained. The weather is good for it and there's a number of flowers that bloom in the current summer season. It's very respectable, and he thinks it's the kind of thing girls like.

He's not sure, because the two girls don't seem very excited about it. When he'd given a tour of the plants, they'd both nodded appreciatively at all the right times, but neither had seemed overly enthused. Even now, as the servants serve fresh scones and jam, the girls seem to lack enthusiasm even though Leon can confirm the food is quite tasty.

“Yes, the food is lovely. Thank you,” answers the ishkia, Rella, politely. The nidia, Junah, merely nods her head.

He's not sure what their last name is. He thinks he's not supposed to ask that either.

“Are you both alright?” Leon finally asks, after the awkward silence becomes too much. “Only, it seems like something's been bothering you. Is it something I can help with?”

Rella shakes her head, but Junah pipes up, “When can we go home?”

“Junah!” Rella scolds. “I told you. We can't go back there. That… place isn't our home anymore.” Rella seems to cry a bit as she says so, but it's hard to tell because Junah is suddenly crying a lot more.

“What do you mean we, we can't go back? Is it my fault? Do papa and mama not want me anymore?” Junah sobs.

“No, no. It's not you. It's my fault. It's all big sis Rella’s fault. You didn't do anything wrong,” assures Rella, holding the crying nidia in her arms and wrapping her short wings around them both.

Leon thinks it's unlikely either of the young women could really be at fault. He thinks that if a child can't be with their parents, it would usually be because of a terrible accident. He wonders if their parents died and Rella just hasn't managed to explain it to her younger sister yet. Which is odd because she looks no younger than Leon and he understood what it meant when his grandfather died last year.

He's not supposed to ask. So he doesn't. He really wants to, though. He's dying to know why these two have been invited to this home, and how long they'll be here, and who that redheaded knight was that dropped them off.

Leon doesn't know how to deal with crying girls. All he can remember his parents telling him is that he's not supposed to make them cry to begin with, and he doesn't think he did anything wrong he can apologize for.

So he sits there awkwardly while the sister's attempt to console each other to mixed success and drinks his tea just to have something to do with his hands.

“I don't think it's either of your faults,” he finally interrupts as they seem to be about to enter into another spiral of self-reproach.

Rella glares at him over the tray of scones. “What would you know?”

Taking a scone himself, holding it as a sort of buffer between them, he admits, “I don't. I don't know anything about your background and I'm not supposed to ask. I just think it might not be either of your faults.”

It's a simple thing, but he thinks it's important.

Rella huffs. “Well, you're wrong. But thank you.”

Junah tugs at Rella's sleeve. “If it's really not my fault then it can't be yours. Our parents adore you. I'm sure they're not mad about whatever it is.”

“Our parents? Our parents…! I don't care if they're mad at me. I, I'm the one who's mad at them,” Rella screams. “How could they do that, how could they h-hurt people. How could they ask me to hurt people? Why did they let that man hurt me?” Rella is crying and clutching her head. “How could they let him hurt you? I, I didn't want to do that, why did they ask me to do that?”

Rella is truly worked up into full hysterics. Whatever this is, it seems to have been building up for a while. Junah looks at Leon, panicked, but Leon just shakes his head, probably looking as lost as he feels. He should. He should get his mother. She'll know how to handle this.

He moves to do just that. Behind him, he can hear Junah humming a soft, comforting lullaby to her unconsolable sister. The song is very beautiful, and he wonders if there are any words to go with it. But it's really not the time, so he hurries to get his mother and drag her out to the garden.

He finds his mother already en route. She must have heard the ruckus from inside, or been alerted by one of the servants.

“Mother, I tried to be a good host, but I think I messed up,” he admits.

His mother puts her hands firmly on his arms and gives him a reassuring squeeze. “It's alright, you did fine. I should've guessed something like this might happen. You go inside, I'll take care of them from here.”

And Leon is guiltily relieved to have an excuse to remove himself from that situation. Being a host is much harder than he thought.

Chapter Text

Leon hasn't seen the older girl, Rella, since the disastrous tea party. When he asks his mother about it, she says that Rella has been through a “traumatic experience” and that she needs some space and privacy. That she'll come out when she's ready.

He sometimes sees Junah in the halls, and he always makes sure to greet her, but without her sister to hide behind, she's practically gone mute. Which is a shame because she has a lovely voice.

So when his parents announce that they will be hosting a third guest, Leon’s not feeling very optimistic about the situation.

Even less so when he hears who it is.

“The crown prince is going to be coming here? To our manor?” he cries in shock and alarm. This is, of course, a huge honor. Almost nothing is known about the reclusive prince who the king announced the existence of only a few years back. No one knows his mother or his appearance, and some have questioned if he even exists at all.

Though Leon has overheard some… unsavory remarks towards the prince regarding his apparent birth outside of wedlock, it's also true that this same prince is the king's only recognized relation and therefore the uncontested heir to the throne.

Their humble manor and their small village are not ready to host royalty.

“When?! How long do we have to get ready?” Leon asks his father.

“They're already on their way,” his father answers calmly, apparently sharing none of Leon's own panic. “Depending on the road conditions, I imagine they might arrive sometime this afternoon? Tomorrow at the very latest.”

Leon is not! Emotionally! Prepared!

“Why didn't you say so sooner?!” Leon cries. “What are we going to do? Have we got enough ingredients in the kitchen to cook a feast?!” He knows his family isn't poor but they're not absurdly wealthy either.

His father chuckles. “Let me worry about things like that, son,” he says, patting Leon’s head genially. “It won't be your responsibility for a while yet. But to answer your question, they've requested their visit be discreet, so we're not to make a big production out of it. Try not to let anyone outside of the manor staff know.”

Discreet?! Is that even possible? Shouldn't everyone just, know, when they see royalty? Surely their regal bearing must be evident even if dressed in rags.

Leon is starting to worry about exactly what his parents are getting up to, hosting all these visitors “discreetly”. He hopes it's nothing dangerous.

—

Since his father refuses to show the correct amount of concern over their imminent royal guest, he seeks out his mother. He finds her in the sunroom working on some embroidery.

“Mother, have you heard? The prince is on his way here,” he informs with due gravity.

“Yes, dear, of course I know,” she answers with a chuckle. “I responded to the royal missive myself.”

“We’re not prepared to host royalty, surely?” Leon asks, agape.

“We’re also in no position to turn down a personal request from royalty,” she points out with a touch of reprimand. “I’ve already asked the staff to bring out the spare beds from the attic. We’ll make room.”

“Sp-spare beds. The prince is staying overnight?!” Why? Would the Euchronian prince? Be overnighting at their manor???

“Did your father not say?” his mother raises an eyebrow. “Yes, he should be for at least a few days. Maybe longer? They didn’t give an exact duration, and it’s not my place to ask.”

Leon wants to tear out his hair. His parents can’t just, just drop this information on him all of a sudden! He needs time to process! He needs to decide what to wear! How is no one else panicking??

Apparently Leon was wrong to assume his mother would be a kindred spirit in this. She seems completely content to delegate the details to the staff, who are surely woefully underprepared for this. Leon will have to confirm the proceedings himself.

—

Leon hounds both the butler and the housekeeper in turn, who both assure them that preparations are well underway and that he has nothing to be concerned about.

“But are the rooms clean? Have the spare chairs been dusted? Can we afford to pay reparations if his royal garb is soiled under our roof?”

The housekeeper laughs behind the stack of clean bedding she’s currently carrying. “Not to worry, I’ve got the maids freshening up all the main rooms. There’s not much to do, really, we already gave this house a good deep clean before the young ladies arrived.”

Leon is moderately appeased by this answer, and running out of time besides, so he retreats to his room to freshen up himself, and to change into his best formal wear. He brushes his hair as straight as it can be and shines his horns and generally frets in front of the mirror until he’s halfway satisfied. At some point, any further primping is going to make things more messy rather than less, so he drags himself out of his bedroom and goes to await their guest downstairs. He knows the servants will announce a guest’s arrival but he can’t exactly go play outside when the prince himself could arrive any minute, so he parks himself on a couch in the front parlor with a view of the drive. He picks a book at random from the small selection on a nearby shelf and pretends at reading it while mostly just stealing glances out the window at any hint of movement there. He is ready.

—

The coach, when it does arrive, doesn’t display the royal livery, which makes sense considering this is a “discreet” visit. It’s obviously the prince’s carriage, though, based on how the staff react to its arrival with a burst of urgent motion. Several footmen go out to greet their guests and take their luggage inside, and the butler waits at the front door to welcome them inside. His parents soon appear in the parlor. Leon gives up on pretending at reading and sets his book to the side.

When the butler makes his way in, their guests at his heel, Leon’s parents rise to their feet and Leon hastens to follow suit. He’s nervous but he hopes it’s not too outwardly obvious.

The butler introduces the crown prince by his full title, presenting him to the attentive lord and lady of the house, and Leon gets his first look at His Highness.

His Highness is. Small.

And also. Where are his horns? Are they very short, and hidden underneath his fluffy white hair? He supposes at that age his horns might not be fully grown yet. He won’t ask, of course, Leon himself had been rather self conscious when his own horns started growing in properly. But a small, entirely inappropriate part of him wants to touch that tiny head and see if he can feel for the horn nubs.

While he’s having these entirely inappropriate, never-to-be voiced thoughts, his father introduces their household, first introducing himself as the Lord Strohl da Haliaetus, then gesturing to the Lady Strohl at his side, before gesturing to Leon and introducing him as, “My son and heir, Leon. I hope you’ll get along well with him.” Finally, his father mentions that there are a couple other guests in the manor, but that the two girls are “feeling unwell, and unfortunately couldn’t be here to greet you, but they offer Your Highness their fullest regard.”

At the prince’s sides are two attendants, one a tall redheaded roussainte and the other an elderly eugief. Leon hasn’t seen many eugiefs before. They aren’t commonly observed in noble circles. Both introduce themselves in turn.

His mother speaks up, “You must be tired from your trip, can we offer you some refreshments in the dining room?”

The redhead, a knight by her introduction, responds, “Actually, I’d like to discuss some details with you regarding His Highness’s protection during our stay here. Could you show me the current number and placement of guards and a map of the grounds?”

“Certainly Dame Hulkenberg, I can help you with that in my study,” offers Leon’s father.

Leon’s mother says, “Oh, Russell, was it? Would you help review the sleeping arrangement and room assignments and ensure I’ve not missed anything?”

Something cunning flashes in the old man’s eyes as his gaze falls first to His Highness and then to Leon and finally back to Lady Strohl. “Why of course,” he answers, following his mother upstairs.

Leon is feeling conspicuously abandoned with the most essential task of entertaining and gaining favor with this country’s crown prince. The wink his mother sends him on the way upstairs does nothing to soothe his nerves.

Leon fidgets at his cuffs. “I’m Leon Strohl,” he introduces himself redundantly for lack of a better idea. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to our home, Your Highness. I hope you’ll find your stay here pleasant.” He bows.

His Highness the crown prince returns in kind, “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m the crown prince of Euchronia, but you can just call me ‘the prince’ or ‘His Highness’. Everyone does.”

“Oh,” says Leon, “that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” The words slip out before he has a chance to register them and he covers his mouth in shock at his own gaffe.

The prince responds, “It’s a bit weird, yeah.” He does not elaborate.

Thoroughly mortified by his own poor manners, Leon vainly attempts to recover. “Well, you can call me Leon, if you like. Um. Can I interest you in a snack from the kitchen? Or, a tour of the grounds perhaps?” Please let this moment end. Just bury him and be done with it.

“A tour would be nice,” accepts the prince. “I’ve not been outside the castle hardly at all. This is my first proper adventure, so I need to see as much as I can so I can tell my friend Will about it later.”

Leon doesn’t know who Will is, and he’s a bit afraid to ask.

“How old are you?” the prince asks without warning.

“I’m ten years of age. I’ll be eleven come winter. And you?”

“I’m six,” His Highness says, holding up six small fingers in illustration.

His Highness. Is so tiny. Is anyone keeping this child safe?? How could his royal guard abandon him only moments after arriving??

Leon shows the prince several of the rooms downstairs, and he’s about to take him out the back door to see the house’s farmland when the prince stops him. “Um, I think Hulkenberg would be cross if I went outside without a guard. But you should show me later, when she’s free. I’ve never seen a farm before.”

Leon himself has seen many farms. The entire town of Halia’s economy centers around farming and supplying food to the nearby capital city. But Leon has never seen inside the royal castle before, and he supposes that, to the prince who lives there, a farm might be an equivalently novel experience.

“Would you like to play marbles with me?” Leon ventures instead. It’s a popular game with the children of the village of all ages, and Leon’s rather good at it. He’s collected a number of marbles in fair battle by his own merits.

“What’s that?” asks the prince. “How do you play?”

It seems His Highness’s education has a grievous gap if the prince doesn’t know how to play marbles. Leon will endeavor to correct this oversight at once. “Come upstairs, I’ll show you.”

Chapter Text

It’s only been a handful of days since Will came to this time and met his younger self, not even a full week, but he feels somewhat bereft to wave the small prince off as he departs in his carriage. He trusts Hulkenberg to protect the prince as best she is able, and hopes that the relocation will provide an additional layer of security from Forden’s schemes.

Will finds himself with an unexpected quantity of free time. Having no pressing agenda, he decides to wander. It’s been some time since he was able to roam with the privilege of approximate anonymity. Sure, the king had officially declared him as the prince’s royal aide, but Will himself had not been present for the announcement, so none outside of certain castle staff should recognize him by his face.

The castle staff are much too busy to react to his presence as they rush to get things prepared for the king’s Royal Forgiveness Day Ball. No small number complain at the unreasonably short notice of preparing for a ball with only a scant few day’s notice. Not so much as to be treasonous, but the sentiment is clearly negative, with the consensus being that the king is being frivolous in his whims.

“I’m glad His Majesty’s finally feeling up to hosting parties again, but why Forgiveness Day? Everyone knows that’s an Oceanan tradition, more than anything,” gossips one maid as she dusts the tables in the hall.

“Who knows? Maybe he’s trying to steal their thunder,” replies a second maid disinterestedly as she polishes the windows.

“Isn’t the holiday supposed to be about the king of Oceana using his personal funds for the people? Seems a mockery to be hosting a fancy ball for the nobility instead,” the first maid complains.

A third maid passes by holding some dishes, and, having clearly overheard everything, adds, “I hear it’s going to be a charity event. They king’s going to auction off items from the treasury and use the proceeds for the people. I hear there’s even going to be a divine artifact on auction!”

The unimpressed maid on window duty says, “I doubt we’ll see a drop of that money. It’ll probably go towards the military, as usual. And they just go around fighting rebels. If Oceana wants to secede so bad, I say let them. It’d save us all a headache.”

“Do you want another war? A separation of the Unified Kingdoms is the last thing we need,” protests the first maid.

The third maid has set down her dish pile on one of the dusted tables, “I’m sure Louis will put an end to those rebels soon. He’s simply stunning on the battlefield, I hear.”

The second made loses her indifferent expression and hisses harshly, “Don’t mention that name here! Didn’t you hear that he’s the one behind the attack on the prince?”

The third maid pouts. “That’s baseless slander. Major Louis would never.”

“Someone has taken a fancy to him, I see,” the first maid titters behind her duster.

Will takes his leave as the conversation devolves into less relevant gossip. Clearly the king had succeeded in planting the necessary rumors in the right ears. By the end of the day, every noble in the capital should know all about the Forgiveness Day Charity Ball, if they don’t already.

Invitations are being sent to distant locations via army communications lines: a series of magical communication tools installed in each major State Army headquarters. These, as Will came to learn after his coronation, are what the Recruitment Centers used to keep in touch faster than Will himself could teleport. He’s not sure how they work, but apparently they’re made from a combination of igniter tech and repurposed ancient artifacts and can be used to pass messages via a secret code of long and short beeps. A trained army official is stationed at all times to receive, decode, and transcribe each incoming message.

Apparently, these near-instantaneous messaging devices were a large factor in how Euchronia won the Annex War despite having smaller military numbers at the time.

As such, all important persons in the United Kingdom should be aware of the ball. But given the short notice, it’s unlikely the princes of Oceana and Montario will be able to reach the capital in time, should they wish to attend. This subtle but plausibly deniable snub was the king’s own contribution to the plan.

Forden, notably, is currently operating out of Grad Trad. He should have no reason not to attend, and has been invited as a VIP of the Church. The promise of a divine relic at the auction should serve as additional bait.

Will makes his way out of the castle, pleasantly unrestricted by the guards who wave him through with barely a glance. There’s a couple people who he needs to hand-deliver a more personalized invitation from the king.

—

The Prince has been enjoying his adventure so far!

It’s not been overly adventurous, but it’s his first one and he’s still quite little so that’s probably alright. It’s still been full of new things and novelty is most of the fun of an adventure, he thinks.

When Hulkenberg escorted him to a horse-drawn coach which had already been loaded with the Prince’s things, she apologized for the “poor condition” of it. She said it’s not a proper royal carriage, but a more regular one used by ordinary nobility. The Prince doesn’t really get why that’s important. He’s never been on a carriage before, or if he has, he doesn’t remember it. So he has nothing to compare this experience against.

The ride is bumpy and it hurts his butt a little even with the cushions, but he doesn’t really care because Hulkenberg says he’s allowed to look out the window. He has to keep the curtains drawn while they’re still in the city, so he can only look through the little crack in the middle, which is a pity, because there’s a lot of interesting looking people and shops there he can’t see from his window, but once they’re outside of the city she lets him open the curtains wide and the view is fantastic.

The trip flies by with him pointing at various things and asking about them to an obliging Russell. The Prince learns the names of various wildlife, both benign and hazardous, as well as the name and purpose of certain rural structures. The grain silo is used to collect taxes and also to distribute rations in a crisis. The army outpost acts as a security checkpoint but also a waypoint for conveying messages. It’s all very interesting.

So occupied is the Prince with this game that he’s rather surprised when they arrive. “Already?” he asks.

Not quite, it happens, but they’re on the outskirts of their destination which is apparently a town called “Halia.” Russell informs him it produces about a quarter of the food consumed by the capital, which seems very impressive!

“We’ll be staying with the local Lord and governor there,” says Russell. “He has a son not much older than you.”

There’ll be another kid there?! He hasn’t gotten to play with another kid in… a really long time. He can vaguely remember having elda friends back when his mom was alive. He doesn’t know if any of them survived the fire. That makes him really sad to think about, so he doesn’t.

“Do you think he’ll like me?” the Prince asks instead.

“Of course he will,” assures Russell with a chuckle and a warm smile. The Prince is not convinced. He thinks people are supposed to be nice to him ‘cause he’s the crown prince but that’s not the same as liking him. Will might like him because Will doesn’t have a concept of tribal divide in his world, but the Prince knows that most people in Euchronia are going to judge him for his lack of horns or other tribal traits. He hates it.

But this is no good. The Prince can’t let himself get gloomy now. This is his big adventure outside the castle! And if his father approved this trip, then probably the people he’s staying with will be good people.

Optimism reaffirmed, the Prince lets himself be distracted by the bustling town as their carriage approaches its destination.

—

Leon, the Prince learns, is ten years old. This is quite a bit older than him, he thinks, contrary to what Russell said.

Leon is also quite good at marbles. Or maybe the Prince is just very poor at it, having only just learned. Leon assures the Prince that they’re only playing for fun, not for stakes. The Prince isn’t sure what kind of stakes Leon means, but he’s more interested in admiring the different materials of marbles than in winning anyhow. The glass ones are especially pretty in how they reflect the light, and they all make satisfying clacking noises when they knock into each other.

“The glass ones were a gift from my father,” Leon says when he sees the Prince admiring one with a pretty golden center. “Most of the other kids just have clay marbles, or stone. Like this one here,” Leon points to an opaque white marble with a streak of red through it, “it’s made of alabaster. But the red pattern is rare, so it’s one of my favorites. I think it looks a bit like a dragon.”

The Prince considers the splotchy red blur. He can kinda see it.

As the Prince moves to take his shot, he asks, “So who are the girls staying here?” The shooter doesn’t go at all where he was aiming, but it still hits a couple clay marbles on the side of the ring which go spinning in random directions.

Leon sighs, “I’m not sure. A pair of sisters, just older than me. My parents won’t tell me anything about who they are and where they came from, and so far they haven’t opened up to me at all.” He wrinkles his nose. “Am I a bad host, do you think? Be honest with me.”

“I don’t know,” says the Prince, “I’ve only just got here. But I like your marbles game.” The Prince would probably like it less if he were playing it by himself in the castle, no matter how shiny the baubles. He thinks it’s fun because he’s sharing it with Leon.

Leon takes a turn with his shooter and manages to hit his target precisely, knocking it clean out of the ring. “I’m not sure they’d like marbles,” Leon says. Then, after a pause, “I made them cry yesterday, but I don’t know why or how to make it up to them.”

“Oh,” says the Prince. “I cried a couple days ago too. When Will mentioned my mom. But it was a good cry, I think. And it wasn’t Will’s fault. I just really miss my mom.” And it hurts slightly less to be able to say it to someone else, to admit it openly like this. The Prince takes another shot. It goes completely in the wrong direction and doesn’t hit anything.

“Huh. That’s very insightful, Your Highness. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Leon rolls his shooter between his fingers absently. “Who’s Will? You’ve mentioned him a couple times now.”

The Prince lights up. “He’s a brave hero and my best friend! Here, let me show you a picture.” The Prince looks around, before realizing his book was in his traveling chest, and he doesn’t know where that went. “Nevermind. I’ll just describe him.”

And so the Prince does, at length.

Chapter Text

Leon has apparently figured out how to please the crown prince, and that’s to ask about his friend Will. A friend who Leon is not entirely sure exists?

According to the prince’s descriptions, Will is apparently an adventurer, but also the prince’s royal aide. He’s apparently very well traveled, but a commoner. He is, apparently, an elda, and somehow the idea of an elda as the crown prince’s aide is the most improbable part. You might as well suggest the prince himself an elda!

But it’s certainly not Leon’s place to question the young prince on his imaginary(?) friend, so he listens in increasing bemusement as the prince spins a tale of a young man of great strength and surpassing virtue.

“And when I was in danger, and the spell was coming right at me, Will appeared out of nowhere with his glowing sword and he swung it like whoosh and cut the spell in half,” the prince recounts breathlessly, complete with hand motions. The marbles game on the ground is entirely forgotten by this point.

The crown prince certainly has a rich imagination, it seems.

Distantly, Leon notices that despite not holding a sword, the prince is using proper form for his imagined battle. Perhaps they can have a practice spar later, if he’s very careful not to harm His Highness’s esteemed person.

“And then my father the king invited him for lunch, and said, ‘You have saved my son, and inspired me with your dreams, so please serve as the prince’s aide.’ And Will said yes.” The young prince uses a pompous voice when quoting the king which Leon very much doubts is what the real king sounds like. It’s rather adorable.

“And then Will took me flying on my mom’s sword, which turned out to be magical, but then Alces said it wasn’t safe to fly on a sword so I can’t do that anymore, not until I’m better at sword fighting. Which is an entirely different skill than flying, I think, but Will agreed and he’s never wrong so I don’t have a sword anymore.”

Leon is completely lost, he’ll admit, but this doesn’t seem to have hindered the prince’s enthusiastic retelling.

“And then Will asked my father if I could leave the castle and make more friends, and my father said yes so we came here. So. Um,” the prince hesitates, pausing to catch his breath for the first time in what seems like minutes, “would you be my friend?”

The prince is looking at Leon with big, watery eyes full of nervous anticipation. Leon can’t say no, obviously?? Because the prince is a royal and therefore his ‘requests’ are not actually optional, but also because even if the prince weren’t a royal Leon’s pretty sure he couldn’t say no to that face.

“Um. Sure. Of course, Your Highness.”

The prince frowns at him. “...Your Highness feels too formal for friends,” he says consideringly.

“Um.” Leon panics, because he has a shortage of names available, and that removes half his options. “Prince, then?”

The prince thankfully nods at this.

“Well I’d be honored to be your friend. Prince.”

The prince’s beaming smile in return feels like its own reward.

—

Dinner is a welcome reprieve from the experience that is hosting the prince. Not that the prince has been a nuisance, of course! He’s not what Leon was expecting, but he’s a perfectly genial guest. And perhaps, now, an interesting friend. But Leon has been on edge all day and he needs a moment to just. Recover himself.

The sisters aren’t present at dinner, but he didn’t really expect them to be. They’ve taken most of their meals in their room since their arrival. It’d be much more surprising if they were present.

Leon’s father is seated at the head of the table, and the prince is seated at the opposite head, flanked by his two retainers. He’s speaking enthusiastically to them but Leon can only make out about half the words. Leon notices the servants brought out the fine dinnerware with the gold trim. Each guest is served a large cut of steak, so probably one of the cows was slaughtered for the special occasion. This means Leon can look forward to significantly more meat for the next week, as well as some excellent soup after that. It’s supplemented with a fresh salad of vegetables from the farm.

Refreshed by the hearty meal, Leon means to excuse himself to bed early and take some solitude, only to be met with a strange sight upon returning to his room. The furniture has been rearranged while he was at dinner, and another bed was added. As he is a noble with decorum, he neither yells nor runs, but instead briskly makes his way to his mother and quietly hisses at her, “Why is there another bed in my room?”

His mother puts a hand on her cheek. “There wasn’t enough space otherwise. The girls are already doubled up, and Dame Hulkenberg has to be nearby for safety reasons. Of course we can’t put a man and woman in the same room. So I’m afraid you’ll have to share. You don’t mind, do you?”

Leon. Cannot handle. All these surprises!!

Gritting his teeth into something resembling a smile, Leon says, “Of course not.” Internally, he waves goodbye to his space of private retreat. “It just seems inappropriate for the prince to have to share his lodgings. Perhaps I can sleep with you and Father? Or, down with the servants, perhaps–”

“Nonsense, sweetheart. This is the arrangement Russell and I agreed upon, there can be no issue of propriety.” His mother kneels down and takes his hands, “I know it can be hard to share your space, especially as an only child, but your father and I would really appreciate if you would try, for us? You’ve been so good so far. We know we’re asking a lot.”

Well now Leon feels bad for rejecting the arrangement. “Okay, Mother,” he relents.

“Good,” she says with a smile. “You have the next few days off from lessons, okay? So you’re free to make whatever plans with the prince, provided you clear them with his guard. And let me know if you need a bit more pocket money, okay? Or if you want to borrow the carriage for the day. I want you to be able to show His Highness a good time.”

Hesitantly, Leon asks something he’d been thinking about. “Is it that important to curry favor with the prince? I mean, I know he’ll be king one day, and it benefits us to establish good relations, but he doesn’t seem pretentious. I don’t think he expects us to suck up to him.” And that had been a surprise for Leon, in some ways, although he now feels bad for assuming that the prince would be pretentious in the first place.

His mother takes one hand and gently strokes Leon’s head. “It’s not just about that,” she says. “I’ve heard a bit about the prince’s life in the castle. It seems very lonely. I honestly hope he can have a good time while he’s here, and make friends with you – and the girls, if they’re feeling up to it.”

Leon feels like something vital has shifted in his understanding of the day so far. His parents’ casualness. The way his mother had been so intentionally in giving the boys space to get to know each other. And just recently, the prince’s innocent request for friendship. Perhaps he’d been so blinded by the prince’s title that he had missed something important, which was that the prince is a young boy who probably doesn’t have many friends who can see past his title. He feels ashamed of himself.

“I understand, Mother,” Leon says, and he truly does this time. He’s sure it’ll be difficult to not be overly conscientious of the prince, but he’ll try.

