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The King, the Queen, & the Unseelie Lady
Back when beasts spoke and men sat down, silent, to listen; the Prince Tiberias Calore VI soon to be the King Tiberias Calore VI, Flame of the North, Dragon-lord who claimed the great beast Sol Imperator, wed his beloved under an eclipsed sun. The Lady Coriane was of a small house with far less wealth and social standing in comparison to the other ladies who vied for his majesty's hand. In truth, she had entered this court and its society by accident. A stroll through a garden at dusk had brought her to him. The once prince, now king had attached himself to her and it rendered him happy. Oh he was so very happy, though she and society were not fond of one another, the king loved her so dearly, he loved her so fiercely. It was a singular affection, he brought the convergence of two celestial bodies to proclaim the union of their souls to the world as they were bound at the altar.
It would not take long for princes to grace the palace halls. Prince Tiberias VII was a happy and strong baby, the light in his parents eyes, inheriting his father's features and his mother's brilliance, but he had not come to this world easy. Pregnancy had taken its toll on the queen's health. The midwives had nearly delivered Coriane to death just as they brought her son to the living. After she had been bedridden for days from blood loss and fever. Her husband sat vigil at her side, convinced that if he should leave the reaper would claim her fragile spirit.
Death never came, but its long shadow loomed over the House of Calore.
When Coriane became with child for the second time, the king was desperate to ensure that his dear heart remained in good health. So despite his wife's wishes, despite the assurances of his good sister Sara Skonos that both queen and child would make it through the pregnancy whole and healthy, he sought the aid of Elara Merandus. She who would have been queen had the king married for duty instead of desire, she who felt herself bearing a hundred slights, for she came from a great house of high regard within the Unseelie courts. Her abilities were known to be neither of common order nor without their counter-gifts.
It was about midnight, when the queen had begun her labors, and the Faustian bargain was struck. Though the second prince seemed to come to the world quicker than his brother had, without so fuss or strain on his mother. He was quiet, small, and still. Whispers had it that the bargain itself that caused the prince to be born without breath in his lungs, agonizing the queen. None would ever say such a thing in the king's presence. It was the bargain from which the prince was truly born. From the same knife, Elara spilled her blood, the king's blood, and the queen's blood over a seed buried in a pot of dirt; and from their blood bloomed full and vibrant briar roses that the Unseelie Lady shoved down the stillborn prince's throat.
A cry spiraled high from the prince's little chest as it rose with breath.
In relief, the queen let out something that was half laughter, half a sob. She reached for her son so that she might hold him and name him.
"He is mine as much as he is yours," Elara said in her low, dark voice, lightly rocking the swaddled prince in her arms. "You, your husband, and I, we gave him equal parts blood and soul. But his name and its power are mine. That was our deal."
"I made no such deal!" Coriane cried, bed-bound by her good sister. "I made no bargain with you!"
Her cries were a symphony to the Unseelie Lady's ears.
"His name will be Maven," Elara said, twisting the prince's dark curls around her finger. "One Who Understands my 100 injuries from you which I have borne with a stiff lip." Her words were potent, ensnaring, binding. "You will have your years with him, as he grows, you will fade."
"Stop this," demanded King Tiberias. He held a sword to the Unseelie Lady's chest, unable to strike her for fear that he would harm his son as well. He called to the guards, and yet for one reason or another, they did not come. "I will have you burned!"
Elara held the king's stare, she did not fear him nor his flame. Desperation had made him weak. A symptom of his single affection that was for once to her benefit. "Listen well," she commanded. The air around her grew heavy, echoing her words in a haunting whisper. "Before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday, he shall be crowned in thorns and his kingdom will become one of a death-like sleep. 100 years for 100 injuries and so shall begin my good reign. This is the name I give him, my dear god-son, this is the name he will answer to, this is the name you shall speak. No power on earth shall remove its curse."
18 years have passed since the Unseelie Lady was executed. Her curse was believed to have died with her, although with every passing day the Queen Coriane grew paler and more fatigued.
In the queen's sky, celestial bodies were replaced by her beloved sons, Cal became the sun and Maven the moon, and she was in peace.
The Royal Family now celebrates the coming of age of their youngest prince.
