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Chapter Text

Still here in this quiet room
Deep in delusion sending me over
Outside watch the world go by
Inside time stands still

The prince lay in his large canopy bed, silken blankets spread about him. His mouth was agape and he snored quietly, golden  curls spilling over his forehead. By the bedside sat a beautiful girl, with corn silk blonde hair and honey-colored eyes. She looked encouragingly at his father, a stern-looking man, and gave him a small smile, but his brow only furrowed deeper.

The girl bent over the sleeping prince and wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth, then laid her lips against his, not quite sure what to expect. Silvery fog surrounding them, a mysterious breeze lifting them into the air, spinning them around until the prince was awake again? Perhaps he would just flutter open his eyes and sit up, grinning like a fool. She pulled away, expectant.

Nothing happened.

Her chest tightened and she swallowed. "Agatha?" The king boomed from his place in the doorway. "I thought you said it would work."

"I- it will, your majesty. Just give it time. I'm sure... I'm sure it will." But her voice was small and her cheeks were flushed. No response. Agatha felt the dread growing in her gut. "I'll try again, your highness. You'll see," she said sheepishly. She kissed him once more, with a greater vigor and higher hopes. The prince failed to stir.

Agatha ran through the week's events in her head. Why wasn't this working? True love's kiss. The curse had specifically said true love's kiss. They were betrothed, for Merlin's sake, why the hell wasn't he waking up?

It hit her like a ton of bricks to the chest. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, your highness, I can't." Ignoring the bewildered look on the king's face, Agatha did what she knew she had to do- she ran.

I don't love him.

-

The news spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom and the rest of the country. Just whispers here and there, as the subject was a bit taboo (most rumors are). No one could quite get the story straight. It was known that the engagement between Agatha and Prince Simon was off, which was shocking enough. The two had been betrothed since the birth of the prince, when the duke's daughter (who had just passed her first birthday and was already the most stunning girl in the kingdom) had been taken to the Queen Lucy's funeral. "Such a tragedy," people kept saying. "That she'll never know her own beautiful boy." And he was beautiful. That was an indisputable fact.

Little Agatha had her normally stick-straight hair curled in ringlets, and she wore a long pink frock with lace sleeves. Everyone had commented on her beauty that night at the funeral, which had been made into quite a grand affair, and it had spread enough that the king himself came to look at her. Soon after, the deal was made and the baby Prince was set to marry Agatha on his eighteenth birthday, when he would inherit the throne. Sometimes, things just don't work out the way we think they should.

-

"Davy, I'm not sure about this." Lucy tugged on the ends of her hair. "Isn't it going to be dangerous?"

"Nonsense," Davy waved his hand dismissively. "I've talked to every court physician and magician we have. They've all agreed that it's a good idea. Don't you want your child to be the most powerful ruler he can be?"

Lucy clenched her fists and pursed her lips. "Of- of course. It's just-"

"Don't worry, darling," Davy smiled down at her. "It's all in your best interest." He knocked on the gnarled wooden door three times, sharp and loud, and they waited. Lucy put her hand over her swollen belly. The handle began to turn, and she winced.

The spell was only supposed to help the child. Give him or her everything needed to excel on the throne- great beauty, immense charm, irresistible charisma, striking intelligence. But something was botched, and Lucy knew it the second the withered old wizard began casting. His one milky, blind eye began to shine and the words sounded wrong, all wrong, and she began shaking and crying, grasping for her throat. All the air in her body felt like it was being sucked out through her pores, her stomach churned and her lips trembled. She heard Davy call out from somewhere that seemed very far away, and then she heard nothing at all.

A baby began crying. Prince Simon was near-flawless from the beginning. Inimitable.

But he had an expiration date.

-

"I won't have this!" King Davy roared. The small courtier cowered. "I want letters sent as far and as wide as we can get them, I want every eligible maiden here to try and awaken the prince. He must wake up before his eighteenth birthday!" He slammed his scepter down on the floor, and the courtier shook. "Every messenger is to leave at dawn today, and in one months' time, we'll hold a ball for every girl in the kingdom. Surely one of them must be his true love."

"Y-yes sir," the courtier replied, and began to walk away.

"Wait!" The courtier froze in his tracks. "You've heard of the Pitch boy, correct?" The courtier nodded. "In the meantime, before the ball, call him in."

Chapter Text

The outfit they'd stuffed him in was itchy and uncomfortable, and it was far too short in the trousers, so he kept feeling like he needed to pull the ankles down. He knew he looked good, though, posh even, which was both a happy memory and a terrifying flashback. He hadn't worn clothes this nice since the fire. He looked so nice, in fact, that when the king came out to see him, he'd had to introduce himself (humbly, of course. King Davy had been known to be quite cruel at times). Davy had been looking for a peasant, and what he found looked like something entirely different.

"Basilton Pitch, your highness," he bowed before the king, his dark hair spilling over his forehead. He tried to hide the tremor in his hands.

"I've heard, Mr. Pitch, that you're a fantastic magician and doctor. Renowned, even. Is that true?" Davy's words held a biting edge, and Baz hesitated before answering.

"That's what people say, your grace."

"And are you skilled in dealing with curses?"

"Depends on the type of curse, I suppose." Baz bit at the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit.

"Sleeping curses?" The king was fully glaring at him now. Baz felt like he was trembling in his boots, but he held his ground as best he could.

"Yes, your highness, those are quite common, especially in-" he stopped in his tracks. "You mean to say that the rumors are true? About Prince Simon?"

The king's stare intensified. His eyes were ice-blue, and they looked mean. Baz felt sorry for his servants. "Show him to the prince's room," he motioned to one of the attendees, who took Baz by the arm and began to lead him out. "And Mr. Pitch?" Baz looked back over his shoulder at the king.

"Yes, your majesty?"

"I've heard other things about you, as well, and about your romantic escapades. My son isn't... like you. If you try anything with him, the outcome won't be pretty."

Humiliation colored Baz's cheeks a deep rose. He nodded and turned back to the attendant, shuffling out of the room as quickly as possible.

-

For all intents and purposes, the prince could have been dead. Though when he'd first fallen asleep, he had looked bright and youthful like always, now the color was beginning to drain from his cheeks, and his usually golden skin had a pallor that suggested a far worse sickness lying beneath the surface. The first thing Baz did was check for a pulse, which to his relief, he found quickly. His heart was beating steadily and strong, and now that he looked closer, Baz could see the faint movement of breath under the heavy quilts.

He reached his hand to Prince Simon's forehead to check for a fever, but he was actually quite cold, his face covered in clammy sweat. His curls were limp and his pink mouth seemed too brightly colored for the rest of him. "He seems to be in good health," Baz said to the servant. "But he's too thin, and he's dehydrated. He needs to eat and drink. It would probably be easiest to sit him up and see if he'll swallow things when we put them in his mouth." The servant scrambled to help Baz prop the prince against the backboard. His head lolled to the side. "Go get some water, at least," Baz told the servant, who rushed off eagerly.

There was no doubt that all the stories about the prince were true. Even in his death-like sleep, he was one of the most beautiful boys Baz had ever seen. His hair was made of messy bronze curls that reflected light like precious metals. His skin was smooth and creamy, dotted with freckles and dark moles. He was tall and broad shouldered and had round, full lips that were parted slightly to reveal obnoxiously straight teeth. Baz resisted the urge to reach out and tuck his unkempt curls behind one ear. It was easy to imagine a lazy smile playing along those lips, and bright eyes (he'd heard they were blue) dancing with mirth.

Breathless, the servant ran in with a pitcher of water. Baz carefully tipped the prince's head back and poured a bit of water into his mouth. A bit dribbled down his cheek, but when Baz shut his mouth for him, he swallowed. Baz breathed a sigh of relief- he could drink, at least, which was a good sign. As long as he wasn't asleep for too long, he should be fine. "I'll need to know the details of the curse, of course," Baz said to the servant after a quarter of the pitcher was gone. The servant looked uneasy.

"I'm not sure it's really my place," he wheedled.

"Look at me," Baz said quietly, drawing himself up to his full height. The servant glanced up at him in fear. "If there's any hope of me saving the prince, I'm going to be made aware of every detail, no matter how small, pointless, or secretive. Unless, of course, you'd rather he dies. In which case, I can leave right now."

"N-no, no, I'll go inform the king."

-

Baz sat, tense and uncomfortable, at the long mahogany table. It wasn't quite large enough to be used as a dining table, and it was too low to the ground for his long legs to fit underneath without being cramped. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the wood, waiting for the king to arrive.

The room was obviously used for meetings. It was sparsely furnished, with only a few simple tapestries hanging on the walls, clean and simplistic. In the corner was an easel-type stand with a pad of parchment paper on it and an inkwell in a small stand beside it, presumably for note-taking. There were no windows (privacy and all), but an oil lamp hung on the wall, emitting an incense-like smell and giving the room an eerie glow.

The door swung open and the king entered, looking harsh and untouchable as always. "You requested to see me?" He asked, gesturing to his servants to leave. Making sure the door was shut tight, he sat down across from Baz.

"Yes, your highness. I thought you would be the most appropriate person to talk to about the details off the case with the prince."

"And what details will you be needing?" A slight edge gathered in King Davy's voice. Unease, Baz wondered? Or simply hesitation?

"Everything possible, your majesty," Baz replied in a firm tone. "Whatever ails Prince Simon, it's not to be taken lightly."

King Davy sighed heavily. "Very well. But just know, Mr. Pitch, that there are dire consequences if any of this is to leak to the public. I can make your death look like an unfortunate accident." A shiver ran down Baz's spine.

-

"You killed her! You bastard!" Davy struck the old wizard across the face, his wrinkled skin swelling up and purpling on contact. His teeth were bared, his breathing heavy. "I'll kill you, I swear to Merlin I'll have you killed!"

"If you'll simply wait-" the wizard began, but the his words were drowned with another blow from the fuming king.

"Do you know who I am? Do you know how easily I can ruin your insignificant life? Bring her back this very instant, or I'll-"

"Your highness, if you'll just listen-"

"I won't listen to a word that comes from that grimy mouth of yours, you pathetic old numpty!" Davy spat. He swung once more, but the old wizard caught his wrist with incredible agility. Shock ran across Davy's face and was replaced instantaneously with fear as the old wizard opened his mouth and began to speak. His voice was clearly thick with magic, and his eyes blazed with a thousand-year-old fire that struck Davy to the core.