“Good boy,” she says, giving him one last rub on the head before standing up. “I love you very much, and I’m very lucky to have you as my son.”

“I love you too, Mother,” Leon says, and he hugs his mother and she hugs back.

—

The Prince wakes up on his first morning in the Strohl estate to the sound of persistent knocking. He assumes it must be Russell, although usually his tutor lets himself in after knocking without waiting for a response. Perhaps he’s being considerate of Leon, who’s sharing the room?

“Come in,” the Prince calls groggily.

The door opens a crack, and to his surprise, it’s a young female voice that calls, “Are you decent?”

The Prince sleeps in his loungewear, so whether he’s decent really depends on the status of his would-be guest. He looks across the room to Leon, who seems to at least be wearing a nightshirt. He’s really not sure if they qualify as “decent”. Mister Russell would probably say no.

Leon speaks up, saving the Prince from having to decide. “Can it wait? I can be presentable in a moment.”

A pause. Then the voice from the door crack says, “Okay,” and the door shuts fully.

Leon washes up and puts on a fresh shirt and the Prince, not wanting to seem like a helpless baby, does the same with his own basin of fresh water that was apparently left by the servants last night for this purpose. He chooses a blue coat that’s only mildly uncomfortable. It’s not his favorite, which means it’s probably something Russell approves of.

It’s not long before they’re both freshened up and, probably, presentable, and Leon goes to open the door. “Junah,” he says, sounding almost but not quite surprised.

The Prince stands behind Leon and gets a good look at the girl. She’s older than him, about as tall as Leon. She’s a nidia, he can recognize that even though he’s never actually met a nidia before. She’s wearing a pink sundress with a sunflower pattern.

“Is that His Highness?” she asks Leon, which is somewhat rude because the Prince is standing right there.

“Ah, yes,” says Leon. “Junah, this is His Royal Highness, crown prince of Euchronia. Prince, this is Miss Junah. She’s staying here along with her older sister Rella.”

She seems to size the Prince up, examining him from head to toe, which doesn’t take long given how small he is. He’s a bit put off by this treatment. Then she says, “Your Highness, I have a request.”

This girl is very forward. The Prince doesn’t know how to feel about this. “...Yes?”

“Your Highness, please,” she says, “I need you to order my sister out of her room.”

Chapter Text

Will is invited for dinner with the king that evening. It’s reminiscent of his first full day in this time, except that this time the private dining area is completely empty except for himself and the king. Even the servants have vacated, leaving them alone with their steaming warm dishes.

“How did things go?” asks the king with no preamble.

“Good, I think,” says Will. “I passed on your orders to the army general and saw him personally open them, just as you requested. And I confirmed that Batlin is willing to conduct the auction, and report on the events afterward. I’m confident he’ll be sympathetic to our side.” Will skewers a floret of broccoli. “Can you really procure a divine relic for the auction?”

The king laughs, “There’s no need to procure, the royal treasury has piles of war prizes. There’s a few pieces that could qualify as a divine relic which I’ve no use for. If anything, it’s a bit refreshing to be rid of some of the gaudier items.”

“I’m glad you think so. I wouldn’t want you to feel forced into it.”

“The auction was a fine suggestion, my boy. The collection of treasure will make a plausible excuse for the increased number of guards, as well,” the king observes before taking a bite of mushroom.

The king has been in better spirits since his not-quite-awakening several days ago. He even seems, happy, almost? At times. Although perhaps more vindictive than happy, as he seems to have found great catharsis in following through with the plan they cooked up.

He’s not sure he’s seen his father be truly happy, not in life, death, or his other life as More. He’s probably not truly happy now, either, but he’s something closer to it. It’s deeply sad, because he knows from Louis and Gruidae that his father used to be an idealist and in love, and Will never got to see it. No more than he was able to see his mother be the charming and powerful queen they described. He kind of resents Louis for, in some ways, knowing his parents better than Will himself does.

Will asks, slightly nervous, “Has Forden confirmed his attendance?” Because this whole plan really relies on that at its core, and if Forden doesn’t attend then they’ll have wasted a lot of money and manpower for nothing.

“He has,” confirms the king with a glimmer in his eye. He chews into a bite of meat with relish, as if imagining it as something or someone else.

Well. That’s good. “What’s left to do?” asks Will. He’s feeling a bit anxious. He really feels like he should be a more active participant in the prep work.

“I’ll bend the ear of a few of the nobles we identified as sympathetic, spread a few rumors in the army. Lay some groundwork. Nothing you need involve yourself with.”

That seems to Will to be a lot to manage in the two or so days they have left to prepare. But the king seems confident, and Will himself was never quite that good at manipulating public opinion. That was more Alonzo’s role.

…Will probably shouldn’t comment on it, but he can’t help but ask, “Aren’t you nervous at all? Even if we succeed, the backlash could be considerable.” Will is trying not to think about that too much, because he knows this is the right choice, regardless of consequence. But even so, he worries about what those consequences may be.

The king takes a swig of wine from his goblet, then swirls the drink in his hand consideringly. “You know what I realized, Will?” he asks.

“What, Your Majesty?” Will asks once it’s clear the king actually expects a response.

“I realized, the other day, that no one likes me.”

Will sputters, because, excuse me? Is the king seriously having self esteem issues now, of all times? He prepares to say something appropriately contradictory, but before he can, the king continues.

“No one in the blasted Senate, none of our neighboring principalities, none of the church or the merchants like me at all. The clemar dislike me because I’m too liberal. The elda dislike me because I’m not liberal enough.”

This, Will allows, is not an untrue assessment of how things stand, although he wouldn’t put it so harshly himself. And for many the sentiment is more indifference than outright dislike.

But the king apparently doesn’t need his input, because he continues, “So I realized, there’s no point in trying to please everyone. I’ve kept my head down and no one likes me for it, so I might as well do what I please and then if everyone still hates me, it’ll at least be for something I actually care about.”

The king says this with a kind of serene profundity as he gazes down at his wine.

“Your Majesty,” starts Will cautiously, “respectfully, are you drunk?”

The king laughs loudly and sets down his cup. “Not really, I’ve only had half a glass. Just reflecting on what a fool I’ve been.”

“Your Majesty…” Will doesn’t know what to say to that.

“It’s alright my boy. It’s alright. I should have realized far earlier. I have you to thank that I snapped out of it at all,” says the king remorsefully. “You know,” the king continues, peering at Will closely, “There’s something about you. In your actions, yes, but also in your looks. The face, maybe. You have a likeness to her. Are you a cousin of the late queen, perhaps?”

Will feels a bizarre combination of warmth and loss at the conjecture – to be seen for his mother’s son, but not to be able to claim her as his mother. “Quite possibly, Your Majesty. But I couldn’t say for sure.”

“That’d make you and my son cousins as well, wouldn’t it? Practically already family.” The king looks down at his glass, now empty. “Pardon, maybe I am drunk at that.”

The king pushes away his glass and rises to his feet. “You may go. Spend the remaining days as you see fit. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be ready by the day of the ball. I won’t let myself give into grief again.” The king says it with a smile that’s sincere yet all the more heartbreaking for it. He offers Will a pat on the back as he sends him on his way.

—

The Prince admires Will’s dream to help everyone. It’s not something he thinks he can emulate, really, he’s not strong enough to be of much help yet, but it’s a goal that motivates him in his training and lessons.

So in a way, this “request” could be a step towards that, but…

“What?” the Prince asks, confused.

“My sister. She’s not left her room for days and she won’t listen to me anymore. But you're the prince, so I figure she’d have to listen to you, right?”

The Prince isn’t sure if that’s how it works. I mean. In theory, that is how it works? But he’s lost enough arguments with Russell to know that his authority is not omnipotent.

Still, it seems like Junah is very worried for her sister, under all the bluster, so that’s ultimately why he answers, “I can try?”

“Good,” Junah nods her head. The Prince can see her tightly gripping her hands into fists, and they might be shaking. “Our room is this way.” Junah points, and then leads the way, and the Prince follows. Leon trails after.

Their room, as it happens, is literally just down the hall, so they arrive in no time at all. Junah knocks on the door. “Sister. It’s me, Junah.” There’s no response. “Sister, I know you won’t listen to me, but I’ve brought a higher authority! So, you’d better listen up!” Junah looks down at the Prince. “That’s your cue,” she instructs quietly, as she opens the door just a crack – enough to let noise pass more readily, but not enough to violate Rella’s privacy.

The Prince has not been trained for this exact scenario, but he’s had to practice proclamations before, and he thinks that might apply here. At least, Junah is clearly hoping it applies. He tries not to be nervous as he realizes this will technically be his first public proclamation.

“Rella,” he starts, and then feels slightly disappointed he doesn’t have a full name and title for her. A single name lacks gravitas. “Junah’s sister Rella,” he starts again, and that feels more apt, “by royal decree, I order you to leave your room, so that Junah can stop worrying about you.” There. Succinct but firm. He thinks it’s suitable, for an on-the-spot composition.

There’s no sound from inside the room, and the Prince figures his word carries as little weight here as it often does. Until suddenly there’s a lot of sound coming from the room. There’s a loud crash, and a thump of something hitting the floor, and a groan of pain, and then a scramble of footsteps before the door is flung open from the inside.

The source of the noise is a very, very disheveled looking ishkia girl. Her clothes are wrinkled and look like they’ve been slept in at least once. Her feathers are all in a disarray, as is her hair. She, the Prince hates to admit, smells quite bad. She also looks nothing like Junah, but from context, he supposes this might be Rella?

“Your Highness,” she breathes out, barely audible. “Is it really you? I’m not imagining this?”

“Um,” says the Prince, uncomfortable. “Have we met?”

“No. I mean, yes,” the presumed Rella says, clarifying nothing. “Are you alright?” she asks, breathless and urgent.

“Um. Are you?” the Prince counters, because this girl doesn’t look well at all.

“Please!” The ishkia reaches out a hand towards the Prince, but before the Prince can think to move away, she retracts her hand as if burned, cradling it to her chest. “Please, I need to know, are you alright?”

The Prince doesn’t know what this girl, probably Rella, is going through, but it’s an easy question, so he answers, “Yes? I’m fine?”

The girl collapses on the floor instantly like a puppet with her strings cut. She starts sobbing uncontrollably. The Prince is very, very confused. He recalls Leon said something about this yesterday, about making Rella cry and not knowing why. The Prince did not expect to experience the same thing himself today.

“Rella,” Junah cries from behind the Prince. She goes to her knees next to her collapsed, sobbing sister, hovering her arms anxiously above Rella’s shoulders, clearly aching to touch but unsure if touch would be welcome. To the Prince, she says, “Um, thank you, for doing that. And you did get her out of her room. I’m sorry, I really don’t know what all that was about–”

“I’m sorry!” says Rella, loud and abrupt. “I’m so sorry. It was all my, my fault.”

Junah turns to her sister. “I told you, it’s not your fault,” she insists, angry but clearly scared at the same time.

“Prince,” Rella gasps, “Your Highness. I don’t ask for your forgiveness, but please, let me confess or I will surely go mad.”

And now Junah and Leon are both looking at him in confusion. The Prince certainly doesn’t know what’s going on. He was not aware that the royal family accepted confessionals. But this is clearly important to her, so he says, “Um, sure?”

Despite her earlier urgency, it takes a moment for Rella to find her voice again. When she does, it’s so quiet that it’s only audible because of the hushed silence she speaks into. “It was me. I was the one who attacked Your Highness that day. It was my spell of thorns that aimed for your heart.”

And suddenly this isn’t fun anymore, the Prince is scared, because there’s no way someone unrelated should know that particular detail. The particular way the spell had looked, and how it had aimed precisely at his chest. His chest which is now beating like a drum at the realization that the girl before him is his would-be assassin.

It had been okay then, because Will had saved him, but Will isn’t here.

Leon reaches a hand out to pat his shoulder, but the touch is unwelcome to his anxiety-raddled nerves, which are heightened by a fight-or-flight instinct to get away, and he flinches back. Then, without him realizing how it happened, Hulkenberg is behind him and she’s lifting him in her arms and he’s clinging to her.

His knight speaks by his ear, “Your Highness, I’m so sorry. I should have anticipated this. This is my oversight, placing you in the same house. I promise, you are safe here. You are completely safe. Rella won’t harm you. No one is going to harm you.” She continues to whisper reassurances to him as he clings harder to her. Hulkenberg takes her cloak with her free hand and brings it over her shoulder to the front in such a way that it drapes over the Prince. It’s dark underneath which makes him feel secure and hidden, somehow.

“Miss Knight,” Junah says, “what is going on? My sister has been distraught for days and if you know why I’d very much like an explanation.”

Hulkenberg responds, “An explanation I will grant you, but now is not the time. I must see to the prince, and you to your sister. Perhaps her heart can begin to heal now that she’s cast her shame into the light.”

“Miss Knight!” Junah calls one last time, but Hulkenberg is already turning and leaving, and taking the Prince far away from all this.

Chapter Text

Leon is completely out of his depth here. He is somehow just realizing this, although he thinks he’s also known for a while.

But wow, did Rella just admit to attacking the prince? Like, attempted regicide? This small, broken girl who’s been sobbing all over his family’s manor? He just can’t see her as a threat.

The prince clearly did, however, given how he looked after that confession. He looked completely terrified. His tanned skin grew pale and his eyes were wide and he didn’t seem fully present. Leon is greatly relieved that his knight showed up when she did, as he doesn’t think he or the girls had any way to comfort the boy prince.

Hulkenberg took his highness into her room, which was strategically adjacent to the one Leon and the prince were sharing, and also probably the only sleeping room in the house which isn’t doubled up on beds. The prince will, at least, have privacy there.

Rella is still sobbing on the floor. Even in light of her admittance of guilt, Leon finds it hard to condemn her when she’s so clearly already punishing herself. And seemingly has been since her arrival.

Junah is worrying over her sister, as has become the pattern. “Sister,” she says, “it’s not true, is it? You’re not like that.”

She means well, but Leon suspects she might be making things worse. Now that he understands the situation at least a little bit, he might as well try to step up. “Rella,” he says, “I’m going to have the servants draw you a warm bath, okay? And I’d like you to wash up and warm up.” The ishkia is noticeably shivering, and even though it probably isn’t from the cold, he figures a warm bath can’t hurt. To Junah, he says, “Can you help her wash up? I can also get my mother, she can help too.”

Junah nods, seeming to relax a bit as she’s given a task. He understands the feeling because he’s the same way. Giving instructions is the only thing stopping him from freaking out right now.

“Rella,” he says. And he’s not even sure if she’s hearing him at all. She’s so still and she hasn’t blinked in a worryingly long time. “The prince ordered you to leave your room, remember, and to stop worrying Junah, so you owe it to him and to her to try and pull yourself together.” He’s not sure if the extra pressure will help or just make things worse. He’s absolutely guessing here. He waves down a servant to get the bath water heated and fetched, and goes to tell his mother what happened. She’ll handle the rest somehow.

—

The Prince isn't sure how long it takes for him to come back to himself. He just knows that when he can think straight again, he's still in Hulkenberg's arms. He thinks maybe she hasn't let go of him this whole time. He’s on her lap, now, and she’s seated on the edge of a bed. She's making gentle sounds but there aren't any words that he can tell.

He leans back enough to look up at her, but doesn't try to squirm out of her arms. He's comfortable here.

“Are you with us, Your Highness?”

He nods. He's here. But he's tired, though. And confused.

“... Why?” he manages, which isn't eloquent, but it encompasses everything he wants to ask. Why did Rella attack him? Why is she here, now?

Hulkenberg seems to get it, because she hmms consideringly. “You know,” she ventures, “it was actually Will who told us about her.”

And of course the Prince perks up at that, like he always does when anyone mentions Will. Maybe she knows that and did it on purpose. How does Will fit into this?

“The church said it was Louis behind the attack, an army officer of recent renown. They had compelling evidence. But Will, he somehow knew otherwise. I know not how,” Hulkenberg recounts. “He explained that the attacker was a young girl, a healer named Rella. But. He also insisted that she was innocent, a victim too in her own right. A frightening man threatened her, her family, and her sister if she didn't comply.

“I'm not sure if I can agree that she was completely innocent. She still knowingly agreed to harm you, even if it was under duress. But I do believe that she did not wish to, and that, now that we've taken steps to protect her and her sister, Rella will never again dare to so much as touch you. I swear I would never let you share a home with someone who would do you harm. In fact, this was wildly inappropriate. I will ask her to leave, and find another family to shelter them–”

“Do they have anywhere else to go?” the Prince speaks up for the first time in a while.

“No, but I'll find a home. There are many yet loyal to the king who will respond to his call,” Hulkenberg vows.

The Prince shakes his head. “Don't,” he says, “I'm gonna leave and go home soon, right? But you said they can't go home. So I don't wanna make them move because of me, not when I'm not even staying.” And the Strohls seem nice. The Prince doesn’t want the sisters to have to move to a new home that might not be as nice.

Hulkenberg nods, seeming to accept this. “Very well. But know that you owe her nothing. Not your understanding, nor your forgiveness. She is already receiving considerable leniency in return for her assistance in our investigation.”

The Prince nods. He’s not sure how he feels about her yet. They only just met, and she’d been kinda scary and also really sad. He hadn’t expected this at all. “You said Will said she’s not bad?”

“Yes. He was very particular on that.” She furrows her brows. “And, despite my own misgivings, having met and interrogated her, I believe he is right. She seems… benign.”

“Then I’ll trust you both. Even if I don’t trust her yet.” This has been a nice hug but he thinks he’s done hiding now. “I… want to go outside. Will you come with? Leon said they have a farm. He said there’s animals on it.”

Hulkenberg smiles. “Very well, Your Highness. Let’s go see the animals.”

—

Will is both used to and unused to having unallocated free time like this. Since his coronation, any leisure time had been stolen in between his unending obligations. But before then, in the first few months after his manifestation, he had been very acclimated to the wide gaps of free time between urgent deadlines. It's somewhat nostalgic.

Unlike back home, however, he doesn't have many social connections outside the castle. And over half of the people he's gotten familiar with in this time are out of town. So when Grius invites him out for drinks, Will is pleasantly surprised and eagerly agrees to the invitation.

“How old are ye anyway, lad? Old enough to drink?” Grius asks as he leads the way to the venue.

“Do I look that young?” Will asks, pouting a little despite himself. “I’m 19.” He’s kind of tired of being called a kid, especially since he’s now actually older than most of his friends.

“That’s still very young. But old enough to grab a pint together.”

Will has his suspicions about the venue when Grius takes them through Sunshade Row, which is largely unchanged – clearly no effort was put into developing the slums between now and 12 years later – but he’s still somewhat overcome when he sets eyes on it.

“The Honeybee Inn,” Will mutters under his breath. This building, too, is much like it was when he first saw it, but it’s missing Maria’s sign over the top. It’s tangible proof that this isn’t his time. He can feel his throat choke up a little as he’s overcome by an acute, profound feeling of loss.

“Not the nicest joint in town, but the food is good and the drink is cheap,” Grius announces as he heads in, heedless of Will’s grief.

Will forces himself to follow, only for the feeling to intensify as he takes in the blank walls where the photos of his adventures would go in the future. Or would never go, likely as not, thanks to his changes to the past. He doesn’t regret it, he can’t regret it, but he misses Maria and the rest of his friends so much in this moment that it aches.

And there, near the back, minding the tables, is Fabienne. She looks… young. Not young like the prince or even Hulkenberg, because she’s still very much an adult. Will had never thought of Fabienne as being old but he knew she wasn’t young either, and it’s more obvious now as he sees her without most of her wrinkles. And moreso than her physical appearance, her whole bearing seems lighter. She’s smiling easily and seems to be teasing some of the customers. She looks vibrant in a way that he’d never seen her in the future, not even before Grius died.

“What are you gawking at? Never seen a paripus waiting tables before?” Grius asks with an undercurrent of violence.

Will shakes himself out of his thoughts, “No, no, I just. It’s really nice in here. Homey. I got nostalgic for a moment.” He carefully follows Grius to an empty table in the corner of the restaurant, and tries to not look too obviously like he’s having a whole crisis.

“Yer dad ever take you out for drinks?” Grius asks once they’re both seated.

“Um, no. My father died before we had the chance to do that sort of thing together,” Will admits. Unless you count yesterday, but the king was the only one drinking then, and also he doesn’t know that he’s Will’s father.

“Ah. Just you and your mother, then?”

“No, um, my mother also died. When I was very young.”

“An orphan then? That can be hard. It leaves you very vulnerable to the wrong kind of attention,” Grius observes.

“I was lucky, I guess. I had friends who took me in. They’re like family to me,” Will says with a small but sincere smile. He misses them terribly, but it feels good to talk about them. Just because they’re out of reach doesn’t make them any less a part of his family.

“I see. And where are those friends of yours now?” Grius asks, cutting into Will’s fragile heart in one abrupt shot.

“That’s…” Will starts weakly, looking at his hands balled up in his lap. “They’re not…”

“Can I get you boys anything?” interrupts a woman’s voice, saving Will from finishing that sentence. He looks up to see it’s Fabienne, who’s standing by their table with her hips cocked to the side, one hand propped on her hip, giving them an expectant look.

“I’ll take the fish, and he’ll have–”

“The Redgrass Bidou. If you have it,” Will interjects.

Fabienne raises an eyebrow at him and her smile widens a bit, “That happens to be our speciality. Nice to know word is getting around. And anything to drink with that?”

“A couple of beers to get us started,” Grius answers before Will has a chance.

“Very well, I’ll have those right out,” Fabienne says, offering Grius a wink before she saunters off to the next table.

After she leaves, Will ventures a question. “What about you? Do you have a family, or someone special in your life?”

Grius immediately and visibly bristles, “Why’re you asking?” he growls.

Will did not expect this level of reaction, and isn’t sure what he did to warrant it. He also can’t exactly say, ‘I miss your future daughter so much it hurts, and I was wondering if you and her mom are a thing yet?’

“Um. No reason I just. Uh. The waitress, she was flirting with you?” he ventures. He then feels immediately regretful for suggesting that Fabienne and Grius have chemistry knowing that they do end up together later, after Grius is widowed, but hopefully they are not like that currently.

Grius clearly doesn’t take it to heart though, because he laughs loudly. “Ha! She flirts with all the boys. Gets her better tips. If you must know, I do have someone special. We’ve been together a while now, but I don’t get to see her much with my current position keeping me busy. And that’s all you’ll hear from me on that matter.”

It’s at this moment that Fabienne comes back with the drinks. “Oh honey, are you saying you don’t feel the chemistry? I’m heartbroken,” she teases as she places their beers on the table. Then she leans closer to Will and faux-whispers, “I know I don’t have a chance, his wife is quite the looker.”

“Fabienne!” Grius yells, appalled.

Fabienne laughs for almost a full minute as Grius sputters indignantly. Will just feels kind of awkward. Is he meant to assume that was a joke…?

When she finally pulls herself together from her laughing fit (although she miraculously managed to spill none of the drinks on her tray), she clarifies, “I jest. Arvid and his wife are both good friends of mine. I couldn’t be happier for them. Although, he could stand to go home a bit more often. You know, women can’t wait forever to start a family. Don’t let the missus get lonely.” She gives them another wink and glides off with her drink tray.

Grius is now blushing profusely, and Will feels like he learned way more than he meant to about Grius and Fabienne both. He takes a long swig of his beer to cover the awkwardness, then makes a face. It’s kind of bitter. Across from him, Grius outright chugs his beer in one swoop, then signals for another round.

“You know,” Grius says once he’s recovered himself, “I did some asking around about you. For a supposed wandering adventurer, no one’s heard of you. Not in the mercenary circles or the broader network of informants. Mighty strange, that.”

Ah. Yes, Will supposes that would be suspicious. He glances towards Fabienne to see if she’ll magically bring the food to interrupt this question too, but no dice. She’s chatting merrily with another table. He chugs his own beer to buy himself a bit more time. “That’s, um. Yeah. I suppose they wouldn’t have.” He does not elaborate. He really can’t think of an explanation for that one which is even halfway believable.

Grius glares at him with narrowed eyes. Will sweats. After a prolonged pause where Will still doesn’t offer an explanation, Grius asks, “And why is that?”

“Well, um. I’m not from around here, specifically. My friends and I earned our reputation, well, elsewhere. And they’re still there, but I came here alone. It wasn’t exactly a planned thing, so I’m still figuring things out.” He pieces together a vaguely accurate explanation that leaves out all the improbably magic parts. It should pass muster, so long as Grius doesn’t ask–

“Uh-huh. And where are you and your friends from, then, exactly? I don’t suppose you could provide any references for yer work? Any evidence of your story whatsoever?”

And that hits way too close to home, because no, Will doesn’t have anyone who can attest for his character in this time, no one except a six-year-old prince who knows him as a story character. “No. I’ve lost contact with my friends, and I don’t know when or if I’ll be able to reach them. I’m… a long way from home. And I know that’s suspect. I wish it were otherwise.” He grips anxiously at his trousers. “I’m just trying to do my best with the situation I’ve been thrown into.”

At that point the food does arrive, along with the second round of beer, and Will and Grius eat in uncomfortable silence. The food is good, but Will’s not in the mood to properly enjoy it. The tension doesn’t dissipate even as Grius picks up the tab, and they both wander outside. The sun has set during their meal. The air is cool and the roads are dark.

Grius says, “I’ve got one last errand to do before we head back, if you wouldn’t mind joining me?”

Will doesn’t particularly care either way, so he agrees. It’s pretty late for an errand, but they’re right next to Gloamhall, which probably just opened for the night. Maybe Grius has something to buy there? It seems likely, as they start to head in that direction, but then Grius takes them through an unfamiliar side alley. Will follows, confused.

As soon as they turn the corner, Will finds himself shoved against a wall. Grius is grabbing his scruff, and his face is extremely close to Will’s own. There’s a sword held up to Will’s neck.

“Who have you been reporting to, and what have you told them? If you spill everything, I may be merciful,” Grius growls. There is no humor or camaraderie in his bearing, only deadly seriousness.

Will thinks that maybe, indeed, he has made a mistake or two at some point.

Chapter Text

Will is reflecting on his life choices as Grius holds him up against an alley wall, threatening him with a blade.

He’s not sure what exactly he did to deserve this. Probably many things, but the sword tip poking his Adam's apple makes it hard to concentrate. “Alces, I’m not sure what you think I’ve done, but if we could just calm down and talk–”

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy,” Grius growls. “You weren’t subtle about it.”

“Subtle about what?” Will protests loudly, then winces as the movement causes Grius’s sword to draw blood.

“Who do you talk to, late at night, when you’re alone in your room?” Grius asks. Without waiting for a response, he continues, “And where did you go, the night after you spoke with the king about Forden? And why,” he shakes Will by the scruff as he says this, “did I find cursework in your room after you got back?”

Oh. OH. Will screwed up bad. That. That really doesn’t sound good at all, when Grius puts it all together like that.

“There’s an explanation for all of that. I wasn’t, wasn’t reporting to anyone. If you could just put me down for a second, I’ll tell you–”

“I’m tired of your lies, boy. Yer not any good at it. I think you mean well, in your own way. Whoever took you in, maybe they’re threatening you or maybe they’re kind to you. Maybe they promised you no one would get hurt. But whoever they are, they’re using you to get close to the prince, and worse, the king, and we can’t afford that kind of loose end.” Grius twists his sword a little, drawing a thin line of blood. If the man’s control were any worse, Will might have already gotten his throat sliced open, but Grius’s grip is strong and doesn’t shake. “If you won’t talk, I have no qualms about taking you out here and now. The prince will be sad, of course, but I’ll just tell him you went back to the book world.” He bites the last words, harsh and unimpressed.