The Prince & the Knight
There was a dragon guarding the prince's tower. One of the most beautiful dragons born to House Calore with gleaming black scales that shone like the surface of a wild lake in the moonlight, named Vulcanus for its near untamable volatile nature. The beast descended from its perch on the cliff side. Talons scraped against the smooth white stone, and the tower groaned underneath the dragon's weight as it folded itself against the side, blocking a heavy set of doors with its massive body, to stare at him with a pair of menacing blue eyes.
"Hello darling," Thomas cooed, dangling from the balcony railing several feet above Ceaser's Square. There were few people out at this hour who might look up and see his crimson cloak billowing in the breeze. The guards who walked their nightly patrols, wearing grim expressions, and the palace staff who carried out their tasks in leaden silence. Thomas was not all that worried about being seen by any of them though. He reached out and scratched the underneath of the dragon's chin.
A resounding rumble came from the back of Vulcanus's throat before he blew a hot cloud of smoke from his nostrils. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to lightly dust Thomas's cheeks with ash and strong enough to rattle the plates of his armor.
With a soft laugh, Thomas hoisted himself up and over the railing onto the balcony. Exertion had his chest rising and falling, and his hands bracing themselves on his knees. The cold air slipped underneath the plates of his armor to nip at his bones. The moon draped a pallid shroud over the palace, and the roses that climbed the white walls of the tower turned towards it. They would follow it across the sky to the horizon, and when the sun arrived their flowers would close. Strange things, they still bloomed in winter when all else was dead and under the snow.
A light nudge from the dragon's massive snout against his chest nearly pitched him back over the railing. Thomas rested a palm on the dragon's warm scales. The pouch of finely sliced, bloody bison meat—imported from Montfort—found its way from where it hung on his hip into Vulcanus's mouth. The dragon jostled its massive head from side to side in delight, returning to its perch the cliff side just above the tower. And Thomas slipped into the prince's chambers, the soft leather creaks of his boots filling the room alongside the crackling of firewood.
"There is perfectly decent flight of stairs that leads up to this tower, Sir," Maven said. He didn't rise from where he sat on his bed, draped in thick blankets and fine furs. With a leather-bound book lying open in his lap, and a couple of dragon eggs sitting in a cauldron of hot coals at the edge of his bed.
"I'm aware my prince," Thomas said, "but I have the privilege of entering your chambers clandestinely and the favor of your dragon." A question set of privileges if he were being honest. Sometimes he wasn't totally sure how he managed to earn either of them.
"Is it really a privilege if no one else has the insanity to climb the side of the palace?" Maven asked. In the candle-light, his silk nightclothes gleamed with a warm glow.
"Well no one else can do it without getting burnt to a crisp," Thomas said.
"That's because you spoil him," Maven said.
"And you don't?" Thomas quirked a brow. The amount of jewelry that adorned Maven's dragon: a ruby studded collar commissioned to match his crown, the assortment of radiant cuffs worn around its horns. None of which provided any sort defense in battle, all of which undoubtedly caused the royal treasury a great deal of stress.
"Sit with me," Maven said rather than admit the truth. He set aside his book, and turned to pick up a leather chest that had been sitting on his bedside table. "I have something for you."
"Now you're spoiling me." Thomas snorted, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Maven did not laugh, his laughter was a rare lovely thing, but his lips did twitch upward. A great victory itself if Thomas ever knew one. He opened the lid of the box, slowly, of course, for dramatic effect. Inside there laid a set of vambraces forged entirely out of Vulcanus's scales. They were freshly polished and shone faintly in the candlelight. It must've taken a ridiculously long time to collect each and every scale without irritating the beast.
A symbol of the prince's favor for him to wear in the tournament, Thomas did not immediately accept it. His fingers ghosted over the dragon scales, admiring the craftsmanship. He could imagine that Maven had stood over the blacksmith as he'd forged the vambraces, instructing him on every little detail.
"Do you not like them?" Maven asked. His gaze fell from Thomas's face to an empty space on the bed as he went to close the box.
Thomas snatched it from his hands before he could. "No!" His fingers fumbled over the clasps of his armor as he scrambled to put on his new vambraces. "I do!" He could not have the prince thinking he disliked his gift. "Of course I do!"
Maven blinked down at his now empty hands. "That was unknightly of you."
"You make me unknightly," Thomas said, tightening the straps of his vambraces with his teeth.
There was a sharp intake of breath as Maven went to say something.
"I have something for you too," Thomas cut him off. It wasn't he who was supposed to be receiving gifts after all.