"Listen here, and listen well," the wizard began, tightening his grip on Davy's forearm.
"Not even royalty can escape my spell
Your cruelty and rage has sparked my own
And through these words my revenge is won
A lovely wife you now will lose
Whom you would have had with a moment's pause
A beautiful son is yours to keep
Until a spindle puts him to sleep
On the sixteenth day of his sixteenth year
A death-like sleep, his greatest fear
Will come to be, and then you'll see
The true meaning of misery
His light will be forever missed
Unless he's awakened by true love's kiss."

The wizard's grip on Davy's arm slackened, and then he was gone.

Chapter Text

I wanna sleep next to you
But that's all I wanna do right now
And I wanna come home to you
But home is just a room full of my safest sounds
'Cause you know that I can't trust myself with my three A.M. shadow
I'd rather fuel a fantasy than deal with this alone

Baz didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until the story was over and he let it out in an awestruck hiss through pursed lips. "Wow," he murmured. "And that's all true?"

"Of course it's true," the king responded indignantly. "Now, can you help my son, or not?"

"I'm afraid that's still yet to be seen," Baz said, scratching at the back of his neck. "I'll have to examine him more carefully to see what can be done."

"If you must. I'll arrange for Prince Simon to be moved to a double room, where you can stay with him for the duration of your visit. But remember, Mr. Pitch. I have eyes everywhere."

Baz swallowed, guilt rising up his throat like bile for no reason at all, and averted his eyes from King Davy's intense stare.

-

And so the days persisted, one after the other, seeming to blend together until Baz could hardly tell what was day and what was night anymore. He'd pored over his spell books and his medicine books alike, casting healing spell after healing spell on the poor, sleeping prince for hours at a time. To no avail, of course. Prince Simon was just as deep in sleep as he had been on the day of Baz's arrival.

It was unusually cold one night, the chill of winter creeping through the old stone walls of the castle, and Baz couldn't sleep. He heard Simon's childlike snores coming from the other bed. They seemed to be calling him, he mused. Baz thought that the listless whistles sounded like music, and without even realizing it, he was padding across the floor, quilt in hand, shuddering at the freezing sensation of the floor on his feet. He clambered noisily into bed with Simon, spread the extra quilt over both of them, and tried once more to sleep.

That was when it happened. For the first time since he'd been struck asleep (or at least for the first time since Baz had arrived), Simon moved of his own volition. The slumbering boy turned over from his position on his side to face Baz, and placed a hand on Baz's chest. Heat suddenly radiated from the prince, who had been so death-like and cold just at dinner time. Confusion clouded Baz's mind. In the dim glow of the single candle lit beside the bed, he could just make out the silhouette of Simon's face- and he was rosy cheeked. Even his curls seemed livelier. Baz was startled.

Soon, however, the warmth of Prince Simon's body and the gentle rise-and-fall of his breathing, along with the smell of clover that seemed to be emanating from his honey-colored curls, began to lull Baz to sleep. His mind steadied, and he succumbed.

-

He awoke in a panic, sunlight streaming through the opening between the heavy purple curtains that adorned the window. Baz flung the covers from himself and untangled his body from Simon's, running to his own bed and practically flinging himself into it. He tried to calm his heart rate and breathing, but it was of no use- mere minutes later, a knock came at the door. It was his wake up call, and he'd come just shy of being tossed from the castle with his head departed from his body.

"Mr. Pitch, time to come down to breakfast!" It was a familiar voice, that irritating little serving girl, Philippa. She was constantly fawning over him, exaggerating her movements and laughing a little too hard at things he said. He'd heard she was like that with everyone, but it was off-putting nonetheless.

"Be down in a moment," Baz said, still a bit groggy. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, then took his clothes into the privy. He considered washing up, but decided just to splash his face with some water instead. Careful not to get them wet, he took off his night clothes (the king had made sure he was supplied with a few outfits, not great by royal standards but still very nice compared to Baz's usual apparel) and set them in the corner.

He reached for the clothes he'd brought to change into, but stopped short, his hand hovering just above them. In the mirror he saw someone he didn't immediately recognize, and it took him a moment to realize that it was himself. The past few weeks in the comfort of the castle had filled his gaunt cheeks, and it was with great wonder that he realized he could no longer count his ribs, just see the outline of his ribcage. His skin, normally reddened from the long hours in the sun and lack of protective clothing, had softened into a deep, iridescent brown with golden hints as the light hit it. His eyes looked more green than grey, and his tall frame no longer made him look stretched out and sickly- instead he seemed lofty and defined, strong even. Rather than hanging limply, his hair looked silky and lustrous like ravens' feathers. It had grown and now touched his shoulders, where his collarbones were no longer so prominent, and the beginnings of musculature were forming underneath the skin. A memory itched just beneath the surface of conscious thought, and he reached out a knobby, long-fingered hand and touched the glass of the mirror.

It was hot from the glare of the sun, and he jumped back as though he'd been badly burned, throwing on his clothes and shaking his head. This place is making me look like my mother.

-

Baz retrieved his breakfast from downstairs and hurried back up to his room. He'd tried eating in the dining hall once, but he didn't quite fit in anywhere. He wasn't nearly the status of any of the aristocratic types he saw staring at him with barely concealed disdain, but he wasn't a servant, either. He was middle ground, different, and these people didn't appreciate different.

Baz was used to people who didn't appreciate different.

He almost wasn't able to make it to the room before the tears started falling. Abandoning his tea and biscuit, he curled up on the floor and tried to staunch the sobs. He couldn't stop thinking about his mother. She'd been so beautiful, so regal and graceful and loving. Even in her last moments she had stood tall and poignant as the flames licked up her long legs and danced in her hair. "Go, Basil, go far from here," she'd cried, and he ran as far and as fast as his legs could take him before his lungs felt as hot as the air inside the mansion as it'd been torn apart by fire and he'd collapsed.

He had never gone back.

Perhaps his father was still alive, he didn't know, but surely his mother was dead. He'd watched her fall into the ashes, and then become them. They'd floated into the sky, those bits and pieces of her, as he sat in the stagnant heat, trying (failing) not to cry.

A sharp intake of breath startled Baz from his stupor, and he turned to find the prince thrashing about on the bed. It looked as though he was plagued by nightmares. Sweat trickled down his forehead and stuck his curls to it. Baz wiped his eyes and cast a quick Good Night, Sleep Tight, and Prince Simon calmed a bit. Still, a pained expression was clear on his face, and without really thinking about it, Baz was over in a second with the prince's head in his lap, combing his curls back from his forehead and whispering nonsensical words of comfort to him, though he knew Simon wouldn't hear.

It worked miraculously well- within minutes, the prince was sweetly sleeping again, his puerile dreaminess replacing the terror he'd shown before. Baz looked down on the prince, whose pink mouth clutched onto a tiny smile, and had to suppress a scream.

He was in love.

Chapter Text

The revelation came as a surprise to Baz. He'd taken every precaution to prevent this from happening, yet he knew somewhere deep down that it was inevitable. Just the beauty of the prince upon first seeing him was enough to practically stun Baz into silence, and he could only imagine that his personality would make him fall even deeper. But it was an impossible match, Baz knew. So he shoved it somewhere in some pocket of his brain and turned the key, and never opened it.

Except at night. When the castle was still and the only sounds were Prince Simon's small snores and the rustling of servants hurrying about downstairs, Baz would sneak into the other boy's bed. Sometimes he would just sit at the edge, watching him. Simon always looked so calm, and Baz wondered if it was such a bad thing (eternal sleep, that is). Other times, Baz would clamber into the bed and pull the covers up to his chin and try not to inhale too deeply when the prince buried his face in the crook of Baz's neck and his curls tickled Baz's nose. He would ignore the steady pattern that the prince's idle hands would draw on his chest, circles and lines and sometimes, it seemed, words in big, cursive scrawl. He slept better those nights than he had any night since his mother died.

Work was still tireless, and with the ball fast approaching, it was not just him but everyone in the castle who was scurrying about busily. The great hall where Baz had first met the king had been transformed from a vast, dreary place into a fantastic ballroom. Alight with lanterns and strewn with rich red and deep violet cloth, golden chandeliers adorning the ceiling, the room had changed to a drastic degree.

Baz knew that the ball was only a ploy to find the prince's true love and wake him up, but he couldn't help be excited. The air was thick with tangible anticipation, and it rubbed off on Baz, who decided he would rather go to the ball and have at least one night of leisurely fun than sit in Prince Simon's room as gorgeous girl after gorgeous girl filtered through and tried to win his love. It would be a torturous affair, to be with Simon when it happened. Instead, Baz figured, he would go downstairs. He would drink and dance and have a fine time, because he was sure he'd never have Simon again after that day. (Not that he'd really had him in the first place).

-

It had been dark for so long, Simon thought he'd never see light again.

He was numb all over. He couldn't shiver when he was cold (and he was so cold). He couldn't scream when he was afraid (and he was so afraid). It felt like he'd been here for all of eternity, in this hell of nothingness. He wondered if he was dead.

He felt the ghost of a pair of familiar lips brush against his once, Agatha's, but the dim light he'd seen was hardly enough to break through the thick darkness, let alone pull him from it. And then he couldn't cry when he was alone (and he was so alone).

Until he wasn't.

After what could have been minutes or weeks or lifetimes, he felt the veil beginning to lift.

It was his fault, that boy. Simon thought he had must have dreamed him up to quench his loneliness. After all, Simon was sure he'd never opened his eyes while witnessing him. He was so perfect, he could only be a dream. Stick-thin and immensely tall, with ebony hair, grey eyes, and dark skin, he looked almost macabre. He would sit near Simon and sometimes talk to him, but Simon could never speak back.

Simon didn't know if he was dreaming or if it was reality, but he decided he didn't care when the dark haired boy slithered into bed next to him and the light he saw was small but nearly blinding. If he was dreaming, he would never want to wake up, as long as he could have this boy.

He felt as though he could have died when he realized- if he did wake up, he'd never have him again (not that he'd really had him in the first place).

-

"Raise your arms above your head, dear," the plump old woman said, fingering her tape measure. "I have to measure your waist now." Baz blushed, humiliation at being so exposed not just in front of the tailor woman, but in front of Simon (asleep in the bed) permeating his bare skin. He hoped she didn't sense the slight tremor in his hands.

"So skinny," she tisked, giving Baz a disapproving look. "You need to eat more, love." Baz blushed harder.