Will reflects that if he doesn’t think of something, and fast, he might not have a chance to offer any kind of explanation. Should he transform? It wouldn’t win him any favor, but it’d at least keep him alive long enough to try and explain himself.

Before he can make up his mind about it either way, a dark shadow moves in the corner of the alley, and suddenly Grius’s sword isn’t at his neck any more and is instead rising to meet the dagger of a man in a black cloak.

Just as suddenly, half a dozen other cloaked figures drop down from the rooftops above, and everything descends into chaos.

—

Dinner at the Strohl house that evening is an awkward affair. For the first time in several days, Rella and Junah are both taking dinner in the dining room. So are the prince and his entourage. The tension, at least to Leon, feels palpable.

Rella looks better, at least. She’s in fresh, comfortable-looking clothes, and her hair and wings have clearly both been carefully cleaned, combed, and oiled. They both look kind of glossy and fluffy now. Her expression is still rather dour, but there’s life in her eyes and she seems much more present than she was when he saw her last.

The prince is quiet on his end of the table, which Leon has come to think of as unusual for him.

In a clear effort to break the awkward silence, Leon’s mother asks, “What did you get up to today, Your Highness?”

The prince answers, shyly, “Leon showed me the farm animals.”

“Oh? That’s nice. Which were your favorites?”

The prince seemed to like most of them, although the chickens were frightened of his enthusiasm, and he in turn was frightened of the geese. Which makes sense, because the larger birds were almost as tall as the small prince. But he knows exactly which animal the prince will answer with.

“The horses!” the prince replies enthusiastically. “They were big and pretty. And Leon’s taking riding lessons, he can get all the way up on their back, even though they're so tall! He even has his own foal, but she’s too little to ride yet. Russell,” the prince looks over his shoulder to the eugief who’s standing at attention behind him, “can I learn to ride a horse too?”

The eugief chuckles. “Certainly, Your Highness, once you’re a bit more grown. It’s an essential skill for any young prince to learn.”

The prince pouts a bit. “Then can I at least visit the stables? We have stables, don’t we?”

“You’ll have to ask your father about that,” Russell answers noncommittally.

Which means ask the king, Leon realizes, and it’s strange to think this boy needs to consult the king himself about things like visiting horses.

Junah takes this moment to introduce her own topic, “Miss Knight,” she addresses the roussainte, who is standing next to Russell behind the prince, “I was wondering when I might get the explanation you promised? My sister is feeling much better, and the prince seems well, but she’s still refused to tell me anything.” Junah glares at her sister as she says this, so apparently she considers this silence to be a personal offense. But the fact that Junah looks disgruntled instead of worried is probably a good sign, Leon thinks?

Leon also, selfishly, would really like to be present for that explanation. His parents have offered no explanation, and Leon is still carefully not asking any questions, but it’s hard.

“Junah,” Rella scolds quietly.

Junah sticks her tongue out at her sister.

“Um. Are you well, Rella?” the prince, of all people, asks. He seems very uncomfortable as he does so.

“You needn’t concern yourself with me, Your Highness, but yes, I am feeling more composed now. I’m sorry for my unsightly display earlier.” Quieter, sheepishly, she adds, “And… sorry for the rest of it. Of course.” At her regular volume, she continues, “I can leave, if I’m making you uncomfortable. It’s just I didn’t wish to disobey your decree by staying in my room.” She meets the prince’s gaze as she says this.

In that moment Leon realizes that, in most of their previous encounters, Rella had been studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. He’d just written it off as part of her personality and bearing, perhaps, but it seems that wasn’t so. Rella now has her shoulders upright, back straight, and for all she’s clearly very regretful about whatever history she shares with the prince, she doesn’t seem ashamed and withdrawn anymore.

Meanwhile, several adults in the room appear confused or curious at the exchange. The lady knight mouths “decree” with her brows furrowed.

The prince makes a sweeping gesture with his hand that would be more regal if he wasn’t so short in his chair. “I acknowledge your gesture of fealty,” he says very seriously in his baby voice. “I expect you to continue to prove your loyalty to the crown. …Eat your vegetables.”

It’s not completely clear to Leon if those last two statements are meant to be related, but Rella, in complete seriousness, takes a forkful of her beets and shoves it in her mouth. She makes a face of disgust, but chews without voicing complaint. She swallows the bite with a shudder, before taking another forkful. Bite by bite, Rella finishes the rest of her beets like she’s going to war.

Junah looks between her sister and the prince in confusion, then realization, and, in apparent solidarity, she eats two small bites of her own beets, squirming at the taste, before seemingly abandoning the venture.

The prince’s beets, by contrast, remain untouched. No one comments on the hypocrisy.

Leon rather likes beets, himself. But he can see that somehow, this trial-by-beets has successfully broken through tension in the room like nothing else. The adults in the room are smiling now, and the young prince is clearly more at ease. The conversation turns to lighter topics for the remainder of the meal.

—

The explanation Junah insisted on happens later that evening. Leon is pleasantly surprised and grateful that he is included, along with his parents and Junah. The prince and Rella are both very pointedly absent.

Leon’s mother holds Junah’s hand as Hulkenberg unveils a tale of royal assassination which the twelve year old Rella was a pawn in. It all sounds very dramatic, like a historic epic, but apparently it’s very real and very recent, and concerns the young and vulnerable guests in Leon’s own house. Leon doesn’t feel prepared to handle this, and he snuggles up to the side of his mother opposite Junah, although the settee isn’t meant to hold three people. She wraps an arm around him and holds him tight to her side.

Junah, as expected, starts crying not long into the explanation, as she learns of her unwitting role as leverage against her older sister. “Was it my fault?” she asks. “If it weren’t for me, Rella wouldn’t have…”

Hulkenberg firmly denies this line of thought. “Do not blame yourself for the wicked schemes of the unrighteous. Innocents are not to blame for the cruelty of their oppressors. And a man like that would have no shortage of threats to employ.” Hulkenberg kneels in front of Junah. “I promise you we shall see justice done for this villain.”

“And, and my sister? What about her?” Junah asks, worried.

“Her crimes will be pardoned, provisionally, in light of her circumstances and cooperation. The prince also has declined to pursue punishment at this time. Vegetables aside.” Hulkenberg smirks slightly at the memory. “As soon as it’s safe to do so, you and your sister may continue your lives as usual.”

“Does that mean we’ll go home soon?” Junah asks hopefully.

“That’s something for you and your sister to discuss together. I will not influence that decision. However, it seems your family may have some history of collaboration with this villain. I’ve yet to uncover the details, but it bodes ill.”

Leon’s mother says, “You’re both welcome to stay with us, if that’s your choice. I’ve always thought it’d be nice to have a daughter.”

Which, what? What?? Leon has barely come to terms with having guests, and now they’re talking about adopting all of a sudden???

His panic must show on his face, as his mother laughs at him and fake-whispers to Junah, “It’s okay, Leon will come around. He used to beg me for siblings, you know? But the midwife said it wasn’t advisable after my first birth was so difficult. Such a shame, when his father and I are so in love.” She cups her face with her hand that isn’t holding Junah’s and sighs performatively, making doe-eyes at his father, who smiles adoringly back.

Leon suddenly regrets being part of this conversation. “Please, stop,” he moans, as he buries his head in his hands. Why are his parents so shameless?!

They both laugh at his suffering, and even Junah giggles a bit despite the seriousness of the conversation. His parents are the worst sometimes. But Leon loves them dearly for it.

Chapter Text

As the swarm of attackers descends, Grius quickly removes his offhand from Will’s scruff as he struggles to fend off the overwhelming number. Will grabs for his own sword, which thankfully is still at his hip, to block a strike aimed at him. The attackers, whoever they are, seem equally determined to take out Will and Grius both.

Grius takes down one and then another of the attackers with powerful swings, but another uses the opportunity to attack from behind, and Grius doesn’t fully dodge the slice at his right thigh. Will wants to help, but he’s overwhelmed himself. It might go smoother if he and Grius fought back-to-back, but Grius is clearly hesitant to turn his back on Will, and it’s impeding his fighting mobility.

If this keeps up, they’re both going to lose, and the assailants don’t seem keen on taking prisoners. The time for discretion has passed.

“By the chivalrous spirit of the knight,” Will intones, “Paladin!”

He shouts the Archetype name as a burst of magic envelops him. A steed of magla forms under him, lifting him off the ground. The dark magla forms into white armor that covers his whole body, including huge tower shields that form as shoulder pads, and transforms his sword into a lance suitable for mounted combat. A helmet with imposingly tall wings forms over his head. He barely feels the weight of any of it as the Paladin’s endurance floods his soul.

Immediately, he calls out a taunt to activate Holy Knight’s Proclamation. “I’m right here! Come and get me!” Against all common sense, the attackers largely abandon Grius, the easier target, and attempt to gang up on Will. One in five attacks deflect off his armor to cause the attacker harm, and those that don’t barely make a dent in his guard.

Grius, who is now suddenly unencumbered, gawks at Will’s altered form. “What in the everloving blazes is that supposed to be?” He sounds more annoyed than awed, somehow. But regardless, he only takes a moment to compose himself and start to strike back at the distracted assailants. Will appreciates this, since the Paladin doesn’t offer much in terms of offense. One by one, Grius cuts them down, until only the two of them remain standing.

Warily, Grius points his blade at Will’s mounted form, but he makes no move to attack.

Will, for his part, casts a quick spell to heal his own wounds, and then drops the transformation, sheathing his weapon and holding his hands up to appear as unthreatening as possible. Unfortunately, the Paladin doesn’t have any spells to heal others except for Emergency Aid, and Will isn’t quite certain they count as “out of combat” yet, nor that Grius considers Will an ally at this point.

“What the hell, boy?! Where was this during our spar, eh?” Grius yells, furious and perhaps a tad afraid under the bluster.

Will, sheepishly, says, “I did say I was more used to using magic.”

“And by magic, you meant,” Grius gestures in an ambiguous circle with the sword which is still outstretched toward Will, “all that, did ye?”

“The power of the Archetype, yes,” confirms Will.

“The, the bloody Archetype?! The legendary power held by ‘those who walk a righteous path’, that bleedin’ Archetype?!” Grius cries, indignant. “So I’m supposed to believe that you’re some, some righteous hero, is that it? What kind of improbable horse shite is that??”

“Well. Yes?” Will says apologetically, shrugging his shoulders.

“That’s it, I’m done, I’m not paid enough for this nonsense, what the bleeding hell.” Grius literally throws his hands up in the air, one still waving his sword a tad erratically. Will is a bit worried that Grius is handling this poorly.

“Are you alright?” Will asks tentatively. “Do you need to sit down?”

“Am I– what about the cursework? Huh? What’s supposed to be righteous about having dark magic notes in your room?!”

“Oh, I stole those from Louis. That’s why I was out that night, too. It was a bit of a heist mission. I destroyed the notes after, but I guess you must have seen them on my desk overnight? That was careless of me.” Will winces at his own foolishness. “I swear my only goal was to remove those notes from existence, so no one could use them.”

“Well, well what about all the suspicious talking at night, huh? Who were you reporting to?!” Grius blusters on, still clearly wrong-footed, but determined.

“Oh, um. That was just my friend, Gallica. Speaking of, Gallica, are you alright?” Will opens his satchel a crack, and a ball of glowing fairy magic bursts out like a loosed arrow.

“Am I alright, what about you, Will?” Gallica scolds furiously. “Do you know how tempted I was to fly out and give that man a piece of my mind? I was only barely holding myself back, while you did hardly anything to defend yourself!” She flies up to look over Will’s neck with concern, but it’s already healed from his earlier spell such that not even a mark remains.

“A fairy. A bloody– he’s got a fairy, does he, isn’t that just magical.” Grius mutters furiously. “She could very well be a spy too, transmitting your messages to your handler! This doesn’t exonerate you in the slightest!”

Gallica puffs up at that. “Well, I never! As a fairy of the elda forest, I would never work against the interest of the elda or their prince. It’s very rude of you to make such baseless assumptions!” She flies up to Grius’s face and points a judgemental finger at his nose. Grius goes a bit cross-eyed trying to keep track of her, and takes a defensive step back.

Or he tries to, at least. Doing so puts weight on his injured leg, which collapses under him, and Grius falls to the ground in a graceless sprawl.

“Alces!” Will cries, rushing up to the fallen rhoag.

“Blast,” Grius cries, looking at his leg, which is obviously swollen and bleeding quite badly, now that Will notices it. “They used a poison. The thigh is the worst place to get hit by that, it circulates too quickly.” Grius curses a bit under his breath. “I should have a remedy on me somewhere, should tide me over as long as it wasn’t anything too exotic.” He starts grabbing at his pockets frantically.

“Could I heal you? Please?” asks Will urgently, because that wound does not look good.

“What are ye talking about?” Grius asks, distracted, as he continues his search.

“I know you can probably handle yourself, but I have healing magic, and I would really prefer to heal that for you, if you’ll let me,” Will begs.

Grius gives Will his full attention at that. “Why would you even want to, boy?” he asks hostilely. “I’ve told you, I don’t trust you. I threatened to kill you, and I still might, once I’m on my feet again.”

“Even so,” answers Will seriously, “I don’t want you to die. And I know we’re both working to save the prince, even if you don’t believe me right now. Isn’t that enough of a reason?” Will hopes it is, because Grius is losing a lot of blood and fast. His complexion is going pale, and it’s alarmingly reminiscent of the Grius-zombie they had to fight in the future. Will has to suppress a shudder at the memory.

Grius bristles defensively for a moment, before he lets out a sigh. “Do what you will. Not like I can stop you. But don’t try anything funny, I can still skewer you with a sword from down here.”

It’s a weak threat, considering they both know that wouldn’t do much against the armor of Will’s Archetype, but it seems to give Grius some comfort, so Will doesn’t point that out. Instead, he carefully draws on the strength of his Archetype. “Come forth, royal soul,” he says, gently, as the robes of the Healer form over him. This Archetype is much less imposing than the Paladin, but it’s still quite large, as all Archetypes are. He carefully kneels down to make himself seem less threatening. “Patra,” he says aloud as he casts the purification spell over Grius. The wound immediately looks less ugly and swollen, but is still bleeding aggressively. He follows it up with a couple casts of Medi, and waits until he can confirm that the wound has closed up fully, and then looks up at Grius’s face to confirm that color has returned to his cheeks.

Grius is looking at him with a strange expression. “You’ve got more than one of these forms?” he asks.

Will nods, still in his transformation. “This is Healer, the last was Paladin of the Knight lineage. I have one Archetype lineage for each of my close bonds. Although I admit not all of them are quite as holy, these two just happened to be the most useful for this encounter. There’s also Mage, and Warrior, and some others,” he lists off. Because he wants Grius to trust him, yes, but it feels a bit manipulative to win that trust based off only his nicest Archetypes. He’d like Grius to trust all of him, ideally.

…Probably best not to mention the Assassin or Trickster archetypes, though.

“How can I trust you?” Grius asks, sounding more tired than fierce, now. “All that power, and I’m just meant to assume you’ll use it for the righteous path. It’s a nice fantasy to imagine that great power is bestowed to those who are worthy of it, but in my experience, that’s rarely the case in the real world.”

Will nods, finally letting the transformation go as he rises back to his feet. “I can’t make you trust me, but if possible, I’d like you to judge me by my actions, not what you worry I might do. I will always work to save the innocent and to protect the prince and his father the king. You can hold me accountable to that, and call me out if you believe I’ve done wrong.” Will offers a hand to Grius, who is still prone on the ground.

Grius sighs, “If you’ve got this much power, it’s probably redundant to have you only working as a spy. You could easily have taken out anyone from the royal family, and there’s little we could do to stop you.” Grius makes a face, as if the very admission causes him pain. “That’d be some long con, if this is all a ruse, and I’m not sure what would be the point of it all. Fine. I suppose I might as well trust ye, for now, even if your background is still suspicious as hell.”

Grius reaches up a hand to grab Will’s own. It’s a gesture, Will hopes, of some measure of budding trust. As Will helps pull Grius to his feet, his whole arm tingles with a familiar shock.

In Will’s soul, he can feel a new Archetype click into place. The Mentor. He’s not sure what it will evolve into, yet, the bond is still weak, but it feels right as it settles between them. He realizes, for all Grius left a significant impact on Will in his original time, they’d never formed a proper bond, in the magical sense. Probably there just wasn’t enough time. Grius had passed away very early into his adventure.

Will realizes a bond with Grius is something he really, really wants, actually, even if he had to suffer doubt and assassins to get here. Speaking of…

“Should we do something about… all these?” Will asks, looking at the many bodies around them. He thinks they might be dead, but he isn’t completely sure. Grius sure didn’t hold back against them, in any case.

“Ah, it’s fine. After I search the bodies for clues to their employer, I’ll get some of my friends around here to help dispose of the evidence. That’s what I was planning to do with you, after all.”

Grius is implying he brought Will out to Sunshade Row for drinks to… kill and hide Will’s body? “Uh, you weren’t serious about that, right?” Will ventures uneasily.

“Do I look like I’m joking, lad?” Grius asks as he kneels down and begins searching the robes of one of the men.

Will does not think Grius looks like he’s joking, no.

Without any other recourse, Will follows suit and helps with searching the bodies. This is not how he expected their night out together to go. Although, feeling their new bond in his heart, he thinks it’s not the worst way things could’ve turned out, either.

Chapter Text

The Prince goes to bed early that night. Hulkenberg doesn’t want him there when she recounts the details to the other kids, and the Prince doesn’t really want to be there either, so Russell watches him in her stead and gets him ready for bed.

For the first time in a while, he reads his book. He asks for some paper and charcoal, too, and makes a new sketch of Will. Maybe he’ll show it to Leon later. He bites his lip. Feeling a bit bold, he draws himself in next to Will. Because they’re in the same world now, so they can go on adventures together. It’s not strange if the Prince is there. On a whim, he draws them holding hands. Then he blushes a bit at his own audacity. Still, he resolutely finishes his sketch as he kicks his legs excitedly. He realizes that he forgot Gallica, so he draws her in too. Once he’s done, he carefully slides the finished work in between the book pages, next to his painting. He smiles in a silly fashion and holds the book to his chest, feeling warm all over.

He hopes Will is doing alright with his secret mission. He’s got to be, right? Will is the best. It’s just the Prince who is being childish and missing him. He shakes his head in self reprimand. He’ll see Will again soon enough, so he’s got to focus on having the best adventure possible. He’s already made one friend. The girls still kind of scare him. Not just Rella, for the obvious reasons, but Junah herself is really intimidating and overwhelming, he feels. He’s never met someone like her and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

But he thinks maybe, if he can recruit them as his temporary adventuring companions, that could make an exciting story, wouldn’t it? So maybe he’ll talk to them more tomorrow. If Hulkenberg and Leon are there to act as backup, he thinks he can manage.

With these ambitious thoughts in mind, he doesn’t even realize as he starts to drift off, book still cuddled to his chest, until he’s already fast asleep.

When Leon comes into their shared bedroom that night, the Prince faintly registers it. He intends to say something, a greeting maybe. Before he can fully formulate the thought, he slips back into his warm, shapeless dreams.

—

The mood in the house the next morning is chipper, so the Prince assumes whatever talk last night had gone well. No girls came knocking this time, and instead the Prince woke up to Russell fussing over him like usual.

Breakfast is already set out on the dining table, and there’s milk and eggs and pancakes with syrup. The Prince eagerly takes a seat and loads up his plate. Everyone else from the household is already seated and has begun eating, so apparently Leon and him are the latest risers.

Lord Strohl asks to the Prince, “Will you be staying with us through tomorrow?”

The Prince pauses with a bite of pancake halfway to his mouth, then carefully sets it down and looks expectantly as his entourage behind him.

Hulkenberg answers, “Yes, we should be here at least until the day after tomorrow. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” says Lord Strohl, “tomorrow is Forgiveness Day, so I was thinking perhaps the children could visit the market stalls. It’s nothing as fancy as what you’ll see in the capital, of course, but there’s lots of stalls with food and toys, and there’s even some public performances. It’s quite the charming celebration. It’d be a shame to miss it, since you’re in town.”

“Ah, Forgiveness Day, you say.” There’s something inscrutable about Hulkenberg’s tone when she says this. “That’s… I’m worried about security at an event of that scale,” she says, frowning.

“Halia has a very low crime rate,” Lord Strohl assures proudly. “It’s a very safe place for families with children.”

Hulkenberg looks at Lord Strohl with her eyes narrowed in disapproval. “It is not the conventional dangers which I worry about. It’s very easy for people to get lost or separated in a crowd, and equally easy for evildoers to hide in the throng.” She looks pointedly at the Prince, then back at the Lord. “It’s a risk we can little afford.”

Chagrined, Lord Strohl amends, “You’re right, of course, it wouldn’t do to be careless with His Highness’s safety. Perhaps we can arrange a small party here.” He looks expectantly to his wife as he says this.

Lady Strohl hums thoughtfully. “Certainly, it would be no trouble, but perhaps we could compromise?” she suggests. “We could rent out a private room at one of the shops downtown. It won’t be as public, and it’d have a view of the street, so the children could watch the performances.”

Hulkenberg purses her lips. “That would likely be acceptable. I would need to scout the location in advance, to ensure it’s defensible.”

Lady Strohl smiles. “Then why don’t we both take a walk around the town today? I can ask around to see who’s available to rent, and you can decide whether they meet your standards.”

Hulkenberg considers this, and then nods. “Agreeable.”

The Prince notices that this will leave him with only Russell as a chaperone, and asks, “May I go outside while you’re away?”

Hulkenberg frowns at this. “To what end?”

“Alces said I need to keep up my sword practice, and Leon offered to train with me in the yard,” the Prince explains.

The knight pauses, and the Prince thinks she’s going to refuse, but ultimately she relinquishes. “As long as you have two of the household guards with you, and don’t stray out of sight of the house.”

The Prince grins, pleased by the concession, and nods enthusiastically. He looks over at Leon, who returns the glance with a smile of his own.

Hulkenberg looks as if she already regrets agreeing. “Please be careful,” she warns, although the tone is more like begging.

“We’ll be the most careful,” the Prince assures.

—

Will learns way more about how to hide bodies than he ever wanted to know.

Grius explains, in systematic detail, all the various ways in which one could ensure that a body’s trail could be hidden so it wouldn’t be found, or, alternatively, how evidence could be placed strategically for the right person to find at the right time. He says it all so matter-of-factly that Will starts feeling rather queasy, especially when he’s surrounded by the nine or so bodies strewn in the alley which are apparently all very dead.

“Sloppy of me,” Grius says. He gestures at one corpse. “I meant to leave that one alive for questioning, but it looks like he bled out while we were talking.”

The worst part is that Grius clearly notices Will’s discomfort, and, grinning maliciously, the man starts pulling out his extra gruesome anecdotes. And yet, even worse than that, they’re all strangely educational. Will cannot unlearn those lessons. He did not want to know certain facts about the criminal networks that mercenaries can employ.

“Those methods aren’t really necessary in this case. No one’s gonna be wondering why a bunch of assassins ended up dead in an alley,” Grius explains, once he’s satisfied that Will has suffered enough. “If anything, their higher ups will want to avoid leaving evidence of their failure and clean it up themselves if we leave it alone. But I don’t intend to give the folks who sent these men that kind of closure.” He grins menacingly as he efficiently searches one of the final bodies, and divests it of anything identifying or valuable. He has Will hold it up so he can more easily pat down the reverse side.

Will is not okay about this. Grius is clearly thriving, though. “Are we done yet?” Will asks. “Can I please be excused?”

“You look pale, lad! This is the basics of mercenary work. Gotta learn it sometime,” Grius says with a vicious laugh.

“I’d really rather not,” Will retorts. Can they go back to when Grius was trying to kill him? He thinks he preferred that.

…Even so, it’s nice to see Grius laughing so openly like this, even if it’s at Will’s expense. Will hadn’t realized, until this moment, how pointedly reserved Grius has been in front of him. Whether it was out of suspicion, proprietary, or both, this Grius of the past has been nothing but politely distant with Will.

Will’s sure Grius doesn’t fully trust him yet, and he’s not sure Grius even really likes him, but to see the man acting open and uninhibited in front of him is certainly an achievement, in Will’s mind.

“...What are ye grinning at, lad?” Grius asks with a frown.

Although at present Grius’s comfort apparently only persists when Will himself is not comfortable. Ah well. If that’s the price, it’s worth putting up with some morbid leg work.

Will can’t wipe the smile off his face, but he does tilt his head so it’s less obvious, and keeps his happiness privately to himself.

Eventually, after they’ve searched and tidied the assassin’s remains and Grius has called over some of his local contacts to handle the rest of the cleanup, Will remembers to voice the obvious question. “So, do we have any idea why these people tried to kill us?” And it was both of them being targeted, that was very clear based on how the assassins divided their attacks. The timing of the attack ended up being convenient for Will, in a way, but it also seemed quite random.

Grius frowns. He’s standing beside Will in the dirty alleyway, giving occasional instructions to the handful of fellows who he’s called in for assistance. The individuals in question appear to be poor and possibly homeless, but also quite nimble and familiar with the task at hand as they begin hauling away the bodies to who knows where. Will recalls Grius’s earlier explanation about mercenary networks working with the local unsavories, and tries not to speculate on who these people might be.

Grius replies, “They seem to be standard assassins-for-hire, but such a large group would be expensive to hire. They’re professionals, so they didn’t have anything on them identifying their employer, but at a guess I’d say they’re connected with the recent attack on the prince. Anything else would be too much of a coincidence. Perhaps they felt that disposing of us, as part of the prince’s protection detail, would leave him an easy target for future attacks. Or perhaps their employer holds a personal grudge against us for stopping the previous attempt.”

“And by employer, you mean…” Will doesn’t say ‘Forden’, but he looks at Grius and can tell they're both thinking it.

“Who can say,” Grius replies ambiguously. He, too, knows better than to mention Forden’s name in public. “But if the employer is the same, and is worried we might have a guess at their identity, that’s another possible motive. Killing us to ensure our silence.”

“The timing, though…” Will prompts uncertainly.

“This’d be one of the first times either of us’d been outside the castle since the attack, especially in an unpopulous area. It was probably too good an opportunity to pass up. They must’ve been trailing us all day,” Grius speculates. “Damn it, I should’ve noticed them earlier. I was too focused on you, and got careless.

“Still,” he continues, “mighty arrogant of them to take us on, even with a group of this size. Don't they know that numbers are no substitute for skill? You don't get to be my age as a merc without surviving much worse than this. Apparently some folks think I've gone soft just ‘cause I took a teaching job.” He tchs in apparent dissatisfaction.

Will is pleased by the “us” that Grius drops so casually. He's perhaps a tad grateful to the assassins for providing a shared enemy for himself and Grius to be an “us” against.

“So… are we good now?” Will ventures, with some insecurity. Because apparently he can't take that “us” for granted.

“Not hardly,” Grius says with a scoff. “If anything, you'll be under more scrutiny from me than ever.”

Will smiles, and, cheekily, says, “If you wanted to hang out more, you just had to ask.”

Grius scoffs harder. “You think it's a joke do you? And I'm not done interrogatin’ you!” Quietly, so as to not be overheard, he hisses, “What was that about stealing from Louis? I thought you said he wasn't involved in this!”

… Did Will say something about Louis? He did, didn't he. That's, uh, a bit awkward. How much should he try to explain?

Aloud, he replies, “Um, he's not? It's kind of unrelated. Sort of. Look, it's kind of a whole thing, and this isn't the best place to explain.”