Maven frowned slightly. "My birthday is not until tomorrow."
"I want to give you your gift early," Thomas said. "When there's not so many people around."
"Why?"
"No one else deserves to see it. It's not for them, it's just for us." He grabbed the small package that was attached to his belt and held it out to the prince.
It was poorly wrapped. There were extra pieces of paper on the sides and the corners were lumpy. Still Maven took great to unwrap his gift as he took great care with everything, setting the paper aside in a neat pile on the bed. His brows lifted, he brushed his thumbs along the leather cover of the book he now held in his hands. A collection of macabre poetry, his fingers traced the embossed in silver along the spine.
"Look inside," Thomas said. He flipped through the pages, pointed at every little comment he wrote in the margins, and every line he'd scored."It's everything that made me think about you."
"You took the time to do this?" Maven asked. "For me?"
"Yeah," Thomas said. Heat crept up his face. He hoped it wasn't too much.
Maven stared at him with his lips slightly parted and the book held close to his chest. He didn't say anything, but he didn't really need to. His expression told Thomas enough.
A light knock on the door then had the prince turning to it with a soft sound of confusion. It was late, who could possibly be at his door? He leaned forward slightly and waited. Another knock, slightly louder than the first, had him kicking the furs off his legs and scrambling to hide Thomas underneath his bed.
It was improper for the two of them to be alone in the prince's chambers at this late hour. Thomas was not standing guard tonight, and though he was sworn to the prince and it would not be strange that he was in his company; the palace staff did enjoy their gossip.
The thud of his armor hitting the wood floor would've certainty been heard by whoever stood on the other side of the door. Thomas winced as he shuffled underneath the bed. It was a tight fit, what with the bulk of his armor and the bed itself being fairly close to the ground.
"Come in!" Maven called. He cursed quietly to himself, smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes. The bedroom creaked open and golden skirts brushed along the wooden floors. "Mother."
"You'll damage your eyes reading in this light," said the Queen Coriane, her voice soft and mellifluous.
"I can see perfectly fine," Maven said.
"So you say. Then one of these days you'll come complaining to me about migraines and spots in your vision just like your father."
Silence. Thomas didn't have to poke his head out from under the bed to know that Maven was crinkling his nose. He was not fond of being compared to his father. If it were anyone else, Maven would snap at them, demanding that they never offend him by doing so again. His dear mother was the exception, of course, she often was.
"You look tired," Coriane said gently. "It's late. You still have ink on your hands."
"There's forge grime under your nails," Maven countered, "and soot on your dress."
"I'm heading to bed now. You should do the same."
"Just a bit longer. I'm almost done reading to the dragon eggs. It's good for their development."
"Sweet boy," the queen said fondly. "I don't think they can hear you."
Maven scoffed. "But they can, I know they can. I used to read to Vulcanus when he was an egg. I read to him still. That's why she's so much smarter than all the other dragons."
There was the light rattling sound of swaying earrings, and so Thomas assumed the queen had been shaking her head with amusement.
"Just a bit a longer, then to bed. Be sure to cover the dragon cauldrons before you do. Unless you want the tower to catch fire, again."
"That was only once, and it was your son's fault."
"You say that like he isn't your brother," the queen said, amused.
"He is my brother, except when he annoys me. Then he's your son who I must endure."
"All brothers are annoying dear, or else they wouldn't be our brothers." The light fall of her slippers on the floor approached the door, then paused. "Oh, and Maven?"
"Yes mother?"
"Tell Thomas that your balcony is in full view of my workshop."
"I—whatever do you mean?"
A quiet laugh came as golden skirts gathered on the floor, and the queen peered underneath the bed. Chestnut hair intricately braided in golden netting and studded with rubies. Mirthful blue eyes looked at him with crow's feet forming in the outer corners. "A lovely evening isn't it, Sir Knight?"
Thomas could do nothing but give her majesty a sheepish grin and a wave. "Quite lovely my queen."
Coriane then rose to her feet, dusting off her skirts. She wished her son a good night. Her voice was brimming with joviality.
Maven let out a long suffering sigh and bid that his mother slept well.
The door opened, then closed, and Maven crouched to look under the bed. Completely, and utterly unimpressed that Thomas had failed to account for the other royal apartments in his effort to enter his chambers "clandestinely".