"S'not my fault," he mumbled, casting a glance at Simon, who had just shifted around contentedly. Baz felt an overwhelming urge to cover himself up.

"Of course not, of course not." She ran the tape measure from his foot to his hipbone and marked some figure down in her little book. "I'm thinking a nice deep green would look amazing on you. What do you think?"

"Sounds fine to me, thank you." Baz was already pulling on a shirt.

"Bring out those lovely eyes of yours," she smiled. "It'll be here just in time for the ball." Baz gulped.

"Perfect."

-

If he could have, Simon would have laughed. This was the most peculiar thing he'd ever witnessed. Dream Boy (what else was he to call him?) was getting measured, presumably for a suit. Simon had never seen someone look so uncomfortable in his life. The boy's cheeks burned with shame as he stood there in nothing but his knickers, arms above his head. Simon couldn't help but notice how his ribs poked out when his arms were extended. He was very thin, and looked even thinner with his clothes off.

When the tailor had mentioned a green suit, Simon felt his heart skip a beat. He could picture Dream Boy decked out in a deep emerald number, tailored in to show off his trim waist and long, long legs, perhaps with his shiny black hair tied back in a matching ribbon on the nape of his neck. He imagined dancing in the starlight with the boy, one of his elegant eyebrows arched at Simon because face it, he wasn't much of a dancer. It was a good thought.

-

The day of the ball dragged on for what seemed like twice its actual length. The ball started at midday, and there was so much to do, so many last minute touches, and it was Baz's job to make the prince look his very best for all of his possible brides-to-be. He tried his best not to wretch at the thought.

Baz surprised himself, in that he had a touch for fashion. He stripped Prince Simon of his bedclothes, leaving his undergarments on, and tried not to look at his bare, tawny chest. With great difficulty, he clad the prince in a stunning light grey suit with a navy blue undershirt, and at the last second hung a golden bangle around his neck that brought out the golden tones in his hair and skin. His hair. What on earth was Baz going to do with his hair?! He tried combing it and styling it and wetting it down, but nothing seemed to work. It still stuck out in wild sprigs from his head, unruly and dense. It was permanent bed head. Baz wondered if it'd been this way before he'd spent weeks in bed.

Baz sat on the edge of the bed, fussing with Simon's curls, but nothing would make them stay flat. He sighed. He was just going to have to give up on that part- perhaps the crown he was to wear would cover most of the chaos. One of the longer strands fell down across Simon's forehead and Baz reached over to brush it behind his ear, suddenly gasping at the close proximity. His face was mere centimeters from Simon's. He could practically taste his breath, an unidentifiable sweetness mingling with stale morning breath (though it was late afternoon). Baz had never found the smell of morning breath more appetizing. Their noses were touching now, and he could have sworn he felt Simon's hand twitch up to meet his, even though that was impossible. Simon's breath quickened and Baz saw his eyes moving frantically beneath the lids, darting back and forth in a crazy, nonsensical pattern. He would only have to tilt his face down a bit and their lips would be touching. Half an inch, tops. Simon was shivering beneath Baz's gentle fingertips. It was almost like he was awake, he was waking up, all Baz had to do was kiss him and he would-

Baz jumped back, and the prince went limp again. He could hear his heartbeat, blood rushing inside his ears like waves, and he mentally slapped himself. How could he be so stupid? So stupid as to almost kiss the prince in the first place, surely, but how could he be so stupid as to think the prince would wake up with the kiss? It was an absurd notion. And so what if he'd felt Simon stirring beneath him? The weight of Baz's body would disturb any sleeping person, no doubt. It had nothing to do with love. Baz was simply an idiot, blinded for love of Prince Simon, who now laid still in the lavish bed, looking like some sort of Greek god come down to earth.

Baz decided he liked Simon's hair better messy, anyway.

From his vantage point at the window, Baz saw the first carriage pull up to the castle's gates. He could just catch a glimpse of a lovely girl in a pinkish dress through the window of the thing. He sighed. "The prince is ready," he called down the hall to anyone who could hear as he made his way to the ballroom, coming quite close to forgetting his hair ribbon. He dashed back for it at the last second and tied his hair up. He didn't see Simon smile sleepily at the sight as he left the room, more awake than he'd been in a month.

Chapter Text

You are surrounding all my surroundings
Sounding down the mountain range of my left-side brain
You are surrounding all my surroundings
Twisting the kaleidoscope behind both of my eyes
And I'll be holding onto you

The lights were dim and music was rising in waves from some unseen orchestra behind well-placed curtains. Baz thought perhaps the sound came from somewhere above, and he glanced up, but was greeted only with high, white ceilings. He took a deep breath and fiddled with the collar of his suit. It was scratching him, so he popped it up. Walking past one of the many windows, he caught sight of himself and gasped. His hair looked sleek and posh. The suit was a lovely color on him, as promised, and the popped collar gave him a little bit of extra edge, an air of cockiness he wanted to hold onto. The room was sparsely populated, and he was one of the only people in it, but he knew that with a thousand people there, he'd still be the best looking man. Not in a vain way- in fact, the thought shocked him, and he tried to shake it from his head. He stared into the mirror, steadying himself against the constant flow of people now at the door.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost," a pretty young girl with a ridiculous amount of hair cascading down her back in frighteningly long, ginger waves said, examining Baz's widened eyes. "I'm Elspeth." She held out her hand for a shake. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch," he mumbled absently, kissing her hand out of pure habit. She giggled.

"I do so like your suit." Her voice had a strange, foreign lilt to it. Baz wondered vaguely if she was from some other country. He found he couldn't make himself focus on the details of her face without wanting to yawn, and he felt a bit bad about it. Still, he tried to keep his face impassive.

"Thank you," he replied with a bob of his head. He felt his ribbon loosen, but didn't bother tightening it again.

"Would you care to dance?" Elspeth asked, a blush rising to her cheeks. Baz stared a minute before the words hit him. He shrugged, uncaring, and then nodded. Why not. He took her by the hand and led her onto the dance floor, trying to ignore the abundance of ogling eyes.

"You know," she said, leaning in. Her tone implied gossip. "All my friends wanted to ask you to dance. But I was the only one brave enough to do it. They all said you looked too posh to dance with any of us. Are you a prince?"

Baz was stunned. "No, I'm not."

"Surely you must be!" Elspeth seemed shocked. Baz shook his head, intrigued for a moment by something he saw out of the corner of his eye. A recognizable princess, Trixie, her dark hair piled atop her head, dancing with some other girl quite intimately. Both their eyes gleamed, and Baz held back a chuckle. He resisted the urge to give her a salute. She was bolder than him already.

"Oh, don't bother with them," Elspeth said dismissively, following his gaze. "I'm sure they'll up and marry each other."

"If that's what they'd like to do," Baz said, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. He felt his cheeks burn with shame.

"You can't mean that!" She protested, but the song was over. Bas shrugged. "Again?" Her tone was hopeful. Baz explained that he had something to attend to, ignoring her crestfallen face, and sauntered off to clear his mind.

Why had no one cared how openly Trixie was dancing with her partner? It was obvious that they were more than just friends. He recalled the desperate clench of fingers on Trixie's waist, frilly fabric gathering in folds between them, and the adoring smile playing on Trixie's own lips. They'd gotten a few coy glances, but other than that, no one seemed to care. And Trixie was high up in royal standings, too! She'd be next in line for some kind of throne after her older sister. Why wasn't she held to the same standards as Prince Simon? Why was the prince in such need of a female companion if Trixie wasn't being forced to attend the ball with a male suitor? Were they all just in denial about Trixie's true feelings? But no, there had to at least be rumors. Elspeth had said so.

Anger curled in his stomach like a knot, and he worked the strings to try and get it out. He seemed only able to pull it tighter. Was it because they were girls, and Simon was a boy? Not just a boy, a man- capable of making his own decisions. How come it was so wrong if his decisions merited ruling with another king by his side? But Baz was getting ahead of himself. Simon was, after all, straight, as far as he knew. Any rumor otherwise he would have heard, he was certain, and he'd heard no such thing.

Baz tried to go back out to the main part of the ball, but the pretty music seemed headache inducing, the high ceilings dizzying, the sparkling dresses blinding. Even the handsome men and the good food seemed rather unappealing. He didn't realize he was headed to his and Simon's room until he was at the door. He wondered if he should knock, then decided he didn't need to.

What he saw did not make him feel any better.

-

This was all wrong, all wrong, Simon decided. This wasn't his Dream Boy, for sure. The lips on his own were too full and too soft, the hand cupping the side of his face to small. Hair fluttered onto his face and reeked of strawberries. Dream Boy smelled distinctly like cedar and bergamot, with a hint of woodsmoke. And this kiss was too eager, too inexperienced, yet too rehearsed. He wasn't at all disappointed when the kisser retreated.

This had been happening all night. Unfamiliar people all kissing him, intrusive and alien. He disliked it. It had been a little while since he admitted to himself, a bit reluctantly, that Dream Boy was the only one he'd like to be kissing.

And just like that, here he was. Simon's heart soared somewhere near his throat, and he fought not to choke on it. Was it possible that Dream Boy would be among the kissers? He held his breath with anticipation.

-

It was like their minds worked in synch. Baz needed an excuse to clear the room, and Simon gave him one. "Everyone out," he shouted, shoving aside the disheveled and greatly disappointed girl, as well as the shocked overseer. "He's not breathing. Let me take care of this, I'm a doctor." The room was vacated quickly, but for a lone courtier, who asked if Baz wanted him to send for more help.

It was almost like Simon's voice was telling Baz no, a soft whisper in his ear. "No need. This is standard protocol, just leave me to it and he'll be fine." The courtier nodded, unconvinced, but left.

Everything was still. Time seemed to have ceased, and silence hung in the air like it had been draped there on purpose. Baz felt himself holding his breath as well, just as Simon exhaled. He had to try this, if only once. He had to at least see what would happen, confirm what he already knew- that Simon wouldn't, couldn't possibly wake up. Baz didn't know much, but he knew one thing at this moment- there was no alternative. If he didn't kiss the golden boy, his insides would burst into flames.

It was no use either way, because he melted anyway when he leaned his forehead against Prince Simon's and the prince let out a happy little sigh. Shaky, ever so shaky, Baz brushed his fingertips against the prince's face, letting himself trace the moles from the corner of his nose to his jaw to his earlobe and his neck. Simon shuddered. Goosebumps trailed his arms and legs. Baz kept his one finger moving steadily, up and down his constellation-path, as he got a bit closer. Their noses touched now.