Grius gives him an unimpressed look. “This better not be you trying to dodge the question.”

Will puts his hands up and waves them in denial, “It's not, it's just really that complicated! I don't actually want to keep secrets from you, believe it or not.”

“I believe it, but that doesn't mean ye don't still do it,” counters Grius.

…There's not much Will can say to that.

“It's… hard, to explain things about my background. But regarding my actions, and the things I know, I'll try to be as open as I can going forward.” It's the most Will can offer.

“...I'll hold you to that,” says Grius.

—

Despite the strangeness of the evening, Will ends up going to bed as normal. Grius is definitely shooting him funny looks, but doesn’t stop him and Gallica from returning to the castle and their usual chambers. He doesn’t immediately nag them for answers regarding Louis, or Archetypes, or the like, and it’s a relief, because Will’s just about exhausted. Today has been a lot, and he needs to process. Maybe Grius needs to process, too.

Gallica comes out again once they’re safely in their room. Will has immediately plopped onto the bed, sitting in a slouch, and he buries his face in his hands. She doesn’t say anything, or give him any judgmental looks about his handling of the situation. She just sits on his shoulder and pats his cheek gently.

Will sighs deeply. “Did I just mess everything up?” he asks, his voice muffled by his palms.

“You did good, Captain. You handled that as well as anyone could,” Gallica consoles.

“He was really planning to kill me…? I don’t… how did I not realize I’d messed up so bad?” Will bemoans.

“Hey, Captain, it’s okay.” Gallica flies up and grabs at a couple of his fingers which are covering his eyes, and gently pries them apart, looking at Will through the gap. “It’s just Grius being Grius. You know what he’s like. Do you remember when we first met him, and he realized Strohl had been eavesdropping? He immediately drew his sword on him and kept threatening to kill him for days, you remember.” She’s smiling softly at him, all warmth and comfort.

“Yeah, but, he wasn’t serious about that, surely?” Will isn’t sure why this feels so personal, but it’s painful to be distrusted by someone he cares about.

Gallica’s smile drops, and she looks at Will somberly. “I don’t know Grius much better than you do, but… he’s a war veteran, you know? He’s been around a long time. I think he had to harden his heart and mistrust any strangers in order to survive. It’s not really about you, or what you did. Grius is cautious by nature. But,” Gallica bites her lip, “I think he does care. About you. Even if he doesn’t want to. You’re hard to dislike.”

Will laughs a little at this, and finally removes his hands from his face.

“I’m serious, it’s not just anyone who could turn a life threatening encounter into a source of trust! There’s something special about you, Captain. There’s a reason all of us were drawn to you, and it wasn’t just because of a shared goal. I’m sure that even if we can’t explain the whole story, he’ll eventually come to like you. Just like Basilio and Del did.”

Mentioning the paripus brothers is a punch to the gut, because Del’s loss had been hard. He’d been gone before Will had had a proper chance to be friends with him, and he did think they could’ve been friends. And Basilio, like his other friends, is lost to him a whole world away.

His grief must show on his face, because Gallica’s voice softens even further as she says, “I’m sorry. I miss them too.”

“We’ll save them both, this time,” says Will. It’s a promise he’s making to himself, and to them, because he couldn’t bear it otherwise. He needs to believe that his being here is making a difference. It doesn’t seem that way, sometimes.

“We will. After we finish taking down Forden, we’ll start to clean house. We won’t let that Igniter Consortium get away with their crimes. Right?”

Will laughs a bit, and nods his head. But also, he doesn’t want to think about all the friends he’s let down, or how much there is left to do in this time. It’s all so overwhelming, and he’s tired. “Can we talk about something else?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says. “How about I tell you a fairy tale? Once, a long time ago, there was a boy who lived in the elda forest…”

Will listens attentively to her tale, but despite his interest and her avid storytelling, he still ends up slipping into dreamland before her tale is through.

Chapter Text

Grius finds Will the next morning. He knocks on the door to Will’s room, and waits for Will to make himself presentable. When Will finally opens the door, he sees Grius holding what looks to be breakfast fixings. It’s nothing near as fancy as the servants would serve to the prince, but it’s a generous portion, more than enough for one person.

Grius coughs, and stiffly says, “I thought we could continue our conversation from last night over breakfast.” He’s not quite meeting Will’s eyes, and though it’s subtle, there’s a very faint blush in his cheek.

Is this Grius’s form of a peace offering? It certainly seems so. Will doesn’t want Grius to change his mind, so he refrains from any teasing, and instead says, “Thanks. Breakfast sounds great.”

Since they’re already in the prince’s chambers, they sit down in the prince’s dining room, even if it’s a bit presumptuous to do so without the royal heir present. It also allows for more privacy than the servants’ rooms would. Since Gallica has already revealed herself, she doesn’t hesitate to take a perch at the table.

They start in on the food and drink, and Will is able to fill his stomach fairly well before Grius asks the expected question.

“So what’s your deal with Louis?” Grius asks around a mouthful of bread.

Haha. Wow. What a way to put it. His “deal” with Louis.

He shares a glance with Gallica. She looks at him levelly, and takes a bite of her breadcrumb. It seems she’s planning to follow his lead here. Does Will have any reason to protect Louis’s secrets? He wants to cooperate with the teenage soldier, but he doesn’t trust him.

He decides that no, he doesn’t owe Louis anything. And he did promise Grius he’d be more open, when possible.

“Louis is an elda,” he says simply.

Grius chokes on his bread.

After coughing a few times to clear his throat, spitting out a barrage of crumbs in the process, he gasps out, “What?”

“His horns are fake,” Will explains. “It’s an accessory he wears.” He makes a gesture with his hands around his head, shaping a circlet with his thumbs and using his index fingers as horns, demonstrating the general mechanism.

“No, that’s not– I get the idea, but why? How’s that even relevant?”

“It’s extremely relevant. Louis is a survivor of the elda masacre. As such, he bears some resentment against the king, and to a lesser extent the prince, as being the cause for the persecution. But, he also probably harbors some goodwill towards the prince as a fellow eldan survivor. And his resentment towards Forden, the actual perpetrator, should vastly exceed his bitter feelings towards the royal family. In short, he’s a very angry boy, but could be an ally if we play our cards right.”

“What’s that got to do the spellwork you said you stole?” Grius glares in confusion and shakes a half eaten loaf at Will.

“Oh, right.” Will had almost forgotten how this topic had come up. “He had this whole contrived plan about turning everyone in the country into humans? And was researching how to use his family’s magic to do that. It’s a whole incredibly ill-advised plot, but I’m taking care of it.”

“What.” It’s not a question, anymore. Grius clearly has no idea what to make of this synopsis.

Honestly, it almost sounds like a joke, when Will sums it up. He’d want to laugh it off, if it weren’t so deeply personal to him, as someone who had seen countless families destroyed by it, and even fallen victim to the spell himself. So instead, Will just feels uncomfortable. He wraps his arms around his body, trying not to remember the fear from that time.

“Don’t ask me to explain why he thought that was a good idea,” Will deflects instead. “Like I said, I destroyed the notes, and I’m hoping he won’t try again, but I’ll keep an eye on him to be safe.”

“That’s not…” Grius starts. Then, angrily, he continues, “You can just turn people into humans, that doesn’t even make sense.”

Will doesn’t really want to go into the origins of humans, so he agrees, “Right. Totally ridiculous, haha. It’s a really childish idea he had.”

Grius peers at him. Then glances at Gallica, and then back to Will. “Boy. I told you, yer no good at lying. Hell, are you saying it’s actually possible?”

Will was pointedly not saying that, thanks.

Gallica is the one who answers, this time. “It’s hard to say, but whatever his curse did wouldn’t be good, in any case.”

Grius still looks suspicious, like he suspects he isn’t getting the full story, but he eventually accepts this answer and nods. So apparently Gallica isn’t terrible at lying. Will tries not to sulk. He’s not that bad, is he…?

Another thought occurs to him. He doesn’t really want to admit it to Grius, but he probably deserves a heads up. “Um, Louis will probably be there tomorrow. At the ball.”

“We did request a heightened security detail at the event, so I guess it makes sense that the rising star of the army would be there. Why? Do you think he’s going to cause a problem?”

Will thinks Louis’s whole existence is a problem waiting to happen. But that’s not the point. “No, I mean. I might’ve mentioned that something is going to go down, then. Uh. With Forden.”

Grius outright glowers.

“I mean, look, I know it was a risky move, but Louis has more reason to hate Forden than anyone! He’s not going to compromise our objectives, if anything, he’s likely to support us in our efforts.”

Grius, with forced calm, says. “You see, lad, it’s things like this that make it extremely difficult to trust you.”

Will grimaces, and evades Grius’s intense stare by looking at the floor. “Look, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” he says defensively.

“You realize how this information leak could potentially compromise our entire mission, don’t you? You must, or you wouldn’t be looking so guilty right now. You leaked secure intel to an individual who you yourself have described as harboring malicious objectives.” Grius is merciless in his criticism, and what’s worse, Will can’t refute it. These are all doubts that he’s already been plagued by.

“I get it. Alright? I know it was reckless. I just. I couldn’t stand to see him lashing out at the wrong people. At the king, at the world. When he should be directing his anger towards the person who actually ordered the attack.”

Grius doesn’t respond to this for a moment. When he does, it’s much calmer than his earlier outburst, almost gentle by comparison. “You’re saying Forden ordered the massacre on the elda? That he’s the reason the prince fled here to begin with?”

Will nods, still unable to meet Grius’s gaze, instead gazing at his hands which are tugging nervously at the hem of his coat.

“Is that what brought you here, then? And why you’re so determined to accuse Forden, and protect Louis? You’re a survivor of the elda massacre.”

Will isn’t any good at lying, but this isn’t a lie. He nods.

“He lost his family in the attack,” Gallica says, backing him up. “He and I left the forest together. We’ve been traveling together ever since. We discovered the truth of Forden’s schemes during our journey.”

Everything she says is both true and rather misleading in terms of the timeline of events.

“That actually makes a good deal of sense. If that’s the case, why were ye so evasive about it earlier? And what’s with all that nonsense of coming out of a book?”

Will shrugs. He’s tempted to leave it at that, because it sounds like Grius is satisfied with the conclusions he’s drawn. But it doesn’t sit well with Will to gain that trust based on a lie. So, not leaving good enough alone, he protests, “It wasn’t nonsense. The reason I appeared that night, with the timing I did, I really was summoned there thanks to the power of the prince’s book.” He looks at Grius earnestly as he says this, feeling vulnerable. He doesn’t want Grius to reject this truth. If Will is bad at lying, then surely Grius can see his sincerity.

Grius makes a scrunched-up face. It’s not a complete rejection, but he clearly finds this claim dubious. “That’s no kind of magic I’ve ever heard of,” he says. But it’s not as confident a retort as it might’ve once been, since Grius recently bore witness to the nearly unheard of power of the Archetype.

“It was, at least, I’m pretty sure it was royal magic. Whether it was because the book was written by the king, or because the prince is the rightful heir, or a combination of both, I think the prince was able to activate the royal magic to summon me. Its abilities are pretty much limitless and incredibly variable, so it’s within reason.”

Grius appears to be actually considering this. “So that’s the meaning behind your nonsense. This doesn’t explain everything, but… I think I might believe you. I’ve never understood how you could appear so suddenly, always assumed it was some kind of teleport spell, like the perpetrators used. But you, you were quite surprised on that day, weren’t you? You didn’t expect to be summoned there at all.”

“I really, really didn’t,” Will agrees wholeheartedly. It’s nice to be understood correctly, for once.

“Hmm. There’s still a lot you aren’t telling me, isn’t there,” Grius observes.

“Yes,” Will easily confirms.

“Anything I should know? Any other secrets that risk compromising the prince or our strike against Forden?” Grius asks. He sounds judgemental, but also open, like at this point he wouldn’t even be surprised and would take any such reveal in stride.

“...None that I can think of,” Will answers, somewhat unsurely. With all the things he knows, it’s possible something could be vital, but he honestly can’t think of anything. He discussed most of the relevant intel he had with the king already.

“Well if that changes, you’ll tell me, yes?”

It’s an order phrased as a question. Will nods fervently. Grius is kind of scary, sometimes, and he doesn’t want to get on his bad side.

As Grius leaves, taking the mostly-finished food tray with him, Will feels a tingling sensation, and he recognizes that his Mentor bond with Grius has just ranked up.

Chapter Text

After breakfast, the residents of the Strohl manor go their separate ways. Hulkenberg and the Lady Strohl go to do recon on possible venues, as discussed, and the two sisters go off on their own. They likely have a lot to talk about, now that everything’s been revealed. They don’t go upstairs, though, instead wandering off to one of the parlor rooms with large windows overlooking the grounds. Their voices carry through the door, although not loudly enough to easily overhear.

The Prince follows Leon, who leads him to the yard, stopping to grab some wooden training swords along the way. “I practice with blunted metal, mostly, but wood seems safer. At least for now. If you don’t mind?”

Either is fine with the Prince. He takes the sword he’s handed, which is shorter than Leon’s own. Likely something Leon used when he was smaller.

…The Prince wants to grow up tall soon, too.

They start off with practice swings, which are apparently fairly consistent across both their training instructions. As they start to get into rhythm, Leon asks, “How are you faring, Prince?”

Alces likes to say that if the Prince can speak, he’s not swinging hard enough. But he doesn’t say this to Leon, and instead answers as best he can through the exertion. “Fine. Why?”

A few more swings pass before Leon answers, sheepishly, “I heard, from your knight. About what happened with the attack.”

At this point, the Prince does stop his swings, letting his sword rest on the ground. “Oh,” he says. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

“And, well, I obviously can’t imagine how you must feel. But if you weren’t okay, being here, I would understand.” Leon also stops his swings. Although they definitely haven’t completed the exercise, the Prince’s arms barely had a chance to get sore, Leon guides them to a bench with a sword stand nearby and gestures the Prince to sit. The Prince does, and Leon joins him.

Once they're seated, the Prince finally finds the words. “I’m not okay. Probably. This is all really scary. This is the most amount of people I’ve been around since, well. A long time. But also I’ve wanted to meet people for so long now?” He nervously plays with his hem. He’s wearing his favorite lounge shirt today, the white one with blue embroidery. Russell hadn’t objected when the Prince asked to wear it today. It’s comforting and familiar, which the Prince needs right now.

“Oh. Have you not gotten to meet a lot of people?” asks Leon.

“Not since moving into the castle. I think Father wants to keep me safe. …Although that didn’t really work out, I guess,” the Prince observes gloomily.

“It’s horrible that those people want to hurt you simply because of your position,” Leon says, frowning. “You don’t deserve that. I still don’t know you very well, but I think you’re as deserving to be prince as anyone, and you’ll make a very fine king one day.”

The Prince blushes at the praise. “Thank you. That means a lot.” He smiles widely at Leon, and it doesn’t feel forced.

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s not awkward. Then, hesitantly, Leon speaks up. “Are you and Rella,” he pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully, “on good terms, now?” These must not have been the right words, though, because his eyes go wide and he hastily adds, “Not that you have to be, of course! You have every reason not to be!”

The Prince considers. “Not really? I mean. We’re not friends. But. I don’t think I hate her, either.” He frowns. “I don’t know,” he concludes honestly.

Leon bites his lip. He hesitates some more, glancing at his hands and around at the yard and anywhere except the Prince. Then he sighs. And looks at the Prince very intentionally. “Look, I’m not sure if I should say this, since I don’t know if it’s a sure thing, but I also don’t want to surprise you with it later. My parents were talking about. Keeping Rella and Junah around.”

“Oh, I know that,” assures the Prince. After that extended pause, he was worried it was something bad!

Leon’s eyebrows raise. “You do? But they only just told me yesterday!” Leon sounds shocked and a bit betrayed. His reaction is decidedly stronger than the Prince had expected. “Who told you, when?”

Now it’s the Prince who hesitates, taken back by the other’s intensity. “It’s just, Dame Hulkenberg told me. She said they were here as your long-term guests.” The Prince kicks his legs back and forth, his feet brushing the tips of the grass. “I knew that, and I agreed to keep staying here, and that they can stay too. I’m okay with it, at least for a few more days until I go home,” he explains earnestly. Leon doesn’t need to worry so much, really. The Prince is fine. Or he’s fine enough, for now.

This doesn’t seem to assuage Leon as intended, since the boy’s face falls immediately. “No, no, that’s um. Not what I meant. My parents are discussing keeping the girls indefinitely. As in, they’d be our wards. Basically my sisters.”

“Oh,” says the Prince. He's not sure how he's supposed to feel about that. It's significant, but only to Leon and to the girls. It's not any of his business, really, what they decide. “Why are you telling me?”

Leon looks a bit flustered by this lack of response. “That doesn't bother you?” he asks, clearly very concerned by this.

“Does it bother you?” the Prince counters. “They’d be your sisters.”

Leon clenches his fists. “I’m a little bothered,” he admits. “But not because of who they are, or what they’ve done. It’s just, it’s a big change. And I feel like my parents should’ve talked to me about it first. They’ve been doing a lot of things lately that they haven’t talked to me about. And this affects my life, and our family! It’s just… so frustrating.” Leon groans the last part, dragging a hand over his eyes and down his cheek, eventually bracing it under his chin. Resting his head on his palm, Leon, for lack of a better word, pouts.

“So you’re telling me now, and asking for my opinion, because your parents didn’t do that for you?” the Prince summarizes.

Leon looks at the Prince in shock, his head lifted off his hand and his jaw hanging open. “I wasn’t… was I? Oh my god, I was.” The initial shock settles into a sort of sustained awe. “How are you so wise at your age? Are all royals like this?”

The Prince blushes, and denies, “I’m not that wise. I’m just repeating what you said to me already. Will is way smarter and wiser than me.”

Leon shakes his head. “Even if that were true, it doesn’t make your accomplishments any less. Thank you, Prince.” He offers a smile, and it’s so sincere that it’s blinding. “You’re right, I should talk to my parents about this.”

The Prince hadn’t suggested that, actually, but he agrees that it’s a good idea. He’s glad Leon figured it out.

Leon looks like he’s about to leave to do that this very minute, but before he fully gets to his feet, he hesitates and sits back down. “But actually, are you okay with it? Because I think I’d very much like to continue to be your friend, and I don’t want this to make things awkward between us in the future.”

The Prince has already answered this question, but it does mean a lot to him that Leon cares to ask. A lot of people have been asking if he’s okay about what happened. Hulkenberg. Rella. Leon. He never knows how to answer, because he’s still processing everything. But he thinks he might know the answer to this one, now.

“Rella and Junah aren’t of the same tribe. But your family, they never talk about it. I didn’t even know what tribe they were until I met them face to face. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Oh, well, I mean, mixed tribe marriages are rather uncommon, but it didn’t feel appropriate to mention it. I’m sure they have their circumstances,” Leon says awkwardly.

“Not them, I mean you! You and your whole family, you haven’t mentioned their tribe in all the time I’ve been here. You don’t treat them any differently, from what I can tell. A family, especially a noble one, who doesn’t discriminate based on race is so rare. I… even if I don’t know how I feel about Rella, I think everyone deserves a home where they can be accepted for who they are. So if your family wants to take them in, and will treat them equally and impartially, I think that would be. Really great, actually.” The Prince’s eyes are wet. He blinks a few times, and tries not to cry. There’s no reason for him to cry here, surely. But he just feels so much about this.

Leon is once again agape. He stands to his feet, and, facing the Prince, bows slightly. “It seems I’ve underestimated you, Your Highness. You really will make a good king one day. I’m glad I’ll be able to serve during your reign.”

The Prince frowns at Leon. They’ve talked about this.

Leon catches his meaning, and laughs. “I’m sorry, Prince, but you can’t expect me to not show proper respect when you say things like that.” Leon offers a hand to the still-seated Prince, and uses it to help him to his feet. Leon frowns, slightly. “I just remembered, my mother is still away. And here I almost ran off and left you on your own for no reason. Shall we continue sword practice then, Your Highness?”

The Prince releases Leon’s hand and furrows his brow. “You’re doing it on purpose now, aren’t you.”

Leon laughs, “I’m sorry, I’ll stop now, really. Shall we continue our sword practice, Prince?”

Appeased, the Prince takes his practice sword and follows Leon back to the center of the grounds, where they finish their drills mostly in silence. Although if Leon happens to tease the Prince a few more times before practice is done, well, the Prince doesn’t mind too much. It’s nice, having a friend.

—

Despite the heavy conversation over breakfast, Grius doesn’t seek Will out for the rest of the day. The mercenary instead busies himself by consulting with the castle guards about the security plans for the ball tomorrow. The event feels imminent, now, in a way it didn’t before. When Will takes a stroll outside, he notices a higher density of people, especially carts, filling the streets outside the castle. It seems to be a combination of ordinary workers, bringing in supplies, and nobles who are coming into the capital from remote locations and plan to overnight before the event.

The merchant stalls which are perpetually stationed on the main street outside the castle are enthusiastically advertising their wares. Each merchant is eagerly seeking to grab the attention of the visitors, and especially keen on gathering the attention of the wealthy nobles. It’s a difficult sell, however, as everyone knows the wares will be cheaper tomorrow. Many browse, but unless it’s for something urgent like food, most will likely wait until the next day to make a purchase, if they even remember whichever items caught their fleeting interest by then.

The economic implications of Forgiveness day are actually rather interesting, but only a side note against the potential political ramifications of their plan for tomorrow. Will doesn’t really want to think about either, right now.

As he’s making his rounds, meandering the streets with an ear out of gossip and public opinion, he spots a familiar face. It’s one he hasn’t seen in a remarkably long time.

“What do you mean there’s no room?” the woman argues. She’s dressed in high quality white robes, which match her pale skin. “Find room! Surely somewhere in this city will provide lodging for a woman of means.”

“I’m sorry, m’lady,” says a young roussainte woman who seems to be an attendant of some sort. Her lady’s maid, perhaps. “All the inns are already filled up, on account of the ball.”

“Surely that’s why we rushed to get here early, yes, before nightfall? At your insistence, even.” The noblewoman frowns. “I’m terribly sore from the carriage ride. If I don’t find a place to rest soon, I’ll be in no condition to attend the ball at all. I don’t know why my father insisted I attend this ball, couldn’t he or Mother have gone instead?”

“They had other pressing business, milady,” the handmaid says. It’s not quite demure enough to match her station.

“Oh, I’m sure they had very important business all of a sudden. It must’ve been important, for him to send his pregnant daughter on a several-day carriage ride instead.” She quips sarcastically. The woman, a rhoag, wears robes of a sanctoress. The robes are bulging at the waist, because she is also clearly, visibly pregnant.

The woman is Lady Joanna, looking almost exactly as she did in that torn-up portrait they found, some twelve years in the future.

Chapter Text

Sanctoress Joanna is here, in the capital, and her mixed-tribe child is already growing in her belly, ready to be born soon. It’s almost horrifying, like a bad joke, to see her here at this time. A tragic reminder of yet another child wronged by the church for having the wrong parents – although the church’s influence was less direct in Joanna’s case. Her child died not by one man’s malice, but by the collective paranoia and racism of her Sanctism-practicing household.

But it’s also an opportunity, because that child isn’t dead yet, nor has Joanna yet raised a monster in her grief. Both are innocent, and both are alive. If Will has any say in it, they’ll stay that way.

Joanna is still arguing with her roussainte handmaid. “–you tell them I’m a sanctoress, and you tell them I’m expecting! I’d love to see any one of those inns deny space to a pregnant woman. If they don’t have space they can make space.”

“Excuse me,” Will interjects, before the handmaiden can be sent off, “I don’t mean to intrude, but did you say that you’re looking for lodging for the night?”

Joanna does not seem sorry at all for Will’s intrusion. She turns to him with tired but hopeful eyes. “Yes, I am. I don’t suppose you could help with that?” Her hands are resting on her stomach – not in a pointed way, that just seems to be where they naturally gravitated once she stopped using them to illustrate her displeasure.

“I think so. You see, I work at the castle, and have been helping to coordinate tomorrow’s ball. It’s a bit unconventional, but given your delicate condition, I think we could arrange a room there for your stay. It would ensure you don’t need to walk as far to attend the ball, and provide a location for you to rest midway if you needed.”

Joanna looks very pleased at this suggestion, but it’s her maid who speaks first. “M’lady, you can’t trust this elda off the street! If he works at the castle, I’ll eat my hat.”

She makes no attempt to lower her voice, so Will can’t even pretend not to have heard that. His smile goes a bit stiff. It’s been a while since he’s heard such a blatant racial slur.

Joanna spares only the briefest glance to the maid, cold and unimpressed. “He’s already done more for me than you have, Matilda, by offering a solution. Young gentleman, I would be most grateful to accept your offer. I am Sanctoress Joanna. May I know your name?”

“I go by Will. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.” He bows slightly. “I can take you to the castle right away, and find you a place to sit while we arrange a room for you,” Will offers. He hopes he isn’t coming off as too forward.

Joanna doesn’t seem to mind, at least, much too eager to have a place to rest her feet. To her maid, she says, “You’ll stay here and ensure my things are carried to the castle. I’m sure Will will be more than capable of escorting me, won’t you Will?” Saying so, she loops one arm through Will’s own, and with her other hand pats his bicep.

Despite the intimacy of the gesture, it doesn’t seem flirtatious. Instead, it oddly reminds Will of how some of the elderly women treat him when he does them favors. Maybe it’s the way she leans her whole weight on him and they proceed, showing she clearly needs the assistance to walk. In any case, Will allows it, and guides her away from her still-protesting maid, towards the castle.

Once they're far enough away that her maid likely can’t hear, he says, “Congratulations, by the way. You must be proud.” He looks at her stomach as he says so, in case there was any way she could mistake his meaning.

Joanna beams at him. “Thank you! It’s my first. I’m very looking forward to becoming a mother.”

Will hates to do this when he knows it’ll be a sore point, but he can’t think of a more graceful way to bring up his intended topic. “The father let you travel alone like this?” he asks. He does not say “your husband,” because he knows better.

Joanna, as expected, frowns. “The child’s father isn’t a noble, so it’s not suitable for him to show up to these occasions,” she explains tactfully. It’s true but also a blatant lie of omission. Not that Will blames her.

How to get her to open up? Maybe if he volunteers something himself, first.

“Not married, then?” he ventures, extrapolating slightly from what she actually admitted. It’s a conclusion that only works if Will were to assume that Joanna is a noble with a title, which would lead to her husband attaining nobility through marriage. Given she introduced herself only as a sanctoress, it’s slightly presumptuous of him, but something he can get away with as a well-meaning servant. Before she can correct or scold him, he adds, “I understand. My mother raised me without marrying my father. Since as a clemar noble, he couldn’t be together with her publicly.” Which is all true.

Joanna, who had bristled when he first mentioned her marriage, softens visibly by the end of his explanation. “That’s awful. Your father didn’t have the decency to acknowledge you?”

Actually, his father had acknowledged him, and made him his heir. But that’d be a little hard to explain if word got around to Grius or the king. He’s not prepared to come up with a fake noble heritage – he’s not Louis, after all. “Maybe he wanted to, but my mother loved me too much to give me up, or so I like to think. It wasn’t easy for her, though. The village was rather displeased she was having the child of an outsider, although they came to accept it with time.” This, he thinks, is also true, based on very faint recollections of his childhood and the miscellaneous details he learned from Lady Gruidae.

Joanna goes quiet at this reveal, and Will doesn’t press, letting her absorb the information for however long she may need.

When she finally speaks up, it’s exactly the admission Will had hoped for. “My child’s father is also an outsider. I worry… I worry my town would not be so kind as yours. My parents have been telling me to abort the child, saying it will ruin my future. But, but I really love the father, and even if I didn’t, the child’s done no wrong. I haven’t even met my baby and I already care for it more than my own life.” Joanna is tearing up, and her already slow steps get slightly unsteady.

Luckily, they’re almost to the castle, and he should be able to get her seated in a private room shortly. That was a rather more detailed admission than he had expected. She shouldn’t air her private details in public like this, probably. He hmms sympathetically, to show he heard, and hastily takes her through the front gate where the guards, quite familiar with Will by now, let them through without question.

Joanna doesn’t seem to need additional acknowledgement. Heedless of the several servants within hearing range, she continues, “You saw how Matilda was, back there. She never used to be like that. She’s been acting unruly ever since my family learned the father of my child. And I’m certain my father had no good intentions, sending me here like he did. Perhaps he hoped the carriage ride would be enough to harm my child.” She rubs her belly, fretting visibly. It seems Joanna is also worried the carriage ride might’ve caused harm.

Will finally guides them inside the castle, and into the first empty room he can find, closing the door and helping her to a comfortable armchair. He realizes he’s about to do something reckless again. “You shouldn’t risk another carriage ride,” he says, as he takes a seat across from her.

Joanna, who has sunk into the chair with great relief, looks at him strangely. “What do you mean?”

“You’re right. It’s not safe to travel this late in a pregnancy.” Will knows basically nothing about pregnancy. He’s just echoing what she’s told him herself. “So you should stay, until you’re ready to give birth. It’s safer that way.”

Joanna’s confusion morphs into something like alarm, and she glances towards the door, as if planning to flee. “It’s alright,” she refuses hastily, “I can arrange a gauntlet runner for the way back, they’re much smoother.”

Will is coming on way too strong, he can tell. But who knows if he’ll get another opportunity later? Still, the last thing he wants is for Joanna to feel threatened. “I’m sorry,” he says, leaning back and keeping his posture lax, matching Joanna’s own, “That was much too forward of me. I overstepped. It’s just, I’m worried. If your parents and maid are already acting like this, who’s to say things won’t get worse when you return home? I– I really couldn’t stand if anything happened to you or your child.” Will doesn’t have to fake the emotion choking his voice, he never does, because he always feels so much. He feels such deep sorrow and regret at the tragedy that came to the innocent woman in front of him. “Not if there was anything I could’ve done to help.” He meets her eyes, and wills her to understand that he means this. That this is important to him. “I was attacked, when I was very young, for the circumstances of my birth. Twice, in fact. It was practically a miracle that I survived the second attack. I don’t want that to happen to anyone else.”

After letting the words linger a moment, Will stands to his feet. “I won’t ask you to decide now, but please consider my suggestion. His Majesty is very sympathetic towards mixed-race relationships. If you explain your situation, I believe the kingdom would readily provide you with lodging, meals, and medical care during your stay here.”

“That’s… that’s a nice thought, but I couldn’t,” she says. “My whole life is in Martira, as is everyone I love.”

Will was preparing to drop the topic, but he can’t resist one last incentive. “If you’d like, we could likely arrange for your lover to stay as well. There’s plenty of jobs around the castle, we could probably find something suitable for him.” He starts to make his way towards the door. “I’m going to see about your room. The decision is ultimately yours, but just… keep my offer in mind. Please.”

Joanna nods, so it seems she’ll at least consider it. It’s the most he can hope for, probably, after springing the suggestion on her so suddenly. Maybe he should have gotten to know her a bit better first, but he really doesn’t know if he’ll have time to talk with her tomorrow, and she may not stay after that.

Without anything further to say, he hurriedly goes to arrange with the housekeeper to set up a room for Joanna. One on the first floor. That woman really shouldn’t be climbing any more stairs than necessary.

Chapter Text

The Prince can hardly sleep that night, he’s so excited. After Hulkenberg and Lady Strohl come back from their scouting trip, they report that they found a good location for privately viewing the parade: a small clothing boutique which is willing to rent one of their private spaces to VIP guests, provided they browse the catalogue during their visit. Apparently the space is on the second floor, with large windows that will oversee most of the festivities, and the boutique is willing to provide catering from the cafe across the street.

Hulkenberg is apparently satisfied with the strategic benefits of this location, so the whole family, plus guests, is confirmed for going out to town the next day. The Prince has never been shopping before, that he can remember! Even if they have to stay inside, mostly, he’ll still be able to go to town! And with his new friend Leon! And also Rella and Junah, whoever they are to him. Leon’s future sisters, maybe.

The Prince is tossing and turning, much too eager and awake to rest his eyes. His shifting must have been loud, because from across the room Leon softly calls, “Prince? Is everything alright?”

The Prince sits up slightly in his bed, propping himself up on one arm. “I’m fine. Just not sleepy. Did I wake you?”

It’s dark, but the Prince can still make out the movement of Leon shaking his head. “No, not really,” Leon says. “I wasn’t that tired yet.”

The Prince isn’t sure if that’s true, or if Leon is lying to make him feel better, but he nods his head regardless. “That’s good. I’ll try to be quieter, so you can get some rest.” A thought occurs to him. “Maybe I’ll go outside and read for a bit, if you think the candlelight in the hallway won’t be too bothersome?” Reading his book always helps him calm down.

Leon shakes his head again. “Light doesn’t bother me. You can just read in the bedroom, I won’t mind.”

The Prince purses his lips into a slight frown. It seems like Leon might just be saying that to be polite. But then, the Prince doesn’t want to bother any other guests with candlelight from the hall, or worse, get in trouble with Russell or Hulkenberg for reading late. So despite his misgivings, the Prince carefully lights a candle, adjusts Leon’s rug to stop the light from leaking under the door, and grabs his book. As quietly as he can, so as not to be a further nuisance, Prince flips open the book. It’s not long before the Prince is fully immersed in his story, and the world around him fades away.

As such, the Prince jolts with surprise when Leon asks, “What are you reading?”

The Prince slams his book shut, feeling embarrassed and guilty for no specific reason. “I knew it. I am being a bother, aren’t I? I’ll blow out the candle, and try to be quiet so you can get some rest–”

He’s prevented from doing exactly that as Leon interrupts him. “No, really, I don’t mind. It’s just. I was curious. About your book. Do you read a lot? I’ve never been much of a reader myself, except when I have to, for lessons.”

The Prince feels self conscious. Somehow reading always feels more shameful at night – probably because of all the times he’s been scolded for staying up past his bedtime. Hesitantly, the Prince admits, “I do like reading, but I prefer stories over studying. This book is my favorite story. I’ve read it a lot.” He says it quietly as if it’s some dark secret. In the dim candlelight, it feels like it might be.

“Oh? What’s it about?” Leon asks. He shifts from his back to his side so he’s fully facing the Prince now.

“It’s a story about another world. I can. Read some aloud? If you don’t mind,” the Prince offers, feeling bold and nervous all at once.

“Sure. You can just read from wherever you left off,” Leon says agreeably.

The Prince lost his place when he shut the book, so he flips the book open to another chapter he likes (which is all of them), and starts to read from there.

“In this world, discrimination and inequality are forbidden by law. It is a sin to impose injustice due to one’s appearance, lineage, or birth. This is the accord established between the people and the state,” he begins. He continues to read for several paragraphs further, before he takes a pause.

From the other bed, Leon says, “You read very well. I thought you said it was a story, but that sounded quite advanced to me. It sounds a lot more like a textbook than a fairytale.”

The Prince frowns. Leon clearly doesn’t get it. “It’s a fairytale because it’s not about our world, it’s about a better one. One where there’s no tribal discrimination, or cruelty based on one’s differences.” Quietly, so low that maybe Leon can’t hear, he adds, “It’s the world Will came from.”

The Prince hopes it’s not too awful for Will, being in this world where people think he’s an elda – which, he is, but in Will’s world everyone is an elda so it’s not a bad thing. He wonders if it’s worse for Will to get treated badly for how he looks, since he’s not used to it like the Prince is.

“I see,” says Leon, breaking the Prince out of his thoughts. “It spoke of laws and the state, so I rather assumed it was a legal text.” After a moment's pause, he adds, speculatively, “Do you think you could enact some of these laws, once you’re king? Since you seem to approve of them.”

The Prince shakes his head. That’s rather naive of Leon, but the Prince understands, because that’d been his first reaction too. If the king decides the law, then when the Prince is king, he can outlaw discrimination just like in this book. But… “It doesn’t work like that,” the Prince explains. “You can’t just make it illegal to discriminate, you need to decide what it means to discriminate, and how you’re going to enforce the law. Russell assigned it to me as homework, once, and it’s actually really complicated. There’s not enough guards to step in anytime someone is mean or cruel, and even if there were, Russell says that’s authoritarianism.” Which had led to a whole other lesson on how overly oppressive kingships tend to lead to coups. “And authoritarianism is bad,” he clarifies.

“Oh,” Leon says, and he sounds disappointed. Which is understandable, the Prince was disappointed about this revelation, too. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out. And I’ll support you in your policies, when you do.”

Leon makes it sound so simple and easy that the Prince can’t help but smile. “Okay,” he agrees easily. “Thanks.” The Prince still doesn’t feel tired, really, but he’s read enough, so he sets his book aside and snuffs the candle. He only lays down for a few moments, but before he realizes it, he’s out like a light.

—

The day of the Forgiveness Day Charity Ball starts like any other day – or, any other Forgiveness Day. The merchants are already hawking their wares and being swarmed with eager shoppers looking for a discount. Will expects most goods will sell out before midday.

Incidentally, the Charity Ball and Auction are set to take place just after midday, while the sun is still high in the sky. Will stands in the Grand Ballroom, watching the servants set up tables full of snacks and drinks, and probably making a nuisance of himself as the maids dash around him like he’s one more piece of furniture. The huge windows on the west wall provide ample light, which is reflected by a series of large mirrors on the east wall, further brightening the space. In just a few hours, this room will be full to the brim with nobles and other people of influence mingling and drinking and dancing.

Will should probably find something actually productive to do, or at least do a better job of staying out of the way. He came here to check on the proceedings, but it’s clear that his oversight isn’t needed. This is hardly the first ball that’s taken place in this castle.

As he’s about to take his leave, Will overhears a familiar voice. Well, the voice itself isn’t quite so familiar, but the cadence is.

“Is this where the podium will be? Let me test out the acoustics. Hello hello, everyone, can you all hear me?” Standing on a raised and decorated stage at the far north side of the room is Batlin Sr, or just Baltin as he would be known in this time. The professional crier, father to the future Batlin that Will came to know and trust. A man who Batlin Jr had praised for his upstanding character, and who had died thanks to those same convictions.

The servants near the back clearly hear his loud proclamations, and shoot him a mildly annoyed glance before going along with their business. On the stage, Batlin looks pleased with this reaction, and he turns to the guard beside him. Curious, Will casually winds his way towards them until he’s close enough to overhear. Thankfully, this is easily done, as the crier is not a quiet speaker.

Batlin is asking questions about the auction. “For this list of items, I’m going to need more details.” A pause, as the guard says something too quiet for Will to hear. “No, no, I don’t need to see the items! Provided that they’re brought out in the order listed. Just, could I get a more detailed description on some of these? People don’t want to buy an item for what it is, they want a story. Where does it come from? What’s its history? And this one, it’s literally just called magic staff, can we get it a more grandiose title? Honestly, this list should’ve been submitted to me for review much earlier.” Another pause, and a murmur from the guard. “Well then get me someone who can help. I hardly need to see the king, just fetch a royal bookkeeper or someone, would you?”

This isn’t actually Will’s first time meeting Batlin – he’d delivered the invitation to the man several days prior. But there’s something different about seeing him here, in his work persona. It makes his similarities to his son much more evident.

The guard scurries off, presumably to find someone as requested. Will has been meandering ever closer, and is now near enough to hear what Batlin mutters after the guard leaves. “Honestly, it’s like they don’t even care if this auction succeeds. But that’s nobles, for you.”

Will’s undecided about whether to start up a conversation, but then Batlin looks back out to the ballroom and his gaze instantly hones in on Will. Will feels a bit trapped under the intensity for a moment, before Batlin lightens it up with a quirk of a smile. “Well hello there, if it isn’t the king’s errand boy! Good to see you, son, how are you?”

That’s not Will’s title, but then, no one outside the castle knows him as the prince’s aide. Even some of the people in the castle still don’t know his title. And Will has been called worse. Will steps onto the stage to avoid having this conversation from shouting distance. “I’m well, thanks. And you, Mister Batlin?”

“Fine, fine, can’t complain. Even if the list doesn’t get updated, I’ll get paid either way. Still, I’ve been hired for this job and I’ll be damned if I don’t do my best to make it a success. It’s not often I get requested for a private event like this.” The last part is accompanied by a raised brow, aimed at Will.

Will hadn’t explained why they wanted to hire Batlin, personally, when he passed on the request. He’s hardly going to elaborate now. Batlin will figure it out soon enough, probably.

“We’re very lucky to have you. I’ve heard good things about you, Batlin, that you’re a man of integrity,” Will says. He heard it from the man’s son, specifically. Which is why he knows that very integrity had been the man’s downfall, in another life.

Batlin snorts. “Integrity is rarely what nobles are looking for when hiring an auctioneer, or a reporter for that matter. But whatever. I’m hardly going to pass up the extra coin, when I’ve a wife and son to support.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, my boy Albus is already an adult. Older than you, even, and he still hasn’t settled into a career. He can’t just rely on his parents to support him forever.” The latter part is said in a tone of complaint, but the crier can’t completely hide the undertone of fondness that leaks through. He clearly cares about his family dearly.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Will notices a familiar face in the bustling crowd. A familiar face he was expecting, but does not feel prepared to meet. Will’s whole body tenses up reflexively.

Batlin doesn’t seem to notice, as he continues speaking. “My boy could learn a thing or two from you about good honest work. Perhaps you could consider him next time you need a crier? He’s a smart lad, and clever with his words. He just needs an opportunity, I figure.”

Will nods vaguely, but he’s not really listening, instead he’s focused entirely on tracking the movements of one teenage military savant without making it obvious that he’s looking. It’s Louis, of course Louis was going to be here, but Will wasn’t expecting him so early. In hindsight, he shouldn’t be surprised. The royal army is part of the guard rotation for this event, and therefore acting as staff. It’s entirely reasonable for Louis to be here before the ball officially begins.

That doesn’t mean Will wants to interact with him.

Will can’t quite tell through the chaotic throng, but it seems like Louis’s path might be leading him closer to Will, which means Will should find somewhere else to be. “That’s wonderful, Mister Batlin, it was lovely talking to you,” Will says. He completely missed whatever Batlin most recently said. He hopes his response wasn’t too out of place. “But I really must be going. Lots of work to do before the guests arrive, after all, lots of… business, to attend to.” Will wants to cringe at the word vomit coming out of his mouth, but he can feel Louis’s presence behind him like a looming specter. “But tell me if you need anything, and I’ll be talking to you later about the second half of your commission alright?”

Batlin looks slightly confused, so Will probably sounded exactly as off kilter as he felt. But the elder clemar only says, “Sure thing, son, keep your chin up,” and waves him off.

Will gratefully takes the opportunity to duck out of the less trafficked northeast exit, away from the bustle and from one Major Louis. Maybe he’ll go see how the king is doing. Anything to postpone that interaction for a little longer.

Chapter Text

The next day, near the end of breakfast, a delivery arrives. Lady Strohl eagerly goes to look over the parcels which the maid brought inside. Examining each, Lady Strohl directs one to each child at the table.

The Prince receives his own with some confusion. He looks to Leon, curious if the older boy knows anything about this. But Leon looks just as surprised as him, so that avenue provides no clarity.

It seems like a gift. It’s wrapped like one, at least. The Prince knows that the princely thing to do when accepting favors is to set it aside, to be opened later in private. However, if he does that, etiquette would demand that none of the other children can open theirs yet either. And he can see that Junah, at least, looks so excited about hers.

Hesitantly, facing Lady Strohl, but glancing at Russell, he asks, “Shall I open it now?”

Lady Strohl immediately and enthusiastically nods. “Please do, Your Highness. It’s for today, after all. I had it specially ordered to be ready overnight.”

Under the expectant gaze of Lady Strohl, the Prince hesitantly pulls on the ribbon until it comes loose, allowing the Prince to remove the lid of the box. Inside, carefully folded, is a rich blue fabric. The Prince lifts it up experimentally with his hands. It’s lighter than it looks, and slightly cool to the touch. “What is it?” he asks.

“It’s a cloak,” Lady Strohl explains. “A hooded one. I thought it warranted, since we plan to keep a low profile today. Dressed like this, it will be evident you’re a noble, but your face and tribe will be mostly concealed.”

At this point, with the Prince having opened his gift, the other children quickly tear open their packages as well, each revealing a similar object, although the colors are different.

Junah gasps happily and immediately lifts the cloak and drapes it over her shoulders, standing out of her chair to do a little twirl. But it’s Leon, gripping at his own orange cloth, who comments first. “Mother, was this really necessary? I’ve plenty of clothes already,” he tells her, sounding aggrieved and somewhat embarrassed. It strikes the Prince, from the tone, that they may have had this argument before.

“Now now, my dear, you should accept a gift graciously,” Lady Strohl rebukes gently. “Otherwise you might make our guests uncomfortable accepting theirs.” She glances at Rella and Junah, specifically, as she says this. Junah has pulled Rella out of her chair and draped Rella in her own cloak, and does not seem at all shy about accepting anything. Rella might be, or she might just be embarrassed by the attention. “Besides,” Lady Strohl continues, “all your cloaks are designed for the colder seasons. This is made with breathable fabric, for the summer heat.”

Leon doesn’t seem particularly interested in the difference between a summer and winter wardrobe, but he nods vaguely, seeming to concede the point.

The Prince returns his attention to his own cloak, lifting it out of the box with both hands. As it unfolds, he can see the blue fabric is decorated in rich golden embroidery along the hems. The contrast of gold and blue makes it immediately obvious what, or rather who, was the inspiration for this design and the Prince feels foolish for not noticing sooner.

“How did you know?” the Prince asks, awestruck. She's never even met Will and she got it exactly right.

Lady Strohl smiles ambiguously. “I have my ways.”

The Prince looks around at Russell and then Hulkenberg. If either of them were involved, he can't tell from their pleased expressions alone. He squints accusingly in turn, but neither cracks, just smiling wider at him. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” He clutches the fabric closer to his chest, and ducks his head into it. It’s soft. Shyly, with the cloth slightly muffling his voice, he admits, “...You got it exactly right.”

“Try it on, won’t you?” Lady Strohl prompts after a moment. “It was tailored to your measurements, but if anything’s off we probably have time to make a few small adjustments.”

The Prince obligingly drapes the cloak over his shoulders. He has to try a couple times to fasten it, but it feels nice and flowy. He thinks he likes it.

Lady Strohl gently pulls the hood up over the Prince’s head, then draws back to give him a considering look. “Yes, I think this will do. It's hard to see your face at all from this height.”

The Prince pouts. Is she calling him short?

Lord Strohl, who is still seated at the head of the table, claps his hands, drawing everyone's attention. “If that's settled, shall we head out then? Time waits for no man!”

At his decree, the servants all move in sync, guiding the group to the already readied carriages. The Prince rides together with Lord Strohl, Leon, and Dame Hulkenberg, while the rest of the ladies take the other car.

It strikes the Prince, suddenly, that this is really happening. Thanks to this cloak, and to the Strohl family, he's really going to be allowed on his first real adventure! He grips the front edges of his hood together and hides a giggle in his hands. He's so, so excited to tell Will about this later!

—

Will wonders, rather belatedly, if he needs to be here for this.

The party is now in full swing, and he can no longer justify being elsewhere. Although the very nature of the crowd makes it easier for him to blend in and hide in the background. Will does his best to play the wallflower as he eavesdrops.

He wasn't able to meet with the king earlier, as he was apparently busy being cleaned and dressed for the event. Will vaguely remembers this was an expectation during his own reign, but he mostly shook it off and adopted a more casual dress whenever he could get away with it. If he could be voted in as king in casual wear, he could maintain his rule in the same garments, he reasoned.

His royal retinue had not been impressed by this argument.

But in any case, the king was unavailable, so Will mostly ended up wandering the halls and trying to stay out of the way until the party started, and then slipping in himself through the servants’ entry once the crowd was thick enough for his addition to go unnoticed. His garb doesn't mark him obviously a noble or anyone with influence, so people are largely ignoring him, which suits his preference.

So settled in, Will realizes that his role here is, well, somewhat underspecified. He's here as backup and support, but if things go well, he shouldn't be needed at all.

Will hopes things go well.

From his position at the side of the hall, Will can broadly observe the attendees. There are many familiar faces, such as older politicians that were still in court when Will took the throne. And many unfamiliar faces as well. He wonders if they died in the next many years, or if he just hadn't had the opportunity to meet them. Forden is also present, easily spotted by how a small crowd of sycophants and faithful have gathered in his wake.

Will catches sight of a particular familiar someone and, after a moment's consideration, he decides he might as well say hello.

“Lady Joanna!” he calls from a respectful distance.

She turns to face the sound and, seeing Will, offers him a smile. It doesn't seem forced, so hopefully he didn't make a terrible impression yesterday.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, after he's approached close enough to be audible without shouting. He still has to speak rather loudly to be heard past the many other conversations underway.

“I did indeed, thanks to you,” Joanna replies agreeably. Her bearing today is a bit more reminiscent of the calm, steady governor he'd first known her as. She's wearing fresh clothing and has done up her hair nicely. It makes it more obvious, by hindsight, how disheveled she was yesterday.

“I’m glad to hear it. Do let the staff know if you have any other needs which need accommodating during your stay.” Will is tempted to remind her that her stay can, of course, be extended further, but he reluctantly decides it’s better not to push. Searching for a more favorable topic, he asks, “By the way, have you decided what to name it yet?”

Joanna beams at this, clearly delighted to discuss her child. “I was thinking Ian, if it’s a boy, or Rachel if it’s a girl.”

“Those are lovely names,” Will praises, if only to see her smile grow wider. Every time Will interacts with Joanna, he feels he better understands how the future events had so completely broken her. And it makes him want all the more to protect her from that. Reaching for another safe topic, he asks, “So how are you enjoying the Forgiveness Day ball so far?”

Before she can answer, a voice interrupts from behind Will’s shoulder. “Excuse me, I don’t wish to interrupt, but may I borrow a bit of this man’s time?”

A spike of panic jolts through Will’s system, and he reflexively takes a defensive stance as he swirls around to face the sudden intrusion. It’s a voice he’s heard many times, but also only once. It’s his nemesis, his foil, his trauma. It’s Louis Guiabern.

Louis Guiabern is… shorter than Will expected. He actually has to look very slightly down to make eye contact. He hadn’t noticed on their first meeting, since he’d been transformed at the time and everything looked smaller to him. It’s only by a few inches, but Will is taller than Louis Guiabern.

Will is so shocked by this epiphany that he subconsciously relaxes some of the tension in his shoulders. “Yes?” he asks neutrally.

“Ah, I think I’ve seen you before, but we weren’t formally introduced,” Louis offers. “I am Major Louis Guiabern, of the royal army. I’d be pleased to make your acquaintance.” He offers a smile as he says this that feels almost predatory. It’s an expression that chilled Will on an older Louis, but on this younger face, still round with baby fat, it mostly seems uncanny.

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of you.” And Louis probably knows it, too. He’s established quite the reputation by this point. “I’m Will. I’m the prince’s royal aide.”

Will hasn’t been using his formal title much, and surprisingly few have bothered to ask. Something about this introduction, however, seems to call for it. Louis should know that Will is the prince’s ally first and foremost.

“Really? To the crown prince himself? That makes sense, I suppose. You have much in common.” Louis’s eyes linger unsubtly at Will’s hairline, where his racial traits aren’t. It’s a blatant performance of racism and Will doesn’t appreciate it, not even from another elda. Especially not from an elda.

Before Will can bite back a retort, Joanna interjects. Will had actually forgotten she was still present. “Really? A royal aide to the heir apparent? No wonder you were able to wield such influence in the castle! I must thank you once again for the accommodations, the staff was most gracious.” There’s something almost jarring in the contrast between Louis’s snide barbs and Joanna’s profuse enthusiasm, and the latter helps Will smooth himself out of his reflexive indignation.

“Yes,” Will answers to Joanna. “It’s a relatively new appointment. I’ve been keeping it discreet, as a safety precaution, so I’d prefer you keep it to yourself for now.” Which applies to Louis, too, but Will has unfortunately little control over what Louis does. Being insistent with him is more likely to have the opposite effect.

“Well, I’m sure you must be very busy with the event, so I won’t keep you,” says Louis in apparent dismissal. Which is rather surprising. Will doesn’t know what Louis’s purpose was in coming over, but he didn’t assume it was something as straightforward as ‘introducing himself.’ That seems beneath him, somehow.

As Louis makes to take his leave, he puts a firm hand on Will’s shoulder, and pauses briefly with his head parallel but opposite to Will’s own. With his lips close to Will’s ear, he says, quiet but not quite whispering, “I look forward to the surprise you and the king have planned for me today.”

He removes his hand, but Will feels like there’s still a lead weight pressing him into the ground. Will barely notices him leave over the blood pounding in his ears. Will feels exposed, like someone tore off his skin and left his muscles exposed to a cold breeze. Because Louis, somehow, knows.

Chapter Text

Will can’t process the words he just heard, because it makes no sense. Louis knows? How does he know? Does Louis even know, or was this a test to see if Will knew about the plan? Because of course Louis knows about the plan, because Will told him about the plan, but how did Louis know it was Will who told him?

His thoughts are swirling and he doesn’t know if he’s overthinking it, or if it’s exactly what it seems like and Will’s identity has somehow been seen through as if it were transparent glass. Will doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want Louis to know him and his secrets. It feels much too dangerous.

“Are you alright?” asks Joanna, who is still there, even if Will feels like his senses have narrowed to a point where all he can feel are the lingering sensations from Louis’s parting words and touch. “You look pale.”

“I should probably sit down.” Will admits aloud, even if it feels distant, like it’s not him saying it.

Joanna looks determined at this. “The servants arranged a private sitting room for me to rest in as needed. I’ll take you there.” Will is glad she doesn’t phrase it as a question, since he doesn’t feel up to answering at the moment. Instead, he pliantly lets her lead him out into the hall and around the corner into a nondescript room. The loud murmur of the party is only faintly audible from this distance, and not audible at all once she closes the door behind them. She leads Will to a comfortable plush couch and it’s such a strange reversal of their meeting yesterday that Will lets out a giggle without meaning to. He distantly notices there’s some refreshments laid out on a side table. The servants were very thoughtful in their preparations. That’s good.

Joanna sits next to Will, pouring some water from the pitcher into a cup. She jerks, startled, spilling a splash of water onto the table, as in a jolt of motion of Gallica emerges from Will’s satchel.

Gallica moves right up to Will’s face and, urgent but slow, she says, “Breath with me, Will. You’re alright. I’m here. We’re both okay.”

“Who…?” Joanna asks in confusion. She managed to steady the pitcher before too much water was lost, and sets it down carefully.

“I’m Gallica, and I’m this guy’s trusted partner.” It’s a short explanation, Will distantly notes, but it seems to be enough, since a moment later Joanna is back to offering him water. Will accepts the cup gratefully. His throat feels so dry.

They just sit there like that for a moment, all three of them, until slowly but surely Will feels a bit more collected, like the bits of himself that had scattered just needed a bit of time to settle back into place.