Simon seemed to be trembling, though he didn't so much as move. Perhaps the entire world was simply trembling with the weight of what Baz was about to do. He placed his other hand on one of Simon's broad shoulders and rubbed against the fabric of his dark blue top. It was gorgeous, as deep as the night sky. Baz imagined that was exactly what Simon's eyes would look like- deep and mysterious and romantic, with twinkling lights hidden behind them for the people he trusted to see them.

Baz inhaled, deep, catching the apples-and-sweat scent of Simon's hair. Even his lungs felt unsure and tense. The air he sucked down was made of desire. His lips quivered. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it, he just couldn't make himself-

Simon jutted up his chin.

Done in one's sleep, it would be an innocent gesture. A tick, a twitch, an inconsequential bit of nothing.

It had to be an accident.

Simon couldn't have wanted their lips to be touching now.

Certainly he didn't intend for it to happen.

It didn't matter now, anyway, whether he'd done it on purpose or not. Because it had happened. It was still happening. Simon's lips were soft as butter, Baz's hard like ice. They molded into each other like two separate pieces of the same broken thing. It was a moment Baz could have held onto forever- perfect, unchanging, immutable. Brilliant.

And then he felt Simon's hand clutching at his hair- and the moment broke open and spilled.

Chapter Text

Baz jumped back, eyes wide as saucers and grey as rainstorms. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt the words bubbling up before he could stop them, like fizz out the top of a champagne bottle. "I'm so sorry, Your Highness," he stumbled backwards and caught himself on the bedside table. He noticed his hands were trembling wildly. It's okay, he thought. At least I'm still upright.

Simon looked even more attractive than he had before, propped up on his elbows with his light eyebrows furrowed and a question forming on his lips. He looked flushed, and Baz could see the slight confusion in his eyes. Simon blinked, dazed, and he looked like a child woken unexpectedly from a nap. "I-" He scratched the back of his head. His voice was creaky and scratchy from disuse. "I thought I made you up, but... I'm awake now aren't I?"

Nodding, Baz turned for the door. "I really ought to-"

"No!" Simon insisted, sitting up quickly. Too quickly. He steadied himself against the bedframe, then reached for Baz's coattail, first brushing against the soft fabric with his fingertips, then grabbing onto it. He gave Baz a slight pull towards him. "Please don't leave. You made me feel like I can breathe again. I'm awake..." he trailed off. "I'm awake because of you, yeah?" His speech was less formal than Baz had expected, what with his status. Even Baz had been instructed on how to speak when he was young, when his family was often invited to cotillions and balls and meetings at grand castles.

"I think so," Baz said. 

"Then you must be my-" The realization hit Simon like a ton of bricks to the chest. He sucked in a harsh breath. Cedar and bergamot, and something sweeter, he thought. It wasn't unpleasant at all. For the first time in a long time, Simon smiled. The muscles in his face felt rusty. "It all makes sense, now."

"What all makes sense?" Baz was wary. Simon still clutched his suit coat in his hand, and now he gave an urgent yank. Baz lurched back towards the bed, and Simon let go of his coat and grabbed his hand, so light Baz wasn't sure if it was really happening. His fingers traced secret words on the inside of Baz's palm, sending spidery shivers crawling down sigh.

"Everything," Simon breathed, gripping Baz's hand tighter. "Can you pull back the curtains? I want to see the sunshine."

"I can't." Baz's voice was laced with guilt. Simon had been asleep for over a month, and all he wanted was to see the sun. "Someone might see us."

"No one will see us through that window, you dolt," Simon laughed. "Didn't they tell you it was a personal balcony? It leads to my garden. No one else goes in there." His tone dimmed a bit. "I suppose my flowers will have died, then."

"Are you sure no one can see? Even if we go in the garden?"

"Of course."

"Then let's go check."

"Check what?"

"On your flowers, you dolt." And then, Baz smiled, and Simon felt like he was burning from the inside out.

-

It was official. This garden was the prettiest thing Baz had ever seen.

Ivy climbed four intricate white posts framing the space. Around the actual garden, hundreds of small, moss-covered stones were arranged in swirling patterns, forming a barrier but also a walkway through the beautiful flowers. Rosebushes spilled over the sides of the stones, untrimmed. Their thorns, Baz supposed, would act as protection from critters trying to break through, and their height and thickness would act as protection from spying eyes. Inside, the garden was messy and unkempt, but gorgeous. Hundreds of types of flowers crowded the small space, making the walkway so narrow that they had to walk one in front of the other. It was an assault of color on the eyes, with blues as deep as the oceans and as bright as the sky, oranges and reds and yellows that formed a haphazard fire scattered through, blinding whites, entrancing purples, reds so lush and lusty that Baz felt blood rush to his cheeks. "Is it always like this," he asked Simon. "Or do you usually tend to it, to make it neater?"

"Oh, it's always like this," Simon said. "I can never pick just a few types of flowers and make it all organized-like. I just like to scatter the seeds and let them do what they do. It's prettier that way." In the center of the courtyard was a plain wooden bench, and Simon pushed gently past Baz and sat on it. He seemed to be soaking up the sunshine. No- he seemed to be part of it, birthed from it, shimmering right along with it. It lit his hair on fire, a golden-bronze halo around his head, and now that he was awake, his skin was free of the sickly pallor he'd had when Baz had first arrived. His skin was tawny and gold, and his eyes were white-hot burning blue, and his fingers danced a rhythm only they knew against his thigh. "Come sit," he beckoned. Baz obliged.

No, Baz thought. Simon is the prettiest thing I've ever seen.

-

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each admiring the other. In the bright light, the sun gleamed off Baz's silky hair, giving it a bluish tint like raven feathers. "You look like you should be the prince, of the two of us," Simon said sheepishly, breaking the quiet. "A dark prince, sitting with your legs thrown over the side of a posh chair, with a crown hanging off the side of your head as if you don't care if it falls off and a cigarette in your teeth. You look like you should command armies of warlocks and a raven should perch on your shoulder and tell you the dirty secrets of the kingdom." 

"Is that so?" Baz asked, but Simon wasn't done.

"Or you could be a nymph, a water nymph. With your hair flowing you like black fire. You'd live down at the bottom of the sea and swim up to lure pretty sailors to their death. Then maybe you'd eat them. I don't know. You look like danger personified. You look like trouble." Simon paused and looked at his bare feet, studying them a little too intensely. "You look like mine."

Baz cupped the side of Simon's shining face. "That's all I'd ever want to be."

-

They came up from the kiss breathing too quickly and blinking too much, Baz still trembling with every touch. Okay. Still standing. Still breathing.

"We have to get out of here, you know," Simon whispered. "Soon."

"And how do you expect us to do that?"

"I have a friend," he said. "If she still comes around anymore, she'll help us. But we'll need to last until nighttime in there, and the ball is still going on, isn't it?"

"I know how to take care of that," Baz responded. "But come dark, we'll have to go, and quick."

Chapter Text

"How are your acting skills?" Baz asked worriedly, fussing over Simon's hair and dabbing white powder on his cheeks to take away the sun he'd gotten in the garden.

"Passable," Simon replied. "But if I have to act like I'm sleeping, you can't do anything cute. I'll smile."

"If you're sleeping, then your eyes are closed. So I can do all the cute things I want," Baz said. "Just lie with your face covered or hair over it or something. And keep your breathing even. I'll be right back." Hopefully. Or it will take the rest of the night. Baz unlocked the door of the room and opened it a crack, peering out into the dim hallway. No one was there. He sighed in relief, then shut the door behind him. When he came to the staircase, he went down them two at a time, long legs easily making the stretch even taking into account the grandiose size of the stairs. The ball still went on downstairs, he could hear the music, but every servant he was passing looked worried. One of them tried to stop to speak to him, an older, blonde woman with sharp cheekbones and grimy, blonde hair.

"How is the prince?" she said cautiously, as if Baz would reprimand her.

"He's doing better, now. Where would I find the king? I need to talk to him."

"Somewhere in the ballroom, I would assume. Would it- would it be okay for me to go and visit him?"

"The king?"

"No, the prince. I used to be his nanny, you see. He was such a charming baby..." her sad blue eyes looked even sadder for a moment. Baz wouldn't have thought it possible. They looked about to overflow (Maybe that's what tears were- when your eyes were just too full of sadness, and they overflowed). "It's a pity, the curse. I don't know why anyone would want to hurt such a boy. He's really only a boy, not a man like they make him up to be." She was talking more to herself now. "He looks even younger than you in those fancy suits and garments. He's really not made for them. When he was little, I'd dress him in commoner's clothes, and he'd shine brighter through those than through any velvet cape they'd ever force him into."

Baz wasn't sure what to say. "Um," he mumbled, caught off guard. "I'm sure no one would mind if you went up for a bit. But only a few minutes. And keep quiet, he's not in peak condition at the moment. What's your name?"

"I'm Ebb," she replied.

"I'm-"

"We all know who you are, Basilton Pitch. And we all know who you used to be, too." She gave his shoulder an awkward pat, and with that she was gone.

I must just reek 'motherless child', Baz mused. Every woman over twenty-five fawns over me. He knew it was true, to an extent. But what he hated more than the attention was the fact that he liked it. He liked it when the butcher's wife hugged him and she smelled like fennel seeds and freshly baked bread. He liked when the rich lady in the fur coat came into town sometimes, to his apothecary shop (which was probably now in ruins in the hands of Dev and Niall, he thought) to get herbs and such for her elderly husband and threw him some extra cash, ruffling his hair and calling him her 'darling boy'. And he liked just now, Ebb, her touch still lingering on his shoulder. For a second he imagined a life with Ebb as his mother (though she wasn't quite old enough to actually be his mother- just old enough to not not be). It would be full of tears, certainly, and praise, and low expectations, but not in a bad way- more of in a you-couldn't-possibly-do-anything-to-make-me-love-you-any-less way. It would be nice.

-

There was a slight problem. The door was locked, and Ebb didn't have a key.

Knowing it was futile, she knocked softly. No answer. Of course there was no answer. She felt the tears welling up again. She hadn't seen Simon since even before the curse struck him, while they were laying out all the plans and preparations to prevent it, or at the very least render it useless the day it struck. Ebb had known that Agatha wouldn't be the one to break the curse. How much could you love someone who'd been picked out for you, anyway? Not very much at all if you were headstrong Simon, who wouldn't even let his assistants pick out a shirt for him if their first selection wasn't something he liked. 