Joanna looks at him with concerned eyes. “Are you alright?” she asks. Gallica has settled on Will’s shoulder and is resting a hand on Will’s jaw.

“Yes, I think so.” Will answers. Then he pauses. “Well, no, actually.” He takes a sip of his water. “But I’m feeling a bit more together at least?”

Joanna laughs at this. “That’s often how it works,” she says knowingly. Her eyes twinkle in sympathetic amusement. But then she sombers, and asks, “But honestly, do you need any help? You were so good to me, I’d like to return the favor if you need it.”

Will shakes his head dismissively. “It’s nothing, it’s my own issue. I just… Louis alluded to knowing something about me that he shouldn’t, and it spooked me I think.”

Joanna frowns. “Do you think he means to threaten you with it?” she probes.

Will lets out a huge sigh, and he feels immensely better for it. He lets his head fall backwards against the couch. “I don’t know, is the problem.”

Joanna thins her lips. With surprisingly little judgement, she asks, “Is it something that would cause you to lose favor with the royal family?”

Will actually snorts at that. The royal family, or rather the king, is very much a part of this plot, and if they found out about the other thing, the Archetypes… the prince would probably pass out from excitement. “No, I don’t think so.”

Joanna smiles at that, some of the tension leaving her figure. “Well there you have it, then. The royal family will protect you. This is what we as nobles owe to those who serve us. The king seems a good man, I’m sure he will assist his son’s servant if you have need.” She takes Will’s near hand in hers and taps it firmly. Then, to Gallica, she says, “Isn’t that right?”

Gallica nods in emphatic agreement. “You have me, and you have the king, and you have Grius and Joanna. We’re all on your side, Will! The prince, too!” She punches out with one tiny fist and then the other. “If Louis or anyone else wants to hurt you, I’ll fight them for you!”

Will does outright giggle at this. He knows if it comes to a fight, he’ll be the one leading in magic armor, but he appreciates the sentiment, that there are people out there who would protect his reputation and his heart.

“Thank you. Both of you.” He looks to Joanna specifically, because he really hadn’t expected to see this much of her today, and she’s been nothing but kind. “You’ll make a very good mother.” He knows it, with every fiber of his being.

The smile he gets in return is blindingly bright.

—

The carriage takes the Prince and everyone directly to the venue they’ve reserved, although the going is slow as the streets are full of stand-up stalls with merchandise and people of all kinds milling about. The Prince doesn’t mind the delay. He can see all sorts of activity outside the carriage window, and he finds himself enraptured by the bustle of a village mingling in full force. He hasn’t seen anything like this since… well. Before. He finds himself drinking it in like air into his lungs.

Eventually the crowd gets too dense and the carriage comes to a complete halt. Lord Strohl checks over the Prince to make sure his hood is up. Leon doesn’t bother with his own. “We’re here with my parents,” Leon says. "It’d draw more attention if I tried to hide my face.” He still wears the orange cloak, though, but just leaves the hood down.

As they exit the carriage, they can see the girls doing the same. Both have their hoods up. Junah’s cloak is a light pink, and Rella’s is a pale blue. This seems important, apparently, because they’re arguing intensely about whether the shade of pink more closely resembles one’s eyes, or the other’s hair. The Prince doesn’t really get it.

The four cloaked children are motioned to group in the center and flanked by Lord and Lady Strohl, Dame Hulkenberg and the Strohl footman as if they were all collectively on guard duty. Lady Strohl insists that everyone hold hands, and there’s minimal grumbling about it. The Prince ends up holding onto Hulkenberg on one side and Leon on the other. It feels nice. Secure.

In this fashion, they push their way through the crown until they reach the boutique in question. Once they push themselves through the entrance, it instantly becomes quieter and more spacious, to the Prince’s relief. He enjoyed watching the crowds, but he’s not sure he likes being jostled by them quite so much.

Hulkenberg seems to agree. “Thanks be, we shant be braving that crowd,” she says emphatically, finally allowing them to drop formation. She gives the Prince’s hand a firm squeeze before releasing it.

They’re soon met by an attendant, who shows them upstairs to the private room they’ve reserved for the day. It’s quite spacious, with two large windows overlooking the main street. There’s a lounge area, but also two small round dining tables with some snacks laid out on them. The tables don’t really match the rest of the room. They were probably brought in on special request.

The attendant bows respectfully and from that bent position gestures to the refreshment tables. “Catering was provided by Halia’s best deli and confectionery.” She points to each table in turn without looking in their direction or compromising her posture. It’s rather impressive. “I’ve left a menu if you’d like to make any additional requests. A clerk will be by shortly to help you with any questions about our catalog.

‘Our catalog’ apparently refers to a large binder in the center of the coffee table, which Junah is already looking through with enthusiasm while Lady Strohl looks attentively over her shoulder.

Leon looks at the snacks and frowns. “That won’t do. We can’t go to a Halia festival and not have street food. That’s practically a crime.”

“Street food?” the Prince echoes curiously.

Leon nods seriously. “It’s an essential part of the experience. You walk through the food stalls, smell the greasiest, juiciest fried meats and doughs, and you want to try everything. You end up eating too much, of course, but it’s worth it.”

At this, Junah pulls herself away from the page she’s looking at – a dress of some kind – to offer her own opinion. “No, it’s about the sweets! There’s popped corn and spun sugar and chocolate and so many kinds of sweetened fruit! Who has room for fried foods when there’s all that?”

The two’s argument escalates further, as the Prince exchanges a glance with Rella, who’s sitting properly on the couch, seeming fairly indifferent to the food and fashion alike. She’s helped herself to some tea.

He’s brought back into the conversation as Junah says, up in his face, “Settle this for us Prince, which is better, sweet or savory festival food?”

The Prince stutters, and takes a step back, because Junah is once again in his space. Leon puts a hand on her shoulder, and after a moment she seems to realize she’s crowding him and backs off. Physically, that is. She’s still looking at him with intense expectation. “Um. I’ve never had either, so I don’t know.”

At this statement, both Leon and Junah let out matching appalled gasps.

“Really?” Leon gasps. “Not even fried potatoes?”

Junah tacks on, “Not even chocolate bananas?”

The Prince shakes his head, baffled. At this, the sweet vs savory fight seems to change directions entirely as Leon and Junah find some stationary on the table next to the catalog and crouch together over a single sheet, each scribbling something in turn as they throw around various unfamiliar terms that the Prince can at least identify as food.

“Um,” the Prince interjects, after a moment. “I don’t think all that is really necessary.” The list has become intimidating in its length. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have room in his stomach for all that.

Junah pauses halfway through adding another line item and looks squarely at this Prince, her gaze unflinching. “Respectfully, Your Highness, as you haven’t experienced street food, I don’t think you can be trusted to judge what is and isn’t necessary. I ask that you trust the experts on this.”

She places a hand over her chest as she says this, in case there was any ambiguity over who the “experts” in question were. Next to her, Leon nods seriously in agreement, without looking up from the several new items he’s jotting down.

It’s clear the Prince’s input is no longer desired, so the Prince decides to consider this a lesson in delegation and goes over to join Rella on the couch. An attendant immediately pours him a cup of tea. The Prince takes it in hand, and attempts to sip it with authoritative decorum, but he flinches a bit when the liquid burns his tongue. As primly as he can manage, he sets his cup down and gestures to it. “Milk, if you would.”

The attendant pours a measure of milk from a small pitcher. “Sugar?” she asks.

The Prince looks at Leon and Junah, who appear to have finally settled on a list of items and are presenting it to one of the Strohls’ servants. “No. I think I’ll have quite enough sugar already,” the Prince decides.

Chapter Text

Will doesn’t return to the ball right away. Perhaps it’s cowardly of him, but he’s just not quite ready to confront Louis, or, even worse, Forden, at this moment.

He’s not sure Forden knows who Will is, in terms of his alleged background or his current role in the palace. Then again, based on Grius’s findings, it seems like Forden is at least aware enough of Will to send assassins after him. So maybe Will should be making less assumptions about how well he’s kept himself inconspicuous.

Just look how well that turned out with Louis, after all.

Joanna seems to understand, since she keeps him company and offers light, harmless chatter that puts Will’s frayed nerves at ease. He’s grateful for the distraction, but after a point, he asks if she shouldn’t be getting back to the party.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. If anything, I’m grateful for an opportunity to sit longer. And my parents could hardly complain even if they were here, since I’m socializing with the most esteemed royal aide of our royal heir,” she says with an upward quirk of her lips, as if delighting in a shared joke.

It may be true, but Will is fairly sure she also offered it as an excuse out of consideration towards him. One which he’s grateful for.

By the time Will has decided he feels up to returning to the party, the charity auction is just getting underway. There’s a series of round tables near the north end of the hall, in front of the podium, and persons of importance have been guided to their assigned seats. Those with less influence, who were not reserved a seat, are forced to stand behind the tables, but they are still granted the privilege of a numbered paddle to use for identification when making bids.

Some guests appear uninterested in the auction and are gathered near the south end of the hall engaged in various conversations, but these make for a slim minority. Most attendees are eager to place a bid or two, either for the fun of it or for the bragging rights that an exclusive item would bring.

Well, that’s the idea at least.

Will doesn’t particularly care about the social power struggles. He only cares about one man. Forden.

The Sanctifex is seated at a table which is front and center to the podium, as befitting his role as senator and the head of the church. He shares a table with several other clergymen, likely members of great influence but no one Will happens to recognize.

Guards are posted up on the small stage, and also along the sides of the hall. A few of them are working on crowd control, ensuring none of the standing attendees crowd the roped off seating area. Will can see Louis is among their number. He’s standing opposite of Will, along the west side of the hall, at attention besides several taller but less decorated members of the military.

He appears to be watching Forden, but he’s keeping his glance casual and sweeping. There’s nothing to find fault with in his posture either.

Louis looks up and catches Will staring. Will forces his glance away, but not before he sees a smirk appear on Louis’s face.

Will reminds himself, very pettily, that this Louis is short. And also that Will is older than him, now. And technically outranks him.

Will doesn’t have an assigned seat, but he’s also a servant, which means he can duck behind the guards on the northeast side of the room and hide himself behind a curtain, just far enough from the servant’s entrance to not be in the way of the busy staff bringing in fresh hors d'oeuvre from the kitchen and carting out used cups and plates.

The position gives him some concealment, and also an impeccable view of the stage where Batlin is currently warming up his audience.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, what an honor it is to be here. We are grateful to join in the king’s generosity tonight, and also to witness some exquisite treasures that have been hidden deep in the castle vaults for untold ages.”

His delivery is good, Will notes distantly. The bustle of conversation begins to hush as people turn their interest towards the stage.

Batlin explains the rules of the live auction, but the speed which he glosses over them implies this should be common knowledge to everyone present. Will appreciates the explanation, since he has no memory of ever attending such an event. The prince had been too young, and Will didn’t have the leisure for it after his coronation.

“We have some exceptional items in store for you today, including some items that might,” Batlin lowers his voice as if imparting a secret, “have a spark of the divine.” Batlin looks to Forden and, diplomatically, adds, “Although we cannot be certain without an appraisal from our honorable Sanctist authorities. You honor us with your presence, Sanctifex Forden. Closurei.”

Batlin performs the Sanctist bow, raising his two hands in front of his face, holding the pose until Forden raises a lax hand to acknowledge and dismiss the greeting.

“As we know, God smiles on the generous, so I invite you all to open your hearts and your coffers for these rare, one-of-a-kind items,” Batlin concludes enthusiastically, making a sweeping gesture to the staff who use this prompt to bring out the first lot. Batlin introduces it – a bejeweled igniter necklace belonging to the queen consort of King Hythlodaeus III.

Will’s great grandmother, he supposes.

From nearby, Will hears a quiet scoff. “The kingdom must be struggling more than I thought if the king is auctioning off family heirlooms. Maybe he’s the one who needs charity.” The speaker isn’t anyone Will recognizes – a lower noble, based on his dress. His companion laughs at the gibe.

The noble spoke softly, but not so quietly he couldn’t be overheard, yet none of the partygoers around him chide him for his casual lèse-majesté. Speaking ill of the king, it seems, has become so commonplace as to not be worth noting.

The necklace fetches what Will assumes is a high price. The bid goes to a elderly noblewoman who wins the bid against a younger gentleman, a merchant, who is likely representing the Igniter Consortium.

Will doesn’t pay much attention to the next few items. Nothing too rare or dangerous will be offered in the first few lots – such precious merchandise would be allocated near the end of the lots. In fact, he’s mostly zoned out when Batlin interrupts his cadence with a shocked exclamation.

“Honorable guests! It seems we are to bear witness to a very special occasion! I’m informed that the king himself will be introducing the next item!”

This pronouncement causes an expectant hush to fall over the guests, broken only by some confused murmuring. It’s a highly unconventional timing for the host of the party to make his appearance. From behind the curtains, where the auction items had appeared from, emerges King Hythlodaeus V. He’s dressed grandly in full regalia as befits the formal occasion – crown, scepter, and mantle all acting as uncontestable symbols of his royal authority.

The last time Will had seen the king in this garb, he had looked like he was being crushed by the weight of it. Today, his back is straight and he faces up at the crowd with grim determination.

Those guests who were seated rise to their feet in deference to the crown, with one noteworthy exception. Forden remains seated, serenely, as if he were carved out of stone. The king clearly notices, looking at Forden with a furrowed brow.

“You’ll have to forgive me, old friend,” says Forden, “I mean no offense. My old bones ache quite easily these days, and I’m still weary from travel.” He smiles benignly, looking the picture of a contrite saint.

The king smiles back, but it’s a sharp thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, my friend. You’ve served by my side this long, how could I not understand your intentions?”

The king gestures to the assembly to retake their seats. “I am heartened to see so many in attendance today. Forgiveness Day has always been a favorite tradition of mine. It’s a day when those in power put aside their own greed and consider the public good. A rarity, in my experience.” The wry tone he uses evokes a few nervous chuckles, but the majority of the expressions Will sees are cold. None take kindly to being judged for their own good fortune.

“But you are not here to listen to my self righteous preaching, yes? I should leave that to the church.” A few more chuckles, but these are hastily stifled to avoid offense. “I shall present our next auction lot. This is a magical item with great historical impact.”

The attendants carry out the lot in question, which is a long, narrow object concealed under a large cloth. The king pulls off the cloth with a flourish. Underneath is, as Will knew to expect, and extremely unassuming magical staff. The kind you might find in any decently-sized weapons shop. For an event like this, it’s undeniably shabby.

The king gives no heed to the immediate disinterest his reveal inspired. “This magical staff,” he says, affecting Batlin’s showmanship, “belonged to a talented magician who possessed a rare gift for healing magic. A devout follower of Sanctism, at the young age of twelve she was personally called upon by the Sanctifex to fulfill a divine calling – to murder a six year old child in cold blood. That child of six,” the king pauses, commanding attention, “was my only flesh and blood heir, the only heir to the throne of Euchronia.”

The room immediately bursts into a cacophony of confusion and outrage.

The king raises his voice, outright shouting to still be heard above the chaos. “This staff, then, was used to commit the highest act of treason against the throne in the name of the greatest divine authority, our own Sanctifex Forden. Can there be a greater divine instrument than this? Tell me, Forden, is this staff not an artifact of the divine?!”

The crowd has worked up into a frenzy. Many are rising from their feet, alarmed, either furious or fearful. Among them, though, Forden has not moved. He sits, placidly, just as he did when the king first entered. He raises a hand, and those nearest to him quiet, inspiring others nearby to calm, until the silence has spread across all the guests like a wave. His one gesture has done more to control the room than all of the king’s furious shouting could.

“Peace. Let us not get worked up over nothing,” says Forden. He’s calm and unruffled, and Will wishes he would look even the least bit unsettled by this public outing of his crimes. To the king, he says, “Did not the auctioneer say that it is the church’s authority to determine what is divine? Then I regret to inform you, that staff has no hint of divinity. It seems to me that you bought a rather cheap prop for the purposes of framing me. Were I a less understanding man, I might mistake this little joke as an act of blasphemy.”

The king looks on coldly. This is Forden, offering the king a chance to back down. Forden knows he can win, that public opinion is solidly on his side, and he’s flaunting it, just as he’s done since the king first appeared.

If it were before, Will thinks, the king from before would have backed down.

Will looks to the king, expectant. The king won’t back down today. He knows it. The king, surprisingly, looks to him as well, meets his gaze, and smiles. He keeps that smile as he looks back to Forden.

“Old friend, I wonder what I could say that you could not dismiss or discredit. I could tell this assembly that we have first hand testimony from the assassin in question. Written and notarized testimony of how you solicited a minor to commit the unpardonable act of murder, threatening the life of another young child as collateral. Perhaps I shall tell them of the previous assassination attempt, where you mobilized kingdom soldiers against a foreign monarch without my knowledge or authorization? What could I not say about the insidious and criminal actions you have orchestrated over the years to subvert the throne, harm my family, and seize control for your own selfish ends? High treason is not enough to describe the poisonous, necrotic rot you have infested into every element of my reign from the day I met you.”

Forden is not smiling any longer. He is frowning. No, he is crying. He looks truly, deeply grieved. “I am greatly saddened, my liege, that you think this of me. I fear the only poison here is in your mind. You must be greatly stressed to see such ill intent in my every word and deed.” Smiling slightly through the still-falling tears, he says, “Would that I had anything near the capability you ascribe to me, so that I could do far more good in this world.”

The king nods. “Indeed. There is nothing I can say that you could not twist against me. So I will not waste any more words.” The king draws himself to a full, military-stiff posture. “As the supreme head of the state army, and as the final judicial authority of the noble court, I hereby find Aestivum Forden guilty of high treason against the throne, to be detained in the dungeons effective immediately. Guards, seize him.”

Chapter Text

“Guards, seize him.”

At the king’s command, the many soldiers stationed throughout the room mobilize to surround Forden, although their progress is impeded by the throngs of guests. Forden, who remained defiantly in his seat for the entire auction, rises to his feet. “This is an outrage and an abuse of authority! You cannot apprehend me solely on your insane conspiracies!”

The king is unmoved. “I think you’ll find that I can. And I am. I have more power than you ever let me believe.”

Forden glowers. “You’re mad. I shall not comply with such an unjust arrest. You leave me no choice but to defend myself.” At this, the clergymen surrounding him all pull out weapons from their cloaks. Based on their military readiness, they must be members of the Sanctist Monk Army.

Will braces himself as well, hand reflexively reaching for his sword. Will was never given an explicit part in tonight’s events. He was only told to stand by and assist where he could. He could go full Archetype against Forden’s guard, but that would only cause a worse panic. Better to trust the State Army to execute their orders. Will glances around. Is there anywhere else he can help? Many guests are fleeing – are they evacuating successfully? Is anyone being trampled or trapped?

Meanwhile, the army soldiers have reached Forden’s table, headed by none other than Louis Guiabern.

Forden’s scowl deepens when he sees Louis. “You little wretch, I should have known you were behind this.”

Louis smirks back at him. “Actually, this wasn’t my doing, but I have greatly enjoyed the show. How does it feel, Forden, to be called out as… what was it? ‘Poisonous, necrotic rot’.” Louis rolls the insult off his tongue with immense satisfaction. “Poetry.”

None of the soldiers on either side have moved to attack yet, but the tension is palpable in the air.

And then the tension breaks as the first spell is thrown. Will can't tell who it came from, but it hardly seems to matter because in the next moment all the soldiers on both sides are closing in on each other, and the hall resonates with the clang of lance on sword.

The remaining guests who had not yet left all scream in panic, and make for the door in a great rush. Someone's dress catches fire from a stray spell, and they frantically try to douse it with their glass of champagne. An elderly woman trips and falls. Will rushes over to help her to her feet. Once he’s confirmed she’s steady, he goes to the woman whose dress is still on fire.

Without taking the time to ask permission, he rips the outer layer of the skirt until the inflamed portion is loose in his hands, and tosses it into the punch bowl nearby, where it sizzles. He sees a few embers on her underskirt, and stomps them out with his shoe. After the fire is out, the noblewoman runs off without even a word of gratitude.

Will can’t blame her, given the circumstances.

By this time, most all of the guests and servants have exited the ballroom, leaving only Forden, the king, and their guards. Perhaps Forden has noticed this also, as he’s being much less guarded with his words.

“You would do all this for those filthy elda? Just what I’d expect from a king who sired an elda bastard.”

He’s encircled by his guards who are doing their valiant best to fight off the larger numbers of the State Army, but look to be in bad shape from the effort. Louis is off to the side. His weapon is ready in his hand, but it seems he hasn’t personally joined the fray as yet.

The king shouts back, furious, “He wouldn’t be a bastard if you didn’t kill my love before we had the chance to wed, you demon. But that genocide wasn’t enough for you, you just won’t be satisfied until you kill our son. Have you no morals?”

Forden laughs, “Calling me a demon? The only demon here is that filthy half-breed who stands to inherit the throne. The elda are a blight on our land and must be purged.”

There’s a soft gasp, barely audible over the still active clanging of weapons, but both the men hear it and turn to look at the source. And there is Joanna, standing in the northeast entrance, the one Will himself had entered from, right next to the stage. In perfect view of Forden and the king’s dispute.

“...Is it true?” she gasps, her face white with alarm. “Did you really try to kill the king’s child?”

Forden’s expression melts instantly from fury into a blank mask. “My dear girl, you mistake me. I merely hope to correct a wrong in our country. It is His Majesty who has sinned against God.”

Joanna lets out a shuddering breath. “That’s no denial. It’s true, then? You would murder a child because you don’t like his race?”

Will, who was near the south end of the hall to help with evacuation, is making his way back to the north side as swiftly as he can without drawing attention. He doesn’t like where this is going.

Forden’s look becomes stern. “As a member of the church yourself, you should understand – the elda are not smiled upon by god. It does you no good to sympathize with them.”

Joanna is crying now, and clutching her swollen belly. “A-and my child, my baby, if you didn’t like its race, would you have it die?”

Forden frowns at her, more confused than angry now. “Surely a woman of the cloth such as yourself wouldn’t consort with any unclean tribe.” Joanna’s face must betray her, as Forden immediately observes, “Oh. You have, have you.”

Joanna shakes her head in denial. “Renard isn’t dirty. He’s a good man!”

Forden lets out a sigh. “I see you have fallen off the righteous path. This saddens me, truly. Perhaps such folly is inevitable when a sympathizer holds the throne.”

Forden begins to charge up a crackle of electricity in his hand. Will is close to Joanna but not close enough – he abandons all attempts at stealth and breaks into a run. He has to get there in time.

Forden is releasing lighting from his fingertips. It’s heading towards Joanna. Will doesn’t have time to think he has to act.

He lets the familiar magic of the Archetype wash over his body, power his legs, and lengthen his stride as he lunges at Joanna and pulls her to the ground, just in time for the lightning bolt to pass harmlessly overhead.

Joanna struggles in his arms, so Will lets her go, as gently as he can. She quickly gets to her feet and backs away. “Wha-what are you?” She’s quivering in fright, but seems to otherwise be unharmed.

Then he hears Forden laughing. He turns around to see Forden’s triumphant expression, and, following his gaze, the king, lying limp on the ground. The realization occurs to Will with dawning horror – that was a multi-target attack.

He looks at Joanna, looks down on her because he’s much larger in his current form of the Brawler. “I know you have questions, but you have to go, please. It’s not safe here.”

“...Will? That’s… that’s your voice, isn’t it?” Joanna utters, confused, but she relaxes slightly and the visceral fear leaves her eyes. “How…?”

“I’ll tell you later, but please you have to go.”

Joanna listens, this time, and slips out the door to safety. Will is already turning on his heel to go to the king. How badly was he hurt?

When he reaches the king, Grius is already there by his side. He looks up at Will with a glare. “Ye were supposed to keep the king safe!” he accuses.

Will wilts. “I know, I’m sorry, I was…” he was trying to save everyone, but even he can’t be everywhere at once. He’d stretched himself too thin. “Is he okay?”

“He’s breathing, but just barely. It’s not good.” Grius looks at Will expectantly. “Well, what are you waiting for, do your – your thing.”

Will looks at Grius blankly, not understanding his meaning.

Grius growls, “Yer magic healing thing, surely you can fix him up?” Underneath his gruff impatience is a thread of true panic.

Will only then realizes that he’s been rather dense, because yes, he can do that. He quickly switches to the Cleric Archetype. He casts Samarecarm, because the king isn’t conscious, and that’s the strongest revive he has. He’s relieved to see it take effect instantly, as the king starts to stir.

As much as Will would like to confirm the king is fully well, he also remembers Forden is still here and he could attack again. He looks up, alert, ready to face another blow.

…But he apparently needn’t have worried, because instead of Forden’s vicious face, he sees Louis, standing with his foot digging into the back of Forden, who is sprawled on the ground unconscious. His guards are equally incapacitated, and the king’s soldiers are binding them with rope.

Will releases his transformation. “You were too slow,” he rebukes. If Louis himself had gotten involved in the combat against Forden, it would have ended much sooner.

Louis smirks unapologetically. “I was merely waiting for the right timing. I wanted to be sure the conditions of our deal had been met.”

“And were they?” Will retorts, with more confidence then he feels. Mostly what he feels is tired.

Louis hums. “I suppose they were. The king did indeed serve justice today.” He gets down on his knees, on top of Forden’s spine, and pulls out restraints from somewhere in his uniform. “I’ll take care of this traitor, you can rest assured.”

For some reason the way Louis said that makes a shiver go down Will’s spine, but Will tries his best to ignore it and nods at Louis as dismissively as he can. Then he goes back to the king’s side.

The king has pushed himself upright, and is looking at Will with wide eyes. Belatedly, Will realizes the king also might have seen him exiting his transformation, and unlike Grius and Louis, the king doesn’t know about his Archetypes.

The king opens his mouth, but Will interrupts him in a way that is most certainly not polite. “Please, uh, can we hold off any questions about me until later? I’m just. This has been a lot. For all of us. And I think it’d be nice if we could all get a bit of rest first.” Maybe he’s just avoiding the issue until later, but later sounds like a fantastic time to deal with anything and everything right now.

The king’s eyes are still wide, but he closes his mouth and nods. Then he teeters slightly, the nod having been enough to make him dizzy. Grius steadies him.

Louis and most of the soldiers have carted Forden and guards out of the room, several of whom need to be carried in their unconscious states. Forden is draped over Louis’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and Will takes a moment’s pleasure in how undignified it looks.

Grius grunts, rising to his feet and bringing the king up with him. The king is a bit unsteady, but manages to stay upright. To Will, Grius says, “Sorry.”

“What for?” Will returns, confused.

“I shoudn’ta yelled at you, for failing to protect the king. I was right there, behind the curtain.” Grius gestures to the curtain that was placed behind the stage to hide the auction lots. “I shoulda reacted faster when His Majesty was in danger. I was distracted by a certain meddlesome man who refused to leave.”

As if on cue – and knowing him, it likely was – Batlin steps out from behind the curtain. He looks deeply shaken, but physically unharmed. “Yeah, about that, I have so many bloody questions.”

Chapter Text

There was so much food. The servants were very thorough in collecting every item on that list, and when it all is brought inside, it smells amazing. The Prince understands now why Leon and Junah had such strong feelings about it.

The two of them took turns pointing him at every item and explaining it to him and awaiting his judgement on which he likes best. He only takes a few bites of each, but even then, his belly is full to bursting before they finish sampling the lineup.

He also learns that festival food is rather heavy on the stomach, because his tummy really doesn’t feel good now.

Junah nods her head when he says as much. “That’s part of the experience. You always regret eating festival food afterwards, but it’s still irresistible.” She says this as she helps herself to another sugar-glazed strawberry.

The Prince isn’t so sure. He thinks if it feels like this every time, he’d be okay with not eating festival food ever again. Or at least, not so much or so many kinds.

Leon is snacking on a meat sausage breaded with corn flour. “I feel fine,” he says between bites. “Maybe you have a weak stomach?”

Maybe the combination of sweet and savory festival food was never meant to be indulged in, the Prince speculates. Maybe if he stuck to one or the other, he’d be fine, like they seem to be.

Either way, with some embarrassment, he has to request that Hulkenberg escort him to the facilities.

Thankfully, after he’s had a chance to relieve himself, he feels a lot better. He’s even thinking he might try a few more snacks when he gets back, so maybe Junah was right after all.

He’s nearly back to their private room when he bumps into someone in the hall. They collide so hard that the Prince ends up falling down on his butt. It hurts, but not a lot. Not enough to cry over.

“Hey, watch your step!” growls the person he bumped into. It’s a roussainte man in formal dress. He’s brushing off his suit with an expression of distaste.

Hulkenberg growls right back. She gets right into his face, and even though she’s shorter than him she manages to be intimidating. “You’d best apologize. You have no idea who you just harmed!” She bites her lip without elaborating further, though. Because they’re trying to be incognito, the Prince remembers.

The roussainte man looks up from his suit at Hulkenberg, and then over her head at the Prince. His frown deepens further. “An elda? I thought this establishment had standards.”

The Prince feels a shiver down his spine. He feels for his cloak. He knows he was wearing it. But when he grabs at where the hood should be covering his head, it’s not there. It was probably dislodged when he fell. He pulls it up over his head again, but the damage is done. He draws it close over his face anyway. The Prince wants to hide. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Hey!” comes Leon’s voice, sounding angry and defiant. Why is he here? The Prince supposes they were pretty close to the room. He guesses everyone inside must have heard. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want them to see him being so weak.

But it’s also nice, in a way, that Leon is standing up for him.

“You presumptuous jerk!” cries Leon. His voice is closer now. Prince dares to peek out of his hood just enough to see Leon is walking straight up to the man, directing an accusatory finger. He’s small, coming up only to the roussainte’s waist, but he’s so unafraid, and the Prince admires that.

Until Leon continues, blowing away all the Prince’s warm feelings at once.

“You can’t just call a clemar an elda just because their horns haven’t grown all the way in! That’s so rude!”

Oh.

Oh. No.

The Prince thought. He thought Leon was so accepting of other tribes. He was really happy that he made a friend who didn’t seem to care that he was an elda. Now he just feels so stupid. Leon didn’t accept him at all, he just… he just thought he was a clemar. That’s why Leon was being so nice.

The Prince didn’t cry before, but he cries now. He doesn’t want to face Leon, he doesn’t want to face any of them. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s running away. He doesn’t know where to, just anywhere far away from this.

“Your Highness!” comes Hulkenberg’s cry from behind him, but he’s well beyond listening. His feet carry him outside the store and across the unfamiliar streets, searching for anywhere he can actually feel safe.

—

Leon watches the prince run off, and prepares to run after him, but the prince’s knight holds him back. “You’ve done quite enough already,” she says, sternly, and then runs after the prince. He hopes she can catch up to him quickly.

He’s jostled as a smaller figure brushes past him. It’s Rella, he recognizes. She’s chasing after the prince’s knight. He doesn’t know why. He wants to go after, too, but the knight had insisted he stay back. He grips his hands into fists, feeling powerless.

The roussainte man is still there in the hallway, watching the proceedings with a detached look that makes Leon even more angry. “What are you standing around for!” he lashes out. Then he reenters their room and signals the attendant. “One of your customers just harassed us, I hope your business won’t tolerate that.” He wants that man to pay for how he treated the prince. He hopes he gets banned from the store.

The attendant nods, and rushes out the door, shutting it behind her.

Now Leon is left simmering, with no outlet left for his outrage. He takes a deep breath, and tries to steady himself. It takes him a moment to realize the room is oddly quiet.

His mother and Junah are looking at him oddly.

“What?” he asks.

His mother comes up to him, and puts a gentle hand on his back. Her expression is soft but grim. “I know you were just trying to protect your friend, but that wasn’t a nice thing to say,” she tells him.

Now Leon is just confused. “What? What did I do?”

His mom’s grim look bleeds into confusion. But it’s Junah who speaks up first. “You seriously don’t know?” she asks, appalled.

“Know what?” Leon demands. He doesn’t like how the two of them are looking at him, and he was already upset. The lack of straight answers isn’t helping.

“You just said that calling the prince an elda is rude. That’s like. So racist,” Junah elaborates, giving him a look of disappointment.

“What, no it’s not!” Leon immediately protests. It’s not, right? Leon isn’t racist against elda, it’s just that mislabeling someone’s tribe is rude, is what he meant!

His mother offers, more kindly, “It would have been better if you could support your friend by saying there’s nothing wrong with an elda being here.”

“What, but, but–” Leon doesn’t understand why they’re both ganging up against him. “But he’s not an elda, though!”

This assertion is greeted by an overwhelming silence. Leon fears he might have made a grave mistake, even if he doesn’t understand how.

“Leon,” his mom says, grabbing his hand gently but firmly in her own, “His Highness is an elda.”

“What? No, he’s not,” protests Leon. “He’s a clemar. His father is a clemar.”

His mother shakes her head, and looks at him sadly. “And his mother is elda. That makes the prince an elda. The king has done his best to keep it a secret, for the prince’s protection. Some don’t take kindly to his heritage.” She squeezes Leon’s hand for emphasis as she says, “I need you to be better than those people.”

Of course Leon wouldn’t hate the prince for something like that! But he didn’t know!

“Wait,” says Leon, drawing his hand away from his mother’s to look squarely at Junah now. “If it’s a secret, how did you know?” Did she get told before him? Why is Leon always the last to know?

Junah looks at him. Flatly, she says, “I have eyes.”

Leon blusters a bit at the accusation. “I… so do I!” he argues.

“He doesn’t have horns,” Junah states, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s looking at Leon like she thinks he must be incredibly stupid to need this pointed out.

“I, some of my friends are insecure about their horn size! It seemed rude to draw attention to it!” Leon explains. Junah is clearly unmoved by this argument. He elaborates, “I thought they were just, being covered up by his hair. It’s-it’s fluffy!”

Leon feels so embarrassed. He can’t believe how much of a social faux pas he just made, all because no one told him anything!

Junah’s expression is positively scathing as she hisses out, “His hair is not that fluffy." She accentuates each final word with a poke against Leon’s chest.

“How do you know?” Leon challenges, desperate to recover his pride even a little. “Have you touched it?” Hah! Let’s see how she argues with that.

Junah bristles, looking offended now. “Have you seen my hair? I know a thing or two about hair volume! You want fluffy hair, let me lend him some products and you’ll see fluffy hair!”

“Children, please!” Leon’s mother interrupts, shouting. It’s only then that Leon realizes that he and Junah had raised their voices well above polite indoor volume. “Please. Calm down. Leon,” his mother says, crouching down and cradling his cheeks to better look him in the eyes, “Leon, I’m not mad at you, alright. This is my fault for not teaching you better. And I’m sure the prince will forgive you too, but you have to apologize, now that you know better. Can you do that for me?”

Leons nods. He can’t meet her gaze. He feels so ashamed. He would very much like to apologize because he never meant to hurt anyone! He was just trying to help! His eyes get wet, but he blinks them away. It would be childish to cry over this.

“Good,” says his mother. “And you know I love you, right? Very, very much?”

Leon nods again.

His mother gathers him into her arms, and holds him, and maybe he lets himself cry just a little against her chest, since no one can see. She rocks him back and forth, murmuring soft nothings. “You’re my baby boy, and I love you so much. Even when you put your foot in your mouth. You’re still so precious to me, and nothing could change that.”

Leon chokes back his tears, and pulls away, wiping his face in a motion he hopes is discreet. “I know, Mother. I love you too.”

His mother stands up. “Good. That’s what’s most important. We can practice your apology to His Highness now. It might help.”

Oh god, please no. “Do we have to?” he groans. He just wants them to drop this, please, he’s already mortified enough without them rubbing it in.

He looks at the door, which is still closed. The prince and his knight still aren’t back yet.

…He hopes they’re alright.

Chapter Text

The Prince doesn’t know where he is. He’s in some alleyway somewhere, with his back pressed against the hard wall. There’s no one around, which is the main thing. The Prince doesn’t want to see anyone, or be seen by anyone.

He’s still crying, even though there’s no one to see it. Even though he’s not really making a sound. He’s just, really really hurt. He thought Leon and him were friends. He wanted to be friends. But, but maybe they weren’t, really. Friends are supposed to accept you and understand you. Why couldn’t Leon understand?

This makes him sad, and the tears spring anew in full force. He hides his face in his knees. His pants are getting all gross and snotty. Russell will probably be upset.

Distantly, he hears Hulkenberg shouting for him. He should answer. She’s probably really worried.

…He doesn’t want to. She’ll take him back, and then he’ll have to face Leon again. The Prince isn’t ready for that.

He just stays there, until he can’t hear Hulkenberg anymore. He can still hear other people, though. He can hear the bustle of the festival where dozens, maybe hundreds of people are mingling. But the Prince isn’t allowed to, because he’s elda, and royal. He wishes he could visit the actual stalls, not just settle for what people tell him about and bring to him.

Sometimes he hates that he only gets to experience life through stories.

The Prince’s thoughts quiet, and his tears dry, as he focuses only on the distant sounds of the festival. So he’s extremely shocked when he hears a voice from right up near his ear.

“Your Highness, I found you!”

It’s not loud, but it’s so sudden that the Prince jumps, suddenly alert and alarmed. When he looks up, it’s not the face he was expecting. Instead of his red-headed guardian, he sees a softer pink. It’s Rella.

…She’ll probably make him go back, too. He starts crying again when thinks about it.

“Your Highness,” she says, “are you unharmed?” She looks over him fretfully. “Oh, your knees.”

The Prince looks at his knees. Oh. He had tripped at one point in his scramble, and scraped himself in the fall, but he hadn’t realized they had started bleeding after. His pants really are going to be ruined. Russell will be so disappointed.

“Oh, no, this won’t do. Hang on Your Highness, just one moment, don’t move,” she insists, and then scurries off. She’s probably going to go fetch Hulkenberg.

The Prince doesn’t really care. He’s too tired to move, anyways. He just wants to go home.

But when Rella comes back, she’s still alone. “Thankfully with the festival there were plenty of vendors. I just grabbed some soap and water. It’s nothing fancy, but it will help, I promise. That is, if I may…?” she trails off, hesitant. Her wings droop a little behind her.

The Prince doesn’t understand what she’s asking, so he just stares at her.

“Um. I know we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances,” Rella says, fidgeting nervously with her hands. She does in fact seem to be holding a flask of liquid and a bar of soap. “Well, that’s an understatement, obviously. But um, I’m not, I’m not usually like that. I mean. At school, I’m, I’m actually training to be a… a healer.” She says this quietly, as if it’s something shameful. The Prince doesn’t understand why. He thinks that’s pretty neat.

“So,” Rella continues, “it was awful, really, to try and use that magic to hurt someone. I hated it, and I never want to do that again. You have to believe me. I just, I just wanted to help people with my magic. I never should have agreed, no matter how that man threatened me. I would rather have died.”

The Prince is too tired to process all that. “...I’m glad you’re not dead,” he manages.

Rella gives a shaky laugh. “Thanks, me too. But um, my point. I had a point. My point is, I really am much better suited for healing magic. And. And I’d like to try to fix up your knees, if I could. I mean, I completely understand if you don’t trust me after all that, I wouldn’t trust me, I wouldn’t blame you if you never trusted magic again, but–” She cuts herself off abruptly. “Sorry, I’m babbling. I’m no good at this. Junah was always better with her words.”

The Prince stares at Rella. She stares back. She seems to be done talking, for the moment.

“...I trust you,” the Prince decides. “I’d like to see your healing magic.” Magic is neat. And seeing Rella sprawled out in the alley, in the light of day, wearing soft pastels, it makes it hard to find her very threatening.

Rella beams at him. “Thank you, Your Highness! First things first, I’m going to roll up your pant legs, alright? It’s important to get the fabric out of the way. We don’t want the wound to close with the cloth still inside.”

The Prince nods. He likes that she’s explaining what she’s doing, and why, before touching him.

Gently, she rolls up the cuff of each pant leg to just above the knee. When she pulls it off the knee, it tugs open the partially-formed scab. It hurts. The Prince winces.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” cries Rella. “I promise, that should be the most pain you feel during the whole treatment. You’re being really brave, okay?”

Which feels a little condescending. It’s just a small scrape, he’s not a baby. But it’s still nice to be called brave, so he smiles faintly despite himself.

“Good, now I’m going to rinse the wound with soap and water, to make sure no dirt got inside. You um, might get a little wet. Sorry.” Her apology is sheepish, but her hands are steady. She holds up a palm to the side to control the flow of water, and drips just enough from her flask to wet the whole wound. Hardly any water gets on the Prince’s clothes.

She applies the soap, next, and it barely stings at all. The Prince just watches her as she rinses the soap off thoroughly, then starts on his other knee.

“You’re really good at this,” he observes.

Rella blushes. “Thank you. I’ve been practicing, ever since I learned I have a talent for healing magic. My parents were very encouraging, and got me a medical tutor.” Her face briefly turns gloomy, before she shakes her head as if banishing some sad thought. “I haven’t had much real practice yet, though, so I’m glad to hear you approve.”

“Are you going to be a healer when you grow up?” the Prince asks, curious.

“I’d like to be,” answers Rella, “...if that’s still an option.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Rella looks at him, surprised. Then she laughs and shakes her head. “You’re much too kind, Your Highness. I don’t know how you can forget my sins so readily.”

The Prince shakes his head right back. “I didn’t forget,” he refutes. “But helping people is a good thing. You should always help people if you can. What you… almost, did to me… doesn’t change that.”

Rella nods, considering. “Should I consider this my atonement, then?”

The Prince frowns. “Does it have to be? I thought you were already planning to be a healer.”

“Well, yes, but…” Rella trails off. The Prince isn’t sure what she’s thinking, but he can tell that she’s really bothered about what happened. More bothered than him, even.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” says the Prince, simply. “It’s okay to do the things you want. Especially if they help people.”

Rella looks shocked. It’s like no one ever told her that before. Which is sad, because it’s a simple thing that he thinks should be pretty obvious.

“That’s… thank you, Your Highness.” Rella, stands up, just to offer a low bow, bending deep at the waist. “I. It’s hard for me to accept that, but. I will do my best to take your words of kindness to heart.” She straightens up. “Then, not as atonement, but out of my sincere gratitude, I will do my best to serve you and the people as a healer. …Once I finish my training.”

The Prince nods. That seems fair.

“Oh dear, I didn’t finish, you’re bleeding still! Why am I such a dunderhead? Here, I’ll finish right now.”

The Prince sits up eagerly. He expects her to grasp an igniter, but she doesn’t.

As if reading his thoughts, Rella explains, “There aren’t any igniters for healing magic. So you have to do it with formulas. I only know a few, so far, but the one for closing up small wounds is pretty basic.” She closes her eyes, and her hands start to glow. The Prince watches, amazed, as the wounds close up before his very eyes. After a few moments, they heal over completely, and then the scabs flake off entirely, leaving only smooth, unblemished skin.

Rella opens her eyes. “How’s that?” she asks.

The Prince moves his legs experimentally. “It’s all better!” he observes.

“Good,” says Rella, satisfied. She really looks happy, too. The Prince thinks she should definitely be a healer, since she seems so proud of her work.

She and Will have that in common, kind of. He wonders if people who help others are just happier people. He hopes he’ll get a chance to help others one day, too, so he can find out for himself.

She offers him a hand up, and he takes it. It feels a bit weird to be standing after such a long time.

“...I guess we should go back now,” the Prince admits, reluctantly.

“Are you worried?” asks Rella. The Prince nods. “You shouldn’t be. Leon is going to be so sorry, you’ll see. If I know my sister, she’ll have chewed his ear off about this. She doesn’t take kindly to racists.”

“Leon isn’t racist,” the Prince protests reflexively. Even if he’s not actually sure that’s true.

“Not for long, he won’t be, if he knows what’s good for him,” Rella mumbles, darkly. Then she smiles gently at the Prince and offers him a hand. The Prince doesn’t hesitate at all before taking it, and lets Rella lead him back to familiar ground.

—

Elsewhere, in the capital, in the depths of the king’s castle, Louis stalks the halls.

“How is he fairing?” Louis asks of the guard on duty. “Has he woken up?”

“Yes, sir,” the guard reports. “Not long ago.”

The answer is a tad redundant, as Louis can faintly hear the horrible man’s indignant cries even through the thick stone walls.

“Very well,” says Louis, his lips curling into a smile. “I wish to speak to him in private. Can you have all the prison guards step out? It won’t take too long, I assure you.”

Louis feels satisfaction curl in his stomach as the guard hastens to comply, not even questioning the command. His colleagues could never have imagined treating him this way when Louis first enrolled, too busy mocking the fresh blood, betting on how long he’d last. But thankfully, the army is a place where respect is earned by force, which is exactly the sort of system that favors Louis best.

Once the prison has been emptied of all witnesses, Louis turns to the guard and gives him an appreciative nod. “Thank you. And I trust that no matter what you might overhear, you won’t repeat a word, yes?”

The guard nods. Louis is happy to note there is a touch of fear in his eyes. Good. People should fear him. That just shows they have sense.

“In fact,” he adds, throwing the words flippantly behind him on his way down into the dungeons, “let’s just say I wasn’t even here.”

Louis doesn’t pause to see that the guard has understood him. He has more important things to look forward to. He can’t help the triumphant chuckle that escapes him and echoes hauntingly off the dungeon walls.

Chapter Text

Will is so tired. Not physically, really, that much Archetype use was hardly a workout. But he’s so emotionally drained. He’s drained not just by the events of today, but by his own anticipations and fears leading up to the event.

He’s so glad it’s over, now. He just wants to plop on his bed and not move until tomorrow.

Unfortunately, that’s not looking to be an option on the table.

The king has invited all of them – Will, Grius, and Batlin – to a private study. Will can hardly refuse. The inside of the study is empty, but there’s a servant standing watchfully outside.

To that servant, Will requests, “There’s a guest staying here, a Lady Joanna. Can you confirm she was unharmed by today’s events? Just, send a physician to look her over, please.”

The servant nods, so Will trusts that it will be handled. Will knows by now that the king’s personal servants are more than competent. He lets out a sigh. Joanna will be fine, he tells himself. He can check on her personally later. Hopefully after he’s had a chance to rest.

The king takes his seat at his desk and gestures for them to sit on the available armchairs. Will does, gratefully.

Looking up, he can see Batlin has done the same, but much more reluctantly. He sinks into the chair, wary and alert.

Grius remains standing, on guard by the door.

There’s a tense silence for a moment, before Batlin says, wryly, “This isn’t what I had in mind when you discussed handling the post-event press.” His body is held stiff, his brow furrowed.

The king remains impassive. “But you understand now why we needed you to handle it,” he says.

There’s naught but the faintest tremor of the king’s hands that so much as hints at the king’s earlier brush with death. Will isn’t sure how much the king is actually recovered, and how much he’s putting on a tough front. He wishes the king would dismiss them all and get some rest himself.

Batlin shakes his head, frowning. “What you are asking for is for me to side with you and make an enemy of the church. No, with that stunt at the auction, you’ve already made me an enemy of the church,” he says. It’s half accusation, half observation. “This puts a target on my back.”

The king returns the frown, nodding seriously. “We will provide proper compensation for the difficulty at hand. And your family would be taken care of. We’ll do what we can to keep them safe from any retribution – harbor them in the castle walls, if need be.”

The king looks at Batlin, expectant, and Batlin matches the gaze. Both are measuring the other, in some way. Will finds himself unconsciously holding his breath.

It’s Batlin who eventually breaks the contact. He wipes his hands over his face, massaging his temples near the base of his horns, and lets out a long sigh.

“How do you want me to handle this?” he asks, finally, looking back up at the king. “Because this is a mess, you get that?” The king nods, but Batlin hardly waits for the affirmation before continuing, “No, really, it’s a right mess. You just arrested the most influential church authority at the height of his popularity, without warning or evidence of wrongdoing. This makes you look like– look, let me be frank, it makes you look like a tyrant.”

Will bristles at that, because Batlin isn’t wrong, but this is exactly the kind of attitude that led to the king’s tragic end in Will’s future. “Better a tyrant than a figurehead,” he argues. “You saw how Forden treated the king. He’s been whittling away at the king’s political clout for decades. That’s not something you can come back from by playing nice.”

Batlin lets out another sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” He runs a hand through his short hair. “So what’s the game plan? What are we selling, and who are we selling it to?” The king looks confused by this wording, and Batlin elaborates, “The story. Who’s our audience, and what’s our angle?”

Will notes Batlin’s use of the word “our.” It seems that, however reluctantly, Batlin is firmly placing himself on their side. From what little Will knows of his Batlin’s late father, he believes they can trust in that loyalty.

The king offers, neutrally, “That’s what we hope you can help us determine. I admit I lack experience in swaying the heart of the public.” The king’s self-deprecation is wry, but not without basis.

Will contributes, “We need to get ahead of the narrative. Publish an exposé on Forden as soon as possible, to make the king’s actions tonight seem just.”

Batlin looks unimpressed. “An exposé takes time and research. Research I haven’t done, given that you all neglected to inform me of these details in advance.” His tone is even, but his words barbed. He’s rather gutsy, Will thinks, to be talking back to the king like this. Then again, this is a man who, in another life, did willingly publish an exposé on the church’s igniter experiments. That would take an abundance of guts.

Will looks at the king, who has had time to prepare.

“I have a list of Forden’s wrongdoings, both major and minor,” the king says. “However, he left very little evidence. Most of his actions were done through proxies which he could easily dispose of or disassociate from, should his crimes come to light. We do have a witness, though, as I mentioned. Although it’s preferable that she stay anonymous, for her safety.”

Batlin hums consideringly. “We could work that angle. One witness is nothing, but if we can find others that will speak against Forden, we could paint a story. Make him look like the villain.”

“He is a villain,” Will can’t help but grumble.

Batlin gives him a side-eye. “...Well, it’s hard to refute that. Considering all I saw today. He sure changed his tune after all the witnesses left.” A thought crosses Batlin’s face. “Actually, there was that one woman, at the end. She had Sanctist robes. Do you think she’d be willing to testify against Forden? It’d strengthen our case if we had a Sanctist endorsing us.”

Will had thought the same, but… “She’s only a sanctoress, and she doesn’t directly work for the church. She won’t have influence there.”

Batlin shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t need her to influence the church, we need her to influence the flock. A sanctoress is plenty on its own, and she’s also a pregnant woman. People will sympathize.” Batlin’s eyes light up. “We’ve got a pregnant woman, an underaged, anonymous witness, and you, the father of the young prince. That’s how we sell this. We paint Forden as a predator who has been using his position of power to abuse the younger generation.”

Will doesn’t love the idea of putting Joanna in that position. He wants her and her family to be safe, in this life. If she testifies, that could place her in more danger from Forden’s allies. “We can ask if she’s willing,” he concedes. “I don’t want to put her under more stress. Not when she’s so…” extremely pregnant “...far along.”

“Very well,” agrees the king. He then signals to Grius, who nods, and opens the door to convey the summons to the servant outside. Only a handful of minutes pass before Joanna arrives, being escorted by an ishkia man in practical-looking robes.

She bows respectfully to the king upon being admitted to the room. “Thank you for your most gracious hospitality, Your Majesty.”

The king shakes his head, gesturing her to sit. The servants had another armchair brought into the study, which Joanna sits on gingerly, with the assistance of her escort. The king speaks, “It’s been poor hospitality indeed. I am sorry to have put you in danger.”

Joanna shakes her head. “Not at all, thank you kindly for sending the physician to check on me. I feel very cared for. But, Your Majesty, I worry that with the royal physician being sent to me, there was no one to inspect your own injuries.” She looks at the king pointedly, concern furrowing her brow. “It would put my mind most at ease to know Your Majesty is well.”

There is steel in her eyes. Somehow, despite her having no real authority over the king or his staff, she manages to bully the king into consenting to a check-up right there on the spot.

The physician concludes that the king is experiencing some shock from today’s events, but will recover fully with rest. “Whoever tended to you, Your Majesty, did excellent work, but healing magic can only do so much. The mind and body need time to recover.”

Will only barely escapes getting a checkup himself, insisting that there’s no need as he wasn’t injured.

“You’re sure?” asks Joanna. “I will be very cross if you’re neglecting your health.”

“Very sure,” Will insists.

Joanna eyes him with suspicion before eventually conceding the point. “Even so,” she says, “it would be good to have a regular check-up now and again, since you have access to such a good doctor.”

Batlin has been using this time to review some papers the king shared with him, one of which Will recognizes as Rella’s anonymous testimony. After the physician finally excuses himself, Batlin clears his throat and turns towards Joanna. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Batlin, I work primarily as a crier, but I’m currently under contract with His Majesty.” Batlin extends a hand to Joanna.

Joanna takes it loosely, and shakes. “The pleasure is mine. I am Joanna Calendula of Martira.” She hesitates considerably before adding. “A sanctoress.”

“Well, my lady, I must admit I was witness to the events from earlier – I’m very glad you’re well, by the way,” says Batlin. “But you see, my contract now includes writing some coverage of today’s event, and I think it would be very compelling to include your first-hand account. Especially with you being a sanctoress.”

“You don’t have to!” Will rushes to interrupt. “If you don’t feel safe doing so.”

The king contributes, “It would be of great service in bringing Forden’s twisted nature to light.”

Joanna looks at them all. She doesn’t seem in the least bit shaken. If anything, she looks angry. To Will, she asks, “Is that offer from earlier still valid? The invitation to move into the castle, with Renard. It’s only, I think a change of location may actually be very good for my family indeed.”

Will can only nod. “Of course,” he says. But his pulse is racing with excitement because this means he can save them. All three of them – the mother, father, and child.

The king raises a brow at Will, and it occurs to Will that he hadn’t actually discussed this with His Majesty. He offers a pleading glance in return, which the king returns with the barest of nods.

“Then yes. I would be more than happy to speak publicly about how that man attempted to murder myself and my unborn child. I hope he rots in jail, where he can never hurt anyone again,” says Joanna. Her tone is surprisingly level and agreeable, in contrast to the vitriol of her words.

“Speaking of,” says Batlin, “what is your long-term plan for that? Because the longer you keep the Sanctifex in prison, the more dissent you risk from the nobility and the church. He has a lot of supporters who will riot to see him free. And I don’t mean that figuratively, we risk seeing actual riots outside the castle. I’d give it three days, tops.” He holds up three fingers as illustration.

The king nods. “We’ll be keeping a tight guard on him, and he won’t be allowed visitors or communication. The hope is that without his input, his political base will lack direction. Even better, the power vacuum in his absence could prompt infighting. If three days is the hard limit, then we release our exposé within two. We avoid dissent by shifting the blame to Forden, where it rightfully belongs.”

It warms Will’s heart to hear the king speak so confidently. He knows this boldness doesn’t come easily to His Majesty, which is what makes it all the more powerful to see him wield it now like a weapon.

Batlin shakes his head. “I reckon his supporters already know the worst of his deeds. They benefit from them, after all. Even if we do win over public opinion, that’s not going to prevent conflict. If anything, we risk triggering a civil war.”