She felt incredibly stupid, standing here with her knuckles pressed into the door, and she felt like she came up here for a reason. Even if she couldn't see Simon, she could still talk to him, right? There was no one in the hallway. No one was allowed up here. It wasn't an express rule, but it went unspoken. She could probably get in trouble, but she didn't much care. What would all the ladies of the castle do if she was fired? Take care of their own children? She chuckled a little at the thought.

"Simon?" She called through the heavy door. "I know you can't hear me, or at least you can't answer. It's Ebb." A pause. What to say, what to say? "It's awful dreary around here without you. Seems like the sun doesn't shine as bright. 'Course, it could just be because it's coming up on fall."

Ebb ran her fingers over the carvings of the door. "It makes me sad that you missed most of the summer, when I think about how much you love it. And you'll probably miss the rest, because if I know you, none of them girls downstairs are gonna do it. And I want you to know that it's okay, to be different. Not to want the things everyone else wants for you."

The door swung open.

-

"Your Majesty, the ball will have to be extended until tomorrow. The prince simply isn't up for it."

"What, exactly, is wrong?" The king asked haughtily. 

Baz spouted off nonsensical medical jargon, hoping the king had no clue what he was talking about. "His cerebral artery has ruptured, and there's a clot blocking the airway. That's why he wasn't breathing. He's better now, but he still needs at least twelve hours of rest before he should be jostled about by over-eager girls." Cerebral artery. Clot in the airway. It almost pained him, to see how the king believed it.

"Very well. I can find lodging for the remaining girls and their families. But by midday tomorrow, we've no choice but to finish it up." Baz waited to be dismissed. "Well? Go care for him. I'll talk to the families."

That had been far less painful than expected. Baz held back a triumphant smile. That gave them until midday tomorrow to be out of here- to be where? To be doing what? Where would they go that they wouldn't be found, that they wouldn't be practically burnt at the stake just for being together? Where would they go that their presence wouldn't come back to the castle. Suddenly, Baz's triumph morphed into something barely lighter than despair. This would never work. It had been doomed from the start.

He had already resolved to tell Simon when he tried the handle absentmindedly, and to his surprise, it was unlocked. His heart beat faster. No. Simon had gone out, he'd gone out and now everything would be ruined, they'd both be in exile or worse, hanged-

At the foot of Simon's bed sat Ebb. Baz had forgotten, when he'd seen her, that the door was locked. Simon was propped against the bedside, smiling and talking to her. "Oh, hello-" he stopped, then tilted his head to the side. "You know, if you're going to be my true love and all that, I probably ought to know your name."

Baz gave a pointed glance towards Ebb, then slammed the door behind him and locked it. "You aren't jealous are you?" Simon laughed at the preposterous idea. "Ebb is my nanny- she's like my mom. Closest thing I've got, anyway. I was just telling her all about you. Isn't he handsome?"

"How can you be so lighthearted?" Baz didn't know why he was fuming. The shock on Simon's face was almost enough to make him stop right there and envelop him in another mind-bending kiss, so he didn't have to think about anything else. Almost, but not quite. "There is no way this will work! There's no alternate universe, no situation in which this-" he gestured between them. "Would have worked! This wasn't the way it was supposed to go!"

"Then how was it supposed to go?" Simon's voice was small. He wouldn't look Baz in the eye. Ebb shifted nervously.

"I don't know!" Baz roared, sliding his back down the wall and curling up, head in hands. "I was supposed to kiss you and you weren't supposed to wake up, and then I was supposed to know that you weren't my true love and it was all a stupid fantasy and then, you were supposed to get woken up by some floozy in a shiny dress and become happy prince and princess and have lots of little babies with curly hair and stupid, stupidly blue eyes. And I was supposed to go back to my apothecary shop and rot away there. Alone." He stopped. "If you're alone, you have nothing to lose. This was all meant to be a pipe dream."

Simon shifted his head ever-so-slightly, but Ebb took the hint. She hugged him and stole from the room. Simon stood.

"I don't want to marry a princess and have lots of little babies."

"Then what do you want to do?" Baz threw his hands up in exasperation.

"This," Simon replied, and stood on his tiptoes, kissing Baz sweetly. "Only this."

Chapter Text

When you hold yourself to me

I think I'll go down in flames

Wouldn't ask you to join me

'Cause that would be insane, if you could warm your hands

Yeah and stake out your place right here next to me

"Baz," he whispered against Simon's ear. They laid on the bed, calm and bordering on sleep, as the blue of the sky outside softened into grey. Simon glanced up, eyes cloudy with confusion.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Baz," Baz repeated. "My name is Baz."

"Baz," Simon replied, so quietly Baz could barely hear it. He hooked his fingers into the pocket of Baz's undershirt and left them there, drum-beating on his chest. Simon's hands never stayed still. There were always tapping or snapping or wiggling or fussing with something. "You like it?"

"Do I like my name?" Baz said. It wasn't a question he'd ever been asked before.

"Yeah, do you like it?"

Baz thought for a second before he answered. Did he? He wasn't sure. "Yes and no."

"Why?"

"Crowley, you ask a lot of questions," Baz laughed. "But I'll tell you, if you really want to know."

"Of course I want to know," Simon replied, shifting so he was facing Baz. His face was so close to Baz's that when his curls spilled messily over his forehead, they tickled Baz around the edges of his face. He tried not to swat them away.

"See, what I like about my name is the last part of it."

"Which would be?"

"Pitch. I dare you to go ten minutes without asking anyone a question."

"I don't think I could. I would implode."

"Why do you ask so many questions?"

"Because I want to know things," Simon said. It was a simple answer, raw and full of truth, and Baz thought he was done. But he continued. "If I didn't ask questions, no one would care whether I knew things or not. I'm the prince. I do what they tell me to do. I wear the clothes they tell me to wear and attend the balls they tell me to attend and end up with the princess they tell me to marry. They couldn't care less if I knew why. So if I don't ask, I'll never know." Simon paused and kissed Baz gently on the cheek. Baz closed his eyes. "But I'm not going to do what they tell me to do this time."

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“That’s an easy answer. Whatever I want.” A smile played around the edges of Simon’s lips.

“And what do you want, exactly?”

“To run away with you, of course, and be happy boyfriends.” Baz laughed, twining a single curl of Simon’s around his pointer finger.

“You can run away with me any time you want.”

“Glad to hear it.” Simon glanced out the window, curtains now widely ajar. The yellow light of the day was fading into a shimmery orange as the sun sank below the horizon. “My friend will be here soon. If she’s going to come at all.”

“Who’s your friend?” Baz asked, a hint of jealousy creeping into his voice.

“You’ll see,” Simon teased. Then he knit his eyebrows together, thinking. “We ought to pack, and plan, and figure things out, but I’ve never been very good at that.”

Baz nodded. “If we can make it back to my apothecary, I have some money and some things that might be useful.” He paused. “Surely you have money here, though, being the prince. Your family is ungodly wealthy.”

Simon laughed, but not his usual lighthearted, bubbly laugh. Instead it was a mean, short chuckle, almost like a snort, and his face darkened. “True,” he began, his mouth tightening in anger. “But I have no control over any of our money. Most of it is tied up in business and estate and stuff. I don’t even know how much we have, or what to do with it, and my coronation is in a few months.”

Baz gulped and squeezed Simon’s hand. “Was,” he corrected him softly.

“Huh?”

“Your coronation was in a few months, love. You must know you can’t be crowned if you disappear.”

“Oh,” Simon said. He looked like he’d just been smacked in the face. “I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way. Oh.”

“You….” Baz started, but trailed off. “You don’t have to go through with this, if you don’t want to. I’m not going to make you feel obligated to anything. After all, we just met. It wouldn’t be fair, to hold you to something like that.” Simon shook his head vehemently.

“I want to go with you, Baz. More than I can tell. It’s just… this is everything I’ve ever known. I’m not used to taking care of myself. As selfish as it sounds, after a lifetime of having servants waiting on your hand and foot, normal things seem difficult.”

“Like what?”

“Like waking up in the morning and dressing yourself. Planning and figuring when all your life you’ve been told your brain is your least useful asset. Making your own choices. That was never highly recommended to me.”

Baz let out a dry sigh. “Simon,” he said. “Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it. For you.”

“No!” Simon cried, pulling away from Baz’s tight embrace. “I didn’t mean that. I’m not a helpless little baby who needs someone else to do everything for me.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s alright to need help sometimes. It’s alright not to be so strong. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. Not to be okay.”

Simon looked out the window at the ever-dimmer light. The sun wasn’t even visible anymore, and the world outside looked matte grey and quiet. “She’s probably coming right now. We need to get ready.”

-

All of Simon’s clothes were too extravagant for traveling. Gold-trimmed vests and intricately sewn pants and jackets with sleeves puffed up twice the size of Simon’s own forearm. “You can wear some of mine,” Baz had suggested, but that idea had died quickly when Simon pointed out the size difference- Simon was several inches shorter and wider than baz. Nothing would fit.

They ended up taking mostly nightclothes for Simon, sturdily enough made that they would hold up well and cover him fine during the day, anyway. They brought some of the fancier stuff (mostly the gold things) for sale along the way, in case they ever ran out of money, which was likely, and Simon had a small change purse filled with coins. The only money he had in his possession, truth be told, but plenty to get by comfortably for a few weeks.

“But where are we going?” Baz asked worriedly, sitting on the bench in the garden and watching Simon swing his legs, since they didn’t touch the ground unless he pointed his toes. The moonlight streamed in, hitting Simon’s face at a different angle, making it look blue and wrong. Baz didn’t like it. It seemed ominous.

“Penny- I mean, my friend- will help us out with that. I’m sure we can stay with her for as long as we want, and then after that, we can go wherever. As far away as we want. Different countries, even. Different continents.” Simon, on the other hand, was thrilled at the way the night illuminated Baz. He looked beautiful, a mischievous, unexpected beauty. Silver was his domain, not gold, and his grey eyes flickered, smoldered, whites shocking against the rich brown of his skin. He was all angles, sharp jaw and a point of a nose and a harsh, jabbing smile.

“Alright, Simon?” Baz asked, waving his elegant fingers in front of his eyes. Simon blinked.