The king looks grim at this pronouncement. Will feels similarly disheartened. He knew this would be a difficult political battle, but he hadn’t thought it could lead to war. How many lives would be lost if it came to that? Each life lost would be on Will’s conscience, in a way, as it was his intervention that led them on this path.

The king doesn’t look at Will though. He looks straight ahead, his shoulders set. He looks like he’s willing to shoulder those lives on his own conscience. He looks, Will thinks, every part a king. “I hope, with all my heart, that it does not come to that,” says the king solemnly. “But if that’s what it comes down to, then it’s a war I intend to win. I cannot let my son inherit a country ruled by that monster.”

This pronouncement is met by silence. Every person in the room seems to take a moment to realize exactly what they’ve signed up for, the scope of the battle yet ahead. But Will can see that everyone in the room – Grius, His Majesty, Joanna, even Batlin – they all look determined. Will thinks he likes their odds.

There’s a knock on the door, and then it opens without waiting for a response. In response, Grius pulls out his sword. “Who dares intrude on the king’s privacy without permission?”

“I must say, I’m hurt you didn’t invite me to your committee. I think I, of all people, should be consulted on how best to grind Forden’s name into the dirt. I have been detesting him for such a long time, after all. And I certainly know a thing or two about war,” says the interloper.

The king rises. “How long have you been eavesdropping. Why didn’t my manservant stop you?” he demands.

The interloper steps into the room. It’s Louis. But Will already knew that, from the moment he heard him speak. Behind Louis is the body of the servant, slumped to the ground. Will rises to his feet as well, alarmed, and goes to check on the body. He is relieved, when he crouches over the servant, to see his chest rising and falling. There are no visible injuries, either.

“Don’t worry, he’s fine. I only pricked him with a slumberthorn. I didn’t want him making a fuss,” says Louis with an insufferable smirk.

Slumberthorn… Will’s team never used it much, but he did carry some. As Louis said, it inflicts sleep on enemies but doesn’t harm them. Still, this counts as assault against the king’s servant, which is already a punishable offense.

“Anyways, I’m glad I stopped by, because I saved you all some trouble. As much as I love a good war, I doubt it will be necessary.”

Louis smirk widens impossibly more. His face shifts into something dark and cruel.

“You won’t need to worry about fighting Forden’s supporters, because Forden is dead.”

Chapter Text

Will isn’t sure he heard that right.

Forden, dead? Just like that? He’d just been arrested not long ago, and now he’s dead?

But one thing is for certain. “You killed him,” Will observes, flatly. There can be no question, really, not when Louis is looking every bit the cat who ate the canary.

Louis looks immensely pleased at Will’s observation. “I did indeed,” he confirms. “Or did I? That’s why we’re all here, yes? To spin a tale about Forden. Forden became violent when he resisted arrest, so he had to be killed for the safety of the public. Or perhaps he took his own life in prison, because the guilt of his crimes was unbearable.”

Louis lists the options casually, one by one, as he paces into the room. Everyone’s eyes are locked onto him, tense and wary. Grius maneuvers himself to be between Louis and the king, but makes no move to attack.

“I’m partial to the first, myself, as killing the wicked Sanctifex would be an excellent addition to my legend, but I’m in a good mood, so I’m feeling… flexible.” He curls the last word over his tongue, making it sound somehow like a threat.

The king growls. “You killed my prisoner, who I explicitly ordered to be detained. This is insubordination and treason. Tell me why I should not demand your head this very moment.”

Louis nods. He paces idly from the entrance to the far side of the room. Joanna is eyeing the door, looking like she might bolt. Will wouldn’t blame her.

“You could condemn me for this,” Louis agrees. “But if you stand against me, you’ll have more enemies to fight. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m quite popular as late. More so than Your Majesty, perhaps.” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air. “On the other hand, if Forden’s death was a tragic accident, I would happily add my own testimony to the pile. Of how that man burned my home, and killed my family. I imagine, coming from a hero to the people such as myself, this testimony will bear a good deal of weight.” He pauses his pacing to look evenly at the king. “The choice is yours. I don’t stand to lose, either way.”

Will is clenching his jaw so hard it’s actually painful. This insufferable child of a man. He commits a crime, and he has the audacity to claim that the king is the one who stands to suffer if Louis is punished? How, even at this age, is Louis so awful?

And Will hates himself too, just a little, for how relieved he feels to know that Forden is dead.

Forden was a monster, and he was never going to stop. Could they really have kept him locked up and harmless, or would he have found a way to spread his rot from inside the walls of his prison, spreading his influence like a toxic mold? Will doesn’t know.

The king mulls over Louis’s suggestion. He’d retaken his seat during Louis’s pacing, and now sits poised with his hands crossed under his chin. “You propose an alliance,” the king observes. “Your support in exchange for absolution.”

Will calls bullshit. “We had a deal, Louis. You already promised your support. You can’t use it now as a bargaining chip.”

Louis nods, “That we did. I’m not offering any kind of bargain. I’m simply describing cause…” He holds out his right hand palm up. Then he holds out his left hand, mirroring it. “...and effect. It would, after all, be very difficult to support you if I’m court martialed.” He crosses both his hands over his chest, looking on impassively. “So which will it be?” He smirks, like he already knows he’s won.

Everything in Will wants to deny Louis the satisfaction, and put him to jail as his crime deserves. To pardon Louis here would only reward him for his willful insubordination, and what’s to stop him from doing worse next time? But Will isn’t the king, not anymore, so he bites his tongue.

The king, King Hythlodaeus V, closes his eyes. A complicated emotion briefly flickers across his face, but when he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with resolve. “Very well. Forden’s death was indeed an unfortunate accident, and will not be investigated further. Batlin, as our resident expert, how best can we capitalize on this new development?”

It feels like losing. But beyond that petty, defiant spark in his heart, Will can admit that this has drastically increased their collective chance of victory. A victory without war or bloodshed, aside from Forden’s. This compromise is a small price to pay, in light of that.

Batlin looks wary. He was finally starting to relax, before, but this new development has him on guard again. “...I don’t condone dishonest journalism, as a rule,” he says. He glances to Louis, then back to the king. “...But I can see there are extenuating circumstances.” He bites his lip. Ever so reluctantly, he says, “It depends. Do we have anyone capable of forging his handwriting?”

—

Louis, apparently, can forge handwriting.

Will doesn’t know why he’s surprised, considering this was the man who crafted a fake identity and lied about his tribe for over a decade.

The king also happens to have several samples of documents with Forden’s writing and signature on them.

Joanna excuses herself very early in the proceedings, saying that Batlin can call on her later to take her statement when he’s ready for it. Batlin stays, and coordinates with Louis on the contents of Forden’s “suicide note.” Will isn’t contributing much. His presence feels almost superfluous, except that he refuses to leave Louis alone with the king and Grius. Not when Louis had killed them both, in another life.

The contents of the plan are largely unchanged, except that Louis’s testimony and Forden’s own falsified testimony will be added to the final press release.

“Won’t people be suspicious?” Will inquires anxiously, as Louis suggests another crime for Batlin to add into the draft of Forden’s confession.

“Oh, indubitably,” Louis answers casually. “Thankfully, he’s too dead to counter our claims. People will suspect, but they won’t be able to prove anything. And eventually our narrative, being the only one available, will be accepted as the truth. History is always written by the victors.”

Spoken like a true liar and conman. Alonzo would approve. Will does not.

But Will’s input was not asked for, so he mostly sulks in his seat as Batlin, Louis, and the king pore over their respective notes. It takes them hours to craft a letter they all agree on, but eventually they do. The king won’t permit Louis to take any confidential documents with him, so Louis has to complete the forgery right here in the king’s study.

Will quickly grows tired of sulking, and spends most of these hours reading books from the king’s shelves. A servant comes by with food and beverages, at some point, which means it’s likely near or past sundown. It’s hard to tell, as this room has no windows.

Eventually, the note is complete.

The king says to Louis, “You will be in charge of placing this note for discovery, since you seem adept at such matters.” To the room as whole, he says, “No one is to speak of Forden’s death. This information must remain confidential until such time as we release this exposé to the public.” To Louis, again, he adds, “I trust you can ensure the prison guards handle this with the appropriate discretion.”

“Naturally,” Louis agrees, radiating smugness like a pompous housecat. He struts out of the study as arrogantly as he barged in.

“It’s gotten late,” observes Batlin. “I’ll go home and work on the outline of the exposé, and draft up some interview questions. I’ll take everyone’s statements tomorrow. That should give me enough time to have them finalized and sent off to the printers by the morning after. It’ll require a few late nights, but we’ll have it done in two days, as Your Majesty requested.” He gathers his notes, and prepares to leave. Before he exits, he turns around, and says, “I will be demanding, twice, no, three times the agreed upon compensation, Your Majesty.”

“You shall have ten times the pay,” the king counters. “Just see that it’s done.”

Batlin nods, and sees himself out. Will observes that the servant that Louis incapacitated is awake and once again standing at attention by the door. He seems to be in good health, although his clothes are still slightly ruffled.

Now that the guests, invited or otherwise, have left, Will is ready to excuse himself and get some much needed rest. But the king stops him. Will turns to him, alert and a little wary.

“Will. In light of Forden’s… unexpected demise. I think it may be safe to bring my son home tomorrow. I’d also prefer him safely in the castle before the press release, in case there is far-reaching unrest.”

Will nods. That makes sense.

“I would like you to go and pick him up,” the king requests.

Will blinks, confused. “I thought we were just going to send a message to Hulkenberg when it was time to summon the prince home.”

The king nods. “And I will send it, so she knows to expect you. But I think it would be… a nice surprise, for my son to see you. He’s very fond of you, you know.”

Will knows.

And the feeling is mutual. As much as Will is glad the prince wasn’t here for all this, he’s rather missed the prince’s presence. Will hasn’t seen him in, what, four days now? That’s nearly half of the days he’s been in the past.

So it’s not really any great hardship for him to go pick the prince up from Halia, which is less than half a day’s journey by carriage. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” Hesitantly, he adds, “You’ll be alright here, without me?”

The king nods. “I have plenty of helpers. You needn’t burden yourself about it. Where you are needed most now is with my son.” He quirks a half-smile. “You are his royal aide, after all.”

Will returns the smile with a soft one of his own. “Yeah, I am.” A thought occurs to him. “Oh, about Lady Joanna– I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before, but can you–”

The king interrupts him. “I’ll send word to Martira that her Renard is to be escorted to the castle. I will ensure he is under heavy guard during the journey, since he’ll be travelling still when the news spreads.”

Will nods. “Thank you. …Batlin’s family as well, he has a wife and son.”

“I’ll ensure they’re guarded as well. I did give Batlin my word,” the king reassures. “You truly do worry about everyone, don’t you?”

Will laughs. “Pretty much,” he says. “If that’s all, I’ll take my leave. I’ll need to get an early start tomorrow if I’m heading to Halia.”

“I'll see a carriage is prepared for you. Go, take your rest.”

Will nods, and then once more moves to exit, but just as he’s almost out the door, he hears his name again.

“Will?” the king calls. Will turns back to look at the king, but the king says nothing for a long moment, so long that Will begins to doubt he’ll speak at all. Finally, the king just says, “We'll, talk later, yes?” It’s so hesitant, completely unlike his authoritative bearing he’s been employing all day.

Something about what the king is saying, or not saying, reminds Will that – oh right, he needs to explain the whole Archetype thing to the king. And possibly the other members of their anti-Forden squad. He’d honestly forgotten about that in light of… everything else.

He nods. “Later, yes.” But for now he’s going to go to bed, curl up with Gallica, and get some much needed rest.

Chapter Text

“I’m very sorry, Your Highness” repeats Leon. “I was an idiot. I had no idea you were an elda, but that’s no excuse, I should never have said that.”

“Hm. Better,” observes Junah. “Groveling is good. I liked the part where you call yourself an idiot.”

Leon has been ‘practicing’ his apology with Junah and his mother for the past half hour, but at this point he thinks Junah is just making fun of him.

“I think the sentiment is good,” approves his mother. “I can tell you really mean it. But be sure to talk about the prince’s feelings, too, not just your own.”

“Oh, that’s true!” agrees Junah. “Men always want to apologize for things without ever bothering to learn what they’re apologizing for.” Junah nods sagely, as if she’s said something truly profound.

Leon kinda wants to throw something at her. Surely a pillow wouldn’t hurt? Surely he could be allowed that much?

“What’s most important is that you make an effort to understand what the prince felt, and why he felt that way, and how you can be a better friend to him in the future,” his mother explains. “And that’s something you can only learn by asking.”

Leon nods. He’ll try, really. He just wants this to be over already.

He’s not quite ready to try for another apology, so he deflects by asking Junah, “Do you think your sister is alright? She still isn’t back yet.” Neither are the prince or his knight, but obviously the knight wouldn’t return without her liege. And Leon is trying very hard to not worry about the prince.

Junah, who is seated on one of the couches, brings her knees to her chest and holds them. It betrays a nervousness that Leon hasn’t seen from her since… well, since her and Rella first arrived at the estate, and after, when Rella wouldn’t come out of her room.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” says Junah after a moment. She straightens up and stretches out her legs and offers a bright smile, as if her earlier gloom never existed. “Rella is tougher than she looks. I think she just chased after His Highness because she was worried. She still really blames herself for… everything.”

“That’s understandable,” says Leon. Rella had apologized to the prince for trying to murder him, which had been alarming enough to even witness, so Rella herself must have felt much worse. Leon comforts himself with the thought that his apology can’t possibly go worse than hers did. “I’m sure they’re all fine. Halia is a very safe town.”

It’s also a very small town, so it’s weird that they’re not back yet. But Leon keeps that worry to himself.

“Okay. I think I’m ready to give it another shot,” says Leon, feeling determined. This, at least, is something constructive he can put his nervous energy into. “Your Highness, I’m very sorry for my words, and how they affected you. I never intended to hurt you, but I still did, and I feel awful about that–”

“His Highness has returned!” shouts the prince’s knight suddenly, as the woman violently throws open the door.

Leon jumps half out of his skin. He turns around to face the door, and indeed, there is the prince, and oh gosh there is blood on his clothes. His Highness spilt his royal blood and it was Leon’s fault, what if his family is hanged for this? How could Leon possibly make up for this with an apology? Perhaps if he swears a life-debt?

“Your Highness, I’m very sorry!” he says, bowing deeply at the waist until he’s facing the ground. “You got injured because of my thoughtless words!”

“His Highness is fine,” says a voice Leon recognizes as Rella’s. Oh good, she got back safely as well. Junah will be relieved. “It was just a scrape, and I’ve already healed his wounds. I couldn’t do anything about the stains, though.” A pause, then Rella adds, “I think there might be other things more worthy of an apology.”

Leon is still deep in his bow, but dares to look up from the floor by tilting his neck. The prince isn’t looking at Leon. He’s looking to the side, and holding his arm nervously. He looks sad. Leon made the prince sad.

Leon reluctantly pulls himself up out of the bow. Bowing won’t make this better.

All the practice that Leon did suddenly feels so rehearsed and insincere and insufficient. “I’m sorry, that I hurt you, by saying those things,” says Leon. And he’s not crying, he’s not allowed to cry about this, not when he was in the wrong. “I was trying to help, because I thought your horns were small, and I didn’t want you to feel insecure about it, but I didn’t realize you were an elda, which Junah says makes me an idiot. But, but I didn’t mean to say something hurtful to elda in general, that was an accident. I’ve never had an elda friend before, so I guess I don’t know what I should or shouldn’t say to not… to not be an ass. But I’d like to learn, if you’ll give me the chance.”

That was awful actually. Leon thinks all of his practice was useless after all. He just talked about himself the whole time, and was extremely ignoble, and he used the word ass in front of the prince, who is six, what if he hasn’t learned the word ‘ass’ yet? What if Leon taught the crown prince a bad word??

“...Are we still friends?” the prince asks, so quiet that Leon almost doesn’t hear him over his own spiraling thoughts.

Oh no. It’s worse than Leon thought. He ruined their friendship. “I know I have no right to be, after how I acted. But, I’d like to be. I mean. Eventually. If you’d let me.” Leon’s confidence wavers as he goes on, until he’s practically whispering at the end.

“Because I’m the prince?” His Highness asks, looking sad and knowing.

Rella has come inside already, and sat down next to her sister, but the prince is still standing in the doorway, half-hiding behind his knight. He doesn’t even want to be in the same room as Leon, it seems.

“No! I mean, yes, I don’t want to hurt the prince, but I didn’t want to hurt you either! I didn’t want to hurt any elda, I just grew up around only other clemars so I didn’t even realize what an ass I would be around other tribes! I’d really like to have an elda friend – no, that sounds condescending, I don’t mean that I want to be a friend with you because you’re an elda, it’s just – I’d like to be the kind of person that can be friends with elda, and nidia, and paripus, and not be a huge jerk about it. And. I enjoyed talking with you this week. A lot. So. I really don’t want to lose that just because I said one stupid, thoughtless thing I can’t take back. But, but I’ll understand, if you don’t want to give me another chance.” Oh no, Leon is crying now, this is shameful, where is his handkerchief? He can’t let His Highness see him with snot on his face. “I’m really sorry,” Leon adds, despondently, because he can’t even remember if he said that and it was the most important part.

“...Do you really not care that I’m an elda?” the prince asks. He seems. Sad. Hopeful. Suspicious.

Leon feels the lack of trust like a lance to his heart. “I care! I mean, no, I care that you’re an elda, in like, a good way! I want to support that! It seems like that would be. Hard. In our society.” Why is Leon such a moron, he’s saying all the wrong things. “And is it really fair to call you an elda when you’re like, a clemar-elda? How does that even work? I mean, it’d be fine if you were entirely an elda, too, it’s just, I was partially confused because your father is a clemar, and I’m a clemar because my parents are clemar, so I just assumed you were a clemar because of your father.”

Oh gosh who allowed Leon to keep talking. He sends his mother a look that he hopes conveys ‘please shove a sock in my mouth so I cannot tarnish our family’s honor further.’ She just offers him an encouraging smile in return, so she apparently didn’t get the message.

The prince peeks out a little bit further from behind his knight’s legs. “I guess I’m a half-clemar, technically?” the prince answers, shy but not quite as sad. “But I grew up in the elda forest with my mom. And I don’t have any horns. So everyone always referred to me as an elda. Which is a good thing, there, cause it means I was like everyone else. I didn’t even know my dad was a clemar until my mom died. …I was four.”

That is so awful. Leon’s heart aches for the little prince who lost his mom and didn’t even know his dad and was only a baby still. Also, Leon made the prince talk about his dead mom?! Leon was wrong, it seems like this apology might actually be going worse than Rella’s did.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” says Leon, inadequately. “I’m sure she was a great mom.”

“Yeah,” says the prince, who is finally looking Leon in the eye but is also crying now, oh no. “She was. She was really pretty and nice, and-and super good at magic. And she l-loved me.”

“She sounds great. I wish I could have met her,” says Leon. Then, nonsensically, he offers, “You can share my mom if you want. I mean, she’s not that great at magic, but she’s also pretty and nice, and loving, and she’s good at cooking.” Oh no, now it sounds like Leon is bragging and rubbing it in the prince’s face that he has an alive mom, why is Leon like this?!

The prince shakes his head. “That’s okay. Your mom seems really nice, but… my mom is my mom. I’m just. Happy to have a chance to talk about her. And the other elda, too. A lot of them died in the fire, and I miss them sometimes. A lot. I haven’t really seen any elda since I moved into the castle. Oh, except Will!” the prince says, perking up a bit at the mention of his possibly-made-up friend.

Wait no, did Leon assume Will was imaginary because Will was elda? Was Leon being that racist? Really, it makes perfect sense for an elda prince to have an elda friend and aide, and Leon was just being a total bigot about it. Thank gosh he didn’t voice those suspicions out loud!

Or no, actually, is it racist for Leon to conclude that an elda attendant makes sense only because he serves an elda prince? Surely other minority tribes can be attendants to majority ones – not that they should have to be in servile positions, because right here is an elda who’s going to be Leon’s boss and everyone’s boss one day, and that’s very progressive, isn’t it? Leon really needs to keep an open mind!

Leon resolves to believe everything the prince tells him about Will from now on, no matter how ridiculous. He thinks he’d rather embarrass himself by believing in his friend too much, than by failing to believe him when it was important.

…Assuming they’re still friends after this.

“That. That sounds really hard,” says Leon. “I don’t think I could bear it if I lost my friends and my mom and my village. I’m sure I couldn’t be half as strong as you’ve been about it.”

The prince shakes his head. “I’m not strong. I can’t protect anything.” He’s clenching his fists around the bottom hem of his shirt, tugging on it slightly. “It was years ago and I’m still so sad all the time. I-I know I need to grow up and move on so I can be king one day like my dad, but sometimes I just hate the castle so much. It’s dark and cramped and quiet. I-I like Halia a lot. There’s so many fields and there’s animals and trees and it reminds me a little bit of the elda forest, even if it’s not the same.” The prince spits this out all in a rush, like air being let out of a bag, even as he chokes over his tears. He wipes a hand across his face, and takes a deep, sniffly inhale through his snotty nose. “So I’d like to visit here again, sometime. If I get the chance.”

Does that mean…?

“We’d be glad to have you!” Leon rushes to assure. “Either as a guest, or, I mean, if you’re willing. We could hang out more, as friends. There’s tons of cool places on the estate I could show you.” Leon hopes he’s reading this correctly, and isn’t completely jumping the gun here.

The prince nods, which is a good sign. “Yeah. I’d like to stay friends with you. You, and Junah, and even Rella, you’re all really nice. I’m glad I got to go on an adventure and meet all of you.” The prince then starts crying again, making his earlier efforts to wipe his face entirely moot.

Junah pipes up, “Aw, I’d love to be friends with you, Prince. We both would, isn’t that right, Rella?” She gives her sister a look that seems to be conveying some kind of threat, if Rella doesn’t also agree.

Rella pokes her fingers together nervously. “I would also be honored to be His Highness’s friend. I will endeavor to be worthy of the honor.”

Junah pinches her sister in the arm, so hard it looks painful. “What she means,” says Junah, “is that she also thinks you’re nice, and would enjoy it if we hung out again. Right?”

“...If I am invited, I would of course happily join, but do not let my sister pressure you into inviting either her or myself if we are not welcome,” Rella says primly, and pinches Junah right back. Junah looks more offended than pained by the counterattack. It devolves into a mutual battle of poking and poke-backs, the rules of which Leon cannot deduce.

“Your Highness,” says the prince’s knight, as she kneels at the prince’s feet. “Who told you that you had to move on from your grief in order to grow up?” She asks this very seriously, and looks as if she might murder the person responsible.

The prince sniffles. “I dunno. No one? Maybe I read it somewhere.” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

“Well it’s not true,” says the knight. “In the order of knights, we are taught that it’s our honor and duty to carry the memory of the fallen with us, for the rest of our lives. You, Your Highness, are not a knight, so I would not expect you to honor this oath, but I believe that if you can carry the love for your mother, and for your people, with you, then you will grow into a fine king.”

The prince cries even harder at this, and Leon wonders at how many royal tears have been shed today. His knight pulls out a handkerchief and gently sops up the tears from the prince’s cheeks, holding him closely and stroking his back with her other hand. She makes soft, reassuring noises, like Leon’s mother did for him earlier.

It strikes Leon, in a different way than before, that the prince is a child. He’s not a paragon of noble virtue, even if he has the potential to be that someday. He’s young, and lonely, and much too small to handle the depth of his own hurt.

Leon hoped to be a friend who could see past the prince’s title. But he’s realizing that even beyond the title, there are many more layers to his new friend that Leon couldn’t see past. Layers that Leon is now seeing laid out bare and raw.

Leon thinks about all his friendships to this point. The boys around town he played kickball and climbed trees and wrestled with. They’ve always had fun, but they never talked – not about anything of substance. Leon never really bothered to ask about their circumstances. It suddenly strikes Leon that his idea of friendship might be rather… shallow.

…Leon thinks perhaps he hasn’t been a very good friend to the prince, so far.

“Um, is there anything I can do? To help make things easier for you?” Leon asks. Because even if he’s realized his inadequacy, he doesn’t know how to be better.

The knight’s ministrations have dried the prince’s tears once more, so the prince's expression is steady when he meets Leon’s eyes. “...I don’t want you to treat me any differently,” says the prince, quietly but with a layer of trepidation that breaks Leon’s heart.

“Consider it done, Your- Prince.” Because Leon would promise just about anything to make the prince stop looking so sad. “I will treat you just as I did this morning. …Excepting that I will try to be less ignorant in the future.” The promise feels inadequate somehow. “Although,” he adds hesitantly, “would it be alright if I asked you more about the elda, later?”

Because Leon doesn’t want to treat the prince differently, but he also doesn’t want to stay the same ignorant fool he was this morning.

The prince bobs his head. “I’d like that, I think. Um. I don’t remember a lot. But maybe if we talk it’ll help me remember more.”

That is so heartbreaking, Leon cannot take this.

Leon can hear the faint sounds of drumming in the distance, and he jumps at the chance for a distraction. “Oh, I think the performances are starting soon,” observes Leon. Then he remembers the prince has been crying and bleeding, and maybe wouldn’t be in the mood to watch a live performance after all that.

The prince’s knight, who is still kneeling by His Highness with kerchief at the ready, asks the prince, “Would you like to stay and watch the performances? Or would you rather go home and get some rest?”

The prince looks down at himself. “I ruined my clothes. We were supposed to get new clothes,” he observes morosely.

“The clothes aren’t important, Your Highness. But I can see if the boutique has anything ready in your size, if you’re uncomfortable.”

The prince nods, and the knight says something to an attendant. The attendant returns a few minutes later with a comfortable, if plain, pair of pants, and a warm mug of milk sweetened with honey. The pants, when His Highness changes into them, fit so well that Leon suspects the staff may have sewn them just now to his measurements. It’s kind of impressive.

The prince sips at his milk. Eventually, he says, “I’d like to watch a few performances, if that’s okay. We can see them from here, right?”

The attendant obligingly moves one of the tables over closer to the windows, and positions some chairs there for easy view of the street. She props open the windows so it’s easier to hear the music and revelry. The prince’s knight insists on providing His Highness a blanket, to ward against the breeze, even though it’s summer and not cold outside at all.

The prince looks on with interest for the first few musical performances, and applauds a juggler with great enthusiasm, but eventually his energy fades, until at one point Leon turns to check and finds the prince snoring softly.

The prince’s knight holds a finger up to her mouth, hushing the room, and moves to pick up the small prince, blanket and all. “We’ll be heading back first,” says the knight softly. “You all can take your time with the festivities.” The attendant holds open the door so the knight can keep both her arms around the prince as they depart.

After the prince and his knight leave, Leon’s mother turns to him. “You did well,” she says.

“I completely forgot everything we practiced,” denies Leon, even if he is a little proud of how things turned out in the end.

“You spoke from the heart. That’s what’s most important,” his mother counters.

“Wait, you practiced that when we were gone?” Rella clarifies, and she’s laughing at him.

“His initial attempts were so much worse, you should have heard them,” says Junah, and then she proceeds to tell Rella about them, like a traitor.

That does it. Leon goes to the couch. He grabs a pillow. He swings it at Junah’s face.

Things quickly devolve into retaliatory pillow violence after that, with Rella and Junah teaming up against him, but given Junah stops telling embarrassing stories about him, Leon still considers this a win.

They don’t stay very long after that, but for as short as their outing was, it’s still by far the most memorable festival experience Leon has ever had in Halia.