“Um,” he said. A blush rose to his cheeks. He hoped Baz couldn’t see it in the dark. “You- you.” His words were failing him. They tended to do that. “I just want. Just want you to know that you’re-”

“I”m what?” Baz asked, catching Simon’s hands and running his thumb along the smooth back of it.

“Beautiful. Baz Pitch, you’re beautiful. Don’t- don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.” There were tears on his cheeks and he didn’t know why.

Beautiful. Simon thought it was the best word in the English language. Some might say overused, but he disagreed. It could be used so many different ways and you could say it about so many things and mean it, truly mean it. Beautiful was a word that was accessible to everyone.

“I’m nothing compared to you, love,” Baz whispered. Simon almost thought it was the wind. Haunting words, though not remarkable.

There was a lot of silence, and Simon got the feeling that wouldn’t go away soon. Speaking exhausted him, finding ways to articulate his words drained him. He liked this- Baz doing most of the talking, and appreciating Simon’s words when he chose to speak. Hand-holding. Long, meaningful stares. It was a great change of pace, coming from the lightning speed castle where everyone wanted to know what was on his mind as soon as it was (and it had to be the right thing on his mind- never his own thoughts).

There was a rustle in the rosebushes, and something huge began to push itself through. Simon clapped his hands together and stood up, a huge grin on his face. “Penny, Penny, Penny!” He cried out like a child. A mass of black emerged from the rosebushes, then popped like a bubble, revealing a short, dark-skinned girl, panting with exhaustion.  She staggered forward and collapsed into Simon’s arms.

“I hate. That. Spell,” she gasped in between breaths. “It takes. A lot. Out of you.”

“Sit, rest. Penny, this is Baz. Baz, this is Penelope. She’s a magician.” The juvenile excitement was clear on Simon’s broad face. His happy flush brought out the freckles the kingdom tried so hard to hide with their powders and concoctions, and Baz could see what Ebb meant when she said he looked better outside in plainclothes. He did.

Penelope stopped. “Baz? As in Basilton Pitch?” Her face whitened. Baz nodded.

“What? What is it?”

Penny’s breathing was steadier. She looked him in the eye, her own a fierce golden-brown fire. Baz wasn’t sure he was going to like what she said next.

“I have news for you. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Well?” Baz exclaimed. He slammed his hands down on the bench behind him as he stood. “Tell me!”

“You-” she stopped, searching Baz’s face. Apparently finding something, she closed her eyes and nodded to herself, like she was reassuring herself of something. “You have a sister.”

Baz opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Why is the world spinning? Is night supposed to be so dark?  And then everything disappeared, and all he could hear was his own screaming. Out of happiness, out of fear? He didn’t know. He didn’t even want to know.

Chapter Text

Everything is so hot. The air is oppressive and heavy and he shifts around under the covers, pulling them up over his head. Why can’t he breathe? He discounts it as a dream, sleepily muttering to himself. “Go back to sleep, Basil. Go back to sleep,” he sighs. But the air is still too thick, and it tastes of something scary, and when his breathing becomes too labored for him to ignore, he starts to realize something is wrong. He throws the covers off his head and jumps from his bed in one fluid motion, suddenly all too aware of the flickering lights he can see out his window. Orange, red, yellow. The colors dance around until they cloud his vision and his head is swimming from lack of oxygen and the colors are so pretty, they’re just so pretty… Maybe he’ll stay and watch for a while.

-

Baz was shaking. No, he was being shaken. All at once the world began to materialize around him, and he became aware of Simon’s tight grip on his shoulders. “Baz! Baz, wake up!”

His eyes opened and Simon’s face filtered fuzzily into his field of vision. “Wh-what happened?” he asked. His voice was scratchy from smoke- no, not from smoke. From screaming. He hadn’t just been in the fire, not again- had he? His brain wasn’t working properly.

“You just fainted!” Simon cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “And you were yelling out nonsense words. I didn’t know what to do, and Penny couldn’t even cast any healing magic because she’s so tired from her big spell and Baz, I was so afraid.” He ended in a sob, clutching onto Baz’s hand like it was a lifeline.

Baz was silent for a moment, until Simon’s sobs ceased and his breathing evened. Then he turned to Penelope, surveying her with a critical eye. Her long gown was deep purple and stood out against the dark, mocha coloring of her skin. She had rounded spectacles and intense eyes, and Baz could feel the power radiating off in waves.

“Mordelia is dead,” he told her. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. “I saw her die. And you need to help us get out of here.” Penelope didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced towards the door and cocked her head as if listening for something.

And then the lights turned on in Simon’s room.

-

There was no more time for introductions and fainting spells. Simon and Penelope exchanged a look, and suddenly everything was moving at a million miles an hour. Everything that was supposed to take hours to set up was squeezed into a frenzied five minutes, and the three of them crashed through the rose bushes violently and blindly, thorns tearing at their skin and ripping holes in their clothes and packs. Voices echoed behind them, and they didn't sound friendly.

A few minutes running led them to a small dark opening in a rock face, and they crowded together awkwardly, knees and elbows colliding. The silence was suffocating, each listening for the telltale signs of capture. Footsteps, yelling. When at last it seemed safe, and the only sound was their labored breathing, Simon spoke.

“Penny, get us out of here.” His face was as white as the moon that hung above them, eyes as black with fear as the midnight sky the moon was in. Blood ran in rivulets down his face from a deep scratch on his forehead.

“I can't do teleportation spells, Simon. I'm too tired, and those kinds of spells are huge. Anyone who tried it would be incapacitated for at least an hour if they succeeded, and that's a big if. It's nearly impossible to teleport three people at the same time. That kind of effort could do serious damage. I- I don't know what to do.” It was shocking coming from her, a girl who always had a plan, owe mind was always twelve steps ahead of the competition. A horrifying thought crossed Simon’s mind. He would be punished for this excursion if they got caught, but what would happen to Baz and Penny? Execution for the kidnapping of the prince? The notion sent spidery chills crawling down his spine, and he curled in closer to Baz.

“Penny's not the only one who can do magic,” Baz said at last, sounding gravelly and resolved.

“Baz, you can't. Penny just said it would be too dangerous!” Simon pleaded, but even as he said it he knew it was no use. Baz had made up his mind.

“I'll be alright, Simon. Don't worry about me,” Baz whispered, then kissed him gently on the forehead. “I got us into this. I woke everyone up by being so loud back in the courtyard. Now I'm going to get us out.”

Simon opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, a huge whirlwind of magic, fiery and fierce, enveloped them. It felt like flames licking their skin, and Penny cried out. A moment of pure pain, and then nothing at all

Chapter Text

My past has tasted bitter for years now
So I wield an iron fist
Grace is just weakness or so I've been told
I've been cold, I've been merciless
But the blood on my hands scares me to death
Maybe I'm waking up today

I'll be good, I'll be good
And I'll love the world, like I should
I'll be good, I'll be good
I'll be good, I'll be good

The ground was cold, and Penny was alone.

She tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt as heavy as cement and may as well have been glued together. It took an immense amount of concentration to move at all, but before long, her hands were able to feel around. She was in tall grass. The scent of something sickly sweet drifted towards her, and she recognized it as cakes baking. As the ringing in her ears ceased, she began to hear the sounds of a village waking up. It was early in the morning, Penny surmised, and she was somehow outside of a town. Surely if she was in plain sight, someone would have seen her, so she had to be hidden. She searched her brain for any recollection of the events leading up to her being here, but she had nothing past Baz’s silent spell and the torrent of fire that ran up and down her limbs.

Though she tried to think of nothing, one terrifying thought kept repeating itself in her head. What had happened to Simon? Of course, she was worried about Baz as well, but she hadn’t known him very long. If she was here, unable to fend for herself, where was he? Nowhere near, she was sure. Simon had a sort of aura about him that a magician could sense. One of untapped power. He would be a fantastic magician, she was sure, but it was too late for him to begin practicing magic now. Magic was a seed that had to be planted early and tended to often for it to be controlled. No matter. Whether he was a magician or not, he wasn’t here, and that thought frightened Penny more than she wanted to admit.

-

On some level, Simon knew he was dreaming, but he simply couldn’t wake up. It wasn’t a decision (though considering the possible circumstances, he wasn't sure if he’d want to be awake). His brain was too muddled to form coherent thoughts, and everything hurt with an intensity that made him dizzy. Fighting this sort of pain, he knew, would be pointless, so instead, he surrendered to the darkness around him and let his mind take him where it wanted him to be.

-

He is twelve, and he has just figured out that someday, he is going to be king. The thought is not a welcome one. He doesn’t want to be king. He just wants to tend the gardens with Ebb and play out in the sunshine. He wishes he was a baker’s son instead of a king’s, so he could eat all the scones he wanted and no one would scold him about his table manners.

The term ‘prince’ is one he’s used to, but the meaning of it has only occurred to him today. “I’m going to be queen one day,” Agatha tells him.

“What do you mean?” He asks. Agatha laughs at him. Her laugh is high-pitched and it sounds like bells tinkling in his ears. It is a pleasant noise, but he doesn't like it right now, because it means he’s said something foolish (again). He is always saying foolish things.

“I’m going to be queen, and you are going to be king.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Since when?”

“Since forever.” They are walking in the garden, Simon’s favorite place in the entire world. Agatha looks out of place here, with her pristine white dress and shoes, and her hair so smooth down her back Simon wonders if it’s real hair or not. He kind of wants to touch it, but he supposes she would think that was odd. Speaking of odd things, an odd thought has just entered his head, and he is not sure whether he likes it or not.

“But don’t the king and queen have to be married?” Agatha is pretty and nice, but Simon doesn’t want to get married. He has already decided he is never getting married.

“Of course they do, silly. Didn’t you know we were getting married some day?” It sounds natural coming from her, and it sounds like something he has heard before. He wonders if people have told him this, but he didn’t want to listen.

“Oh.” It is a hollow word. He stops walking.

“Is something the matter, Simon?” Agatha asks. For a split second, he considers telling her everything- after all, Agatha is his best friend (besides Penny, and she’s secret. Plus, she already knows).

“Agatha…” He starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. He doesn’t even know the right words for what he needs to say next.” She waits patiently, steps closer and grabs ahold of his hand.

“I don’t want to marry you, Agatha,” he whispers. She looks shocked, but she still holds onto his hand. Simon is surprised that she doesn’t leave right there and then.

“Why not?” She sounds close to tears. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Simon says quickly. “You haven’t done anything. I just don’t want to marry you is all.”

“That’s alright, then,” she says, brave all of a sudden. “I don’t want to marry you if you don’t want to marry me. Let’s go tell the king.”

-

Davy is not happy.

His words are rough and they cut Simon like knives. Honestly, Simon doesn’t even pay attention to what Davy is saying. All he knows is that the words are meant to hurt, and they do. “Alright, Father. I understand. I’ll do what you say. I’ll be good, I promise.” He says anything to make them stop.

This is the beginning of a life Simon doesn’t want to lead. And he can’t do anything to stop it.

-

“Wake up,” Simon heard. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere very far away. “Come on, you have to wake up.”

“Not right now, Ebb,” he murmured. “Too sleepy.” He rolled over and tried to slip back into oblivion. His body felt like it weighed a million tons. He was sure he’d never get up again.

And then everything was freezing.

Simon shot up, spluttering and wiping the icy water out of his eyes. He coughed and cursed. “What the fuck, Ebb?”

“That’s no kind of language for a prince, I would reckon,” a girl responded smugly. He had no idea where he was, or who she was. She was small and dark, and her hair fell in long, messy waves to her waist. There were purple smudges under her eyes. “I’m Mordelia,” she said. “And I think you know where my brother is.”

-

There was no question in Baz's mind that something had gone horribly wrong.

His head felt like it was splitting in two. His entire body was shaking so bad he could hardly sit up. He forced his eyes open to confirm what he already knew.

He was in the castle dungeon.

Chapter Text

Simon was befuddled. “Your… brather?” He asked with a hint of confusion. In the back of his mind, some sort of alarm was going off, something to tip him off to the fact that yes, he knew what this was about, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Yes, my brother, you dolt,” Mordelia mocked, holding out her hand to Simon. He took it graciously and pulled himself to his feet. “You look shit, by the way. Not at all like royalty.”

“Fair enough,” he replied. “I’ve had it kind of rough the past few days.”

Mordelia looked at him disdainfully. “You’ve had it rough? Oh, poor little Prince Simon out in the wild, he has a few scratches on his face, oh boo hoo, his servants aren’t here to tie up his boots for him. You want to talk about having it rough? How about slaving your ass off for some random rich family for eight years just so they don’t pitch you into the street? How about losing everything you have at seven years old, finally figuring out that your brother lived, that you aren’t alone in the world, only to hear that the precious fucking Prince kidnapped him.”

“I didn’t kidnap him. Merlin, calm down! You don’t even know what you’re on about.” Simon’s cheeks were starting to flush red with anger.

“What, you expect me to believe he went with you happily? That you two were just the best of friends, and everything was peachy, and that was why he decided to leave everything he’d ever known? Because you said so? Because I know Baz, or at least I did, and he’s pretty fucking smart. That’s not something a smart person would do.”

“Fine then, you tell me your version of the story, since you know everything!” He could feel the rage building up like a hungry inferno. He’d never hit a girl before (he’d never really hit anyone before) but for a split second he wanted to punch her right in her nose. She and Baz had the same nose, Simon noted, which only made him want to hit her more. She had all of Baz’s best things, his hair and his skin and his nose and even his eyes and she was just like him, just like him, except Baz would never be such an arse. (To Simon). (Probably). He was fuming.

“Do you think I’m completely numb?” Mordelia was yelling now, anger racking her tiny body. Just like Baz, she was thin and wiry, but she was short, not tall. Not like Baz, with his mile-long legs.

“No, no, why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what happened? Because you would know, seeing as you weren’t there.” Simon spit the words like arrows intended to kill.

He could see the flicker of doubt cross Mordelia’s face, as if her confidence wavered. But it didn’t last. She jumped back in with more vigor than ever. “I know you kidnapped my brother,” she seethed. “You heard that the Pitch fortune was still out there somewhere and you knew he was the only living heir, and you didn’t want anyone to be richer than you and your daddy, the king, did you Simon? You just couldn’t stand the idea that my brother might be better than you, that Baz might have you beat, regardless of the fact that he’d be better than you whether he was rich or didn’t have a cent to his name. You were jealous that he was so talented, so handsome, so smart, and now he was going to take the only thing you had left- your money. Maybe even your power. Did you think about that, about the riots in the villages against your father? With that kind of money, anyone could overthrow your sorry lot in half a second, and you knew that, so you stole him, and then you lost him. And now, you’re going to tell me where he is.”

“Is that really what you believe?” Simon spluttered. The rumor was so ridiculous, he didn’t know what to say. Was there even a surviving Pitch fortune? And what did she mean, riots in the village? “If you want to know the truth, I’ll tell you the truth. But I don’t know how much you’re going to like it. Maybe your darling brother isn’t who you think he is.”

“Like I’d believe anything that came out of your mouth,” she shot back, but in her eyes was a curiosity. Something in Simon’s tone was sincere, eager, wanting to reveal the truth. “There’s nothing you could say about Baz that would make me love him any less.”

At that, Simon smirked. “I’ve got one for you, sweetheart. The thing is, you shouldn’t love him any less for what I’m about to tell you. But you probably will.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Have you heard about my curse?” He asked, knowing she had. Mordelia nodded.

“What if I told you that your brother woke me up?”

Mordelia’s eyes widened imperceptibly, but then she shook her head. “Of course he did. Why would that shock me? He’s the best doctor in the kingdom, and the best young magician in a century.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Simon drawled, a sickeningly sweet smile on his face. “Mordelia, your brother? He’s my true love.”

Mordelia’s jaw dropped. Simon leaned on a tree trunk behind him, trying not to wince with every movement as he stretched his sore muscles.

“No way!” Mordelia howled suddenly. Her tone was juvenile to a comical degree. She looked like a toddler having a tantrum. “There’s no bloody way my brother would fall for you! Are you out of your head? You’re a boy, and more importantly, you’re the prince. The Pitches hate the Royal family!!” She stopped, and her cast her eyes downward. Her face fell. “Well, they used to. There aren't too many of us left anymore.”

In that moment, all of Simon’s anger vanished. He could see her for what she really was- a scared, sad little girl who just wanted her brother back. Wanted the only person she had left. And she thought Simon had taken him away from her. In her shoes… Merlin, Simon would have killed whoever he thought took his brother away. He reached out impulsively and rested his hand on her shoulder.

She flinched away. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, and Simon drew back.

“I’m sorry, Mordelia, I don’t know where Baz is. But I’d like to help you find him.”

“Yeah, right,” she said with a patronizing look, but it was obvious her resolve was weakening. A single tear ran down the side of her nose. She wiped it away like she was mad at it.

“I love him too, you know,” Simon whispered. He could feel his own tears coming. How had this all gone so wrong?

A tense moment of silence passed before Mordelia nodded grudgingly. “Alright. But I still don’t trust you. And you’d better have a plan.”

“About that…” Simon started with a small laugh. “I don’t. But I’ll think of something.”

“You’d better.”

“I will.”

“You’d better.”

-

The air was overwhelmingly cold, but on the inside Baz was flaming. It was a strange and terrible juxtaposition. His skin was paled and freezing, tender to the touch, but his throat and stomach burned like he’d swallowed the sun. His head was being whacked at with a hammer from the inside. His skull was going to crack and his brains were going to splatter all over the wall. He could see a little bit of light through his tightly clenched eyelids, and it hurt with such force he felt like needles were being poked into his eyes. Everything hurt with an unbearable ferocity. Baz couldn’t ever remember being in this much pain, and he had to use every ounce of will power im his possession to force open his eyes and assess his surroundings.

The outcome was fairly bleak.

Having his eyes open wasn’t much worse than having them shut, such little light was leaking through the tiny barred window near the top of the room he was in. Underneath him was a hard wooden pallet covered in straw. The stench of it was strong, and he resisted retching when he considered the fact that it was most likely covered in some sort of manure.

The walls of his room were grimy and made of stone. There didn’t appear to be a door, but rather slats of metal and a swinging gate, locked shut. It seemed almost like a…

Dungeon.

The word was an unwelcome visitor in his mind. He knew without wanting to that it was true. Baz tried to shriek, but his throat was too raw and all that came out was a pitiful squeal. The noise, however small, was too much for his ears, and the migraine in his head became intolerable. Blackness clouded his vision. Nightmares plagued his sleep.

Chapter Text

When it hurts like you've crashed from above
Heal your broken bones
When you can't move, your heart's still locked out
Oh you rise, you rise, you rise
Sometimes you need someone to carry you home

The cabin was old and creaky. The steps squealed under Mordelia’s feet as she walked up them, and she was so small. Simon didn’t want to step on them, for fear of them snapping beneath him. He stood at the threshold of the house (though in truth, it was too small to be called a house), staring at the grooves in the wood it was made from.

“Coming?” Mordelia called from just inside. The door was a little ajar, and the scent of smoke and something sweet wafted out. “I’m making bread if you want some- the good stuff. It has raisins in it, too.”

Gingerly, Simon entered, taking care to step as little as possible on the steps. The place was tiny, one room, with a few chairs and a makeshift bed in the corner. Mordelia’s scant few clothes were hanging near a fireplace, where bread was cooking in a small fireplace oven. It was minuscule and there were no decorations, but somehow it had a homey vibe. It looked lived in, unlike the pristine castle Simon was used to. It looked like it held memories. It looked like it held dreams.

“So this is it?” He hadn’t realized how pompous the statement was coming from him until he saw Mordelia’s offended look. “No, no, it’s lovely, I was just-”

“Don't lie,” she replied, her voice shaky with tension. She was trying so hard, Simon could tell, not to explode on him right there. He appreciated the effort. “I’m sure it's nothing compared to a castle, with hundreds of rooms and beds made of real downy mattresses instead of tattered blankets.”

“Mordelia, really,” Simon insisted. “It’s lovely. It's not grand by any means, but it's quaint and it smells nice and there’s a gorgeous view.” He gestured to the window, where sunlight was dappling through the branches of the tree, patterning the floor various shades of yellow.

Mordelia let a small smile slip, then cracked the oven to check on the bread. “I think it’s done,” she muttered to herself, taking it out with a piece of cloth wrapped her hand like an oven mitt and cutting into it. She served it to Simon on a plate and ate hers off her lap. Simon was baffled at how she wasn’t getting burnt. The bread was still steaming. He found it almost comical how it was considered ‘the good stuff’ here, then he found it sad. In the castle, he had an abundance of gourmet foods. He hadn’t realized that out here, people were struggling for a loaf of bread, ecstatic over the addition of raisins.

A long pause stretched between them as they ate, and Simon realized how hungry he was. The bread wasn’t bad, not really. It was rich and nutty, and he found himself asking for a second, then a third piece. It wasn’t half enough to fill his stomach (Simon was always hungry) but he felt guilty asking for any more. He waited politely until Mordelia had polished hers off before speaking.

“So,” he began, tentative but firm. “A plan.”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other with weak eyes, grappling for words they couldn't find. What started out as a chuckle in the corner of Simon's mouth burst forth as a gasping, belly-aching laugh, and soon enough Mordelia was laughing too, clutching at her stomach, leaning forward so far her nose nearly touched her knees.

“We’re fucked,” she said in between waves of laughter. “Royally fucked.”

“Well, I’ve never been good at making plans, but you know who is? Penny. That’s it, we need to find Penny.”

“Who’s Penny?”

-

It was quite difficult to blend in when you were Penelope Bunce. That much she’d already known. What she hadn’t known was exactly how difficult it was going to be. Apparently, purple hair wasn’t all the rage. While the women around her were pale faced and corseted, with dime-sized waists and elaborate gowns and caps, Penny was rugged-looking, a bit chubby, outfitted in a huge, purple silk cape. Her hair stuck in unruly coils from her head, the color an alarming neon violet. She didn’t walk daintily, she didn’t talk quietly, and she didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought, or how many people stared.

That said, she was supposed to be being discrete- which wasn’t working so well when everyone in town was gossiping about her. They hadn’t seen a witch in ages. She'd had two girls come up to her and ask her to cast spells. They'd been so timid and shy that she'd obliged, waving her wand and weaving flowers into their hair. It was worth the stares, that time, but she wasn’t getting any closer to finding Simon.

She couldn’t very well ask around about him, but what she could do was get as close to the rumors as possible. So she sat herself at the local pub, asked for a beer, and listened in on the conversations of the drunkards. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

She sat for a few minutes, silently nursing her beer and trying to look inconspicuous. Two burly-looking men in stained shirts sat next to her. They got what they wanted and started to talk.

At first, it was basic conversation, nothing Penny wanted to hear. She tuned them out. But then- something caught her attention.

“It’s a pity, what’s happened to the prince,” the larger one said. Penny perked up and flicked her eyes to the side. She watched them through her lashes, hoping it wasn’t obvious that she was eavesdropping.

“It’s more of a pity what happened to the boy they found with him,” the other man responded, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I knew the Pitch boy. He treated my youngest when she got smallpox. A bit odd, but a good kid. Very good at what he does. I can only imagine what they’ll do to him.”

This was met with a huff from the large man. “Execution, surely. Kidnapping the prince, maybe killing him. Not to mention the rumors. I heard he was gay.” He said the last word like it was a swear. Penny tried not to scoff.

“Of course he is. Everyone knows that.” The smaller man stirred his drink uncomfortably, averting his eyes. Penny could tell he was trying to avoid conflict. “I don't think I believe all the propaganda about the kidnapping.”

“What, you think Prince Simon went willingly? You think he left his fancy, grand castle and his waiting title for some queer?”

“Who’s to say the prince isn’t queer as well? You heard the news about Agatha, and she’s the loveliest woman in the kingdom. If he didn’t want her…”

“It doesn’t matter. They’ve got that boy in prison where he belongs.” Penny started, earning some questioning looks from fellow patrons. If they had Baz in the dungeon, then- “They're setting up a trial date, you know. Trying to get this mess over with as soon as possible. They’re sure the prince is dead.”

The small man shifted in his chair. “How can they charge the Pitch boy with murder if they don’t even know whether Prince Simon is dead?”

“He’s lived a soft life. If he isn’t home by now, it's not like he could take care of himself out in the real world.”

“It's just not right,” the small man muttered. He started to stand up, sliding some money across the counter to the bartender. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you around.”

Penny paid for her drink and slipped out after him. It could be dangerous, she surmised, to approach him, but he was her only lead, and he’d seemed supportive of Baz. It was her best bet. She ran to catch up with him, tugging on the sleeve of his dirty blue shirt. “Sir? Excuse me, sir?”

“What? What is it?” He asked, surprised. He whirled around and his eyes widened as he took her in. In the dim light of the tavern, she'd been less noticeable than she was out here. “Who are you?”

“Um,” she paused, but could see no reason to hide her own identity. No one knew she was connected with Simon, and if he came looking for her, people would know she came by. “Penelope Bunce. Pleasure to meet you.” she stuck out her hand. The man looked at her as though she’d grown a second head.

“Theodore,” he said, shaking her hand. His touch was light, and he pulled away a bit too quick. He eyed Penny with immense suspicion. “What’s this all about?”

“I heard you were talking about the prince,” she blurted, then cursed herself for her bluntness. “I was wondering if you could tell me what happened. I’ve been traveling, and I haven’t been able to catch the story.” The lie fell easily off her tongue, though she felt bad for it.

“Oh,” he sighed in relief. Penny could see the tension release from his body like air from a balloon. “Yeah, I can tell you about the prince.”

“Thanks so much,” Penny replied. She attempted nonchalance, but she wasn’t sure how convincing it was. Theodore began talking. She listened eagerly.

“Well, you know about the curse, right?” Penny nodded. “Alright. So he fell asleep, and Agatha (that’s his betrothed- oh, you already- well, yeah, she didn't wake him up). And then there was this big ball for all the ladies in the land, to see who was the Prince’s true love and all that. But no one woke up him. I guess the physician they called in, Basilton Pitch- awful, what happened to the Pitches with that fire- anyway, he barged in and said Simon wasn’t breathing, and no one has seen eit her of them since. They just disappeared, him and the Pitch boy, and then they found him- not the prince- knocked out in the forest somewhere. He was real banged up, I guess, and they think he killed the prince. As far as I know, he hasn’t confessed, and there’s no evidence the prince is even dead, but they’re setting up a trial anyway.”

Penny’s brow furrowed. “How far is the castle?”

Theodore looked taken aback by her question. “Uh, about three days’ walk north,” he answered. “Why?”

“Important business,” Penny said offhandedly, already turning away. “Thanks.” She stopped. “Wait. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone offering room and board for the night, would you? I haven't eaten in a while and I’d rather sleep in a bed then under a bush tonight.” Her tone was sheepish, but Theodore didn’t seem perturbed by the request.

“I’m not sure. The Bridges’ sometimes lend out their guest house. I can take you there and you can ask.”

“That’d be wonderful,” Penny sighed, imagining the feeling of a real bed underneath her. She hadn’t noticed her exhaustion until she thought about another three days walking before she got to the castle.

It was a short way to the Bridges’ residence. By the time they got there, the sky was just beginning to darken. Theodore introduced her, and though she got some strange looks, the family didn’t mind who she was as long as she was paying. She recognized one of their daughters from the flowers weaved into her hair. Penny smiled fondly at her, and the girl waved back.

“Thank you so much,” she told Theodore as he turned to leave. He gave her a cheeky grin.

“My pleasure.”

“By the way,” she said, unsure why this had just occurred to her. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Mordelia, would you?”

“The Pitch girl?” He inquired. “Never met her. I’m not sure how truthful her claim is, that she’s the heir. Though there’s no proof the fortune even still exists, so I guess she wouldn’t have much reason to lie about it.”

“Does she live anywhere on the way to the castle?”

“Actually, yes. Two towns over. I’m sure you could get directions if you asked, but I’m afraid I don’t know exactly where she lives. I’ve heard she’s a servant.”

“Thanks again,” Penny said, dismissing him. He walked away, and she went back inside to the small room the Bridges’ had provided her.

She was going to pay Mordelia Pitch a visit.

-

The entire place was dank and smelled of urine. Baz’s feet were freezing and bare, and floor was sticky for some unknown reason (Baz could guess why). He wouldn’t have wanted to stand up, even if he’d been able to.

Except for the fact that… Well… He couldn't.

It had taken him a while to figure it out, since he hadn’t been planning on getting up anyway. But when a servant came down for the first time with the promise of food, he couldn't help himself. He hadn’t eaten in what seemed like days, and he was ravenous. He jumped up from the pallet.

And fell right to his hands and knees.

It was an inexplicable feeling, and frightening, too. The vertigo he experienced every time he tried to stand was too strong to fight. His vision swirled, and a sharp pain resounded in his head. He sat there, clutching at his greasy hair and squeezing his eyes shut, until the servant cleared her throat. He blinked open his eyes, squinting.

She was a pretty young girl with blonde pigtails and a threadbare skirt and blouse. “Mr. Pitch, are you alright?”

Baz couldn’t so much as nod.

“I heard what they said about you,” she whispered. Baz had to focus on the words. He felt like he was underwater. Everything seemed unreal, in a different dimension, and he was floating away. “But I think you’re innocent. You set my little brother’s leg when he broke it, remember? You didn’t even charge us. It saved his life. We never could have paid for the treatment.”

Baz still couldn’t respond, but he studied her face. He did remember her, but as a chubby-cheeked child, not a slender teenager. And he remembered her brother, too- in fact, he’d seen him around a few times. Baz was rather proud of the fact that the boy didn’t have the slightest trace of a limp.

“Normally the prisoners get scraps, but I figured it was the least I could do,” she explained, gesturing at the fresh-baked bread and wedges of cheese. A shiny apple perched precariously on the edge of her tray. “I figured they hadn't been feeding you.”

Baz collected himself enough to nod, then found his voice. It was ragged and rough-edged, and stung his throat like needles as it came out. “Could I get a glass of water?”

She nodded eagerly- Marion, he remembered, her name was Marion- and set his food down near the slats. “I’ll be right back,” she assured him, whisking up the stairs.

Baz took the opportunity to drag himself to the bars. He reached through them with a shaky hand and took hold of one of the bread rolls. It was gone in a matter of seconds. He practically inhaled the cheeses, but kept the apple for later. Marion came back with a smudged glass full of brown-tinted water. Baz didn’t complain.

“I can’t stay any longer,” she said when he was done, “but I thought I might warn you. They’re setting up a trial date, and it’s not going to be far off. You should think about preparing a defense. And… Make it a good one.”

With that, she was gone. Baz rubbed the waxy skin of the apple and began making his way back to his bed.