Thomas met the prince's dourness with the best weapon he had at his disposal: his terrible humor.
"Stuffing a knight under your bed?" Thomas placed a hand to his chest as best he could given his limited space. "Your highness!" he gasped. "How scandalous! What will the court say?!"
"The court will be amazed that I managed to fit your ass under there when it's practically hanging out of your armor," Maven deadpanned.
"Looking are we?" Thomas quirked a brow. "That's unprincely of you."
"Unprincely is not a word."
"You're not denying it then."
Again, Maven said nothing. Great liar the prince was, it would not have been difficult for him to deny anything, and yet it seemed with certain people he would rather go silent than lie. He huffed, rolled his eyes, and then began the struggle that was pulling Thomas out from under the bed.
Somehow it was more difficult than getting him under the bed. Pieces of armor pressed uncomfortably into Thomas's skin, and his cloak had gotten caught around one of the bed's legs. For a brief moment, Thomas had resigned himself to living out the rest of his life underneath the prince's bed. It wouldn't have been such a terrible existence, he supposed, but he wouldn't say that he wasn't glad when they finally managed to pull him free.
His aching bones thanked him profusely as he settled back on the pillows. Nimble fingers helped him remove parts of his armor so that he could be more comfortable. Thomas insisted he keep his vambraces on. Idly tracing the scale pattern as he listened to Maven read aloud a poem of jealous angels and a seaside tomb. The prince's voice so dark and calm it could lull Thomas to sleep. If not for the crackling logs in the hearth, which he stayed awake long enough to douse.
Maven placed lids over the dragon eggs, so that wayward embers would not jump from the cauldrons throughout the night. His head twitched to the side, turning an ear towards the balcony doors. His eyes darted across the dark room, lingering in the far corners where the shadows seemed to gather, before they settled on Thomas.
"Will you guard me this night?" he whispered.
There were guards standing just outside his door, armed to the teeth to the defend the crown, and a dragon that breathed the hottest fire known to man slumbering just over his head. Maven should feel no fear here where harm was incapable of reaching him.
Thomas laid his sword between them on the bed, and took the prince's hand. So that he might press his lips to the prince's knuckles and swear, "I will guard you every night."
The Sleeping Fortress
There were ghosts steeping in the palace walls. Maven could hear them. Nightmares that could not reach him while he slept, so they came for him while he was awake. Phantoms that hovered in his sight line, reaching for him with their thin, wispy appendages, skittering away when he turned to properly look at them. They tried to convince him that they were never there, that he was mad instead of haunted.
Maybe he was mad. Mad and haunted. It was certainty possible to be both. The roses that grew along the side of his tower whispered to him after all. Roses did not tell people to slit their father's throat, or drown their Dear Mothers, or poison their brothers. Roses did not whisper to sane people, save for the fay folk like his Godmother. Even then Maven was not one of the folk and his Other Mother—Perfect Mother, God-Mother—did not need flowers to commune with him.
Her spirit was never far. It was restless, a creeping sense of dread that sought to strangle him. On good days, it felt less like he was being suffocated and more like she was watching over him, keeping him company when everyone else left him alone, filling his ears with honey. He loved his Other Mother on those days. On bad days, the honey turned to blood that went in through his ears and came out his eyes. He disgusted himself with the want to be rid of her, she who gave him this life, he slept just to escape her.
The irony, Maven snorted, leaning back into his dragon's saddle. His hair lashed in the bitter whistling wind that nipped at his lungs and chilled him to the marrow. Vulcanus let out a deep, soothing rumble beneath him. Their leathern wings cut through the dark clouds, each beat like a clap of thunder, blue membranes glinting in the occasional flash of lightning.
God-Mother's spirit never followed him to the skies. It was bound to the earth and even if it wasn't, she was not welcomed here, the skies belonged to Coriane Jacos. His Queen Mother had assumed dominion over the azure during her courtship with his lord father. And She held the reigns of his father's dragon more than the king did himself. Maven had the inkling impression that the great beast Sol Imperator liked his Dear Mother more than it liked its own rider. He could not blame the beast.
When Maven was younger he'd thought that his queen mother was the dragon-lord instead of his father. She would bring him and his brother up into the clouds on Imperator's great wings. There they knew no stress of court, no burden of the crown, nor any looming threat of a curse. That last one they still pretended they were without. His Other Mother was dead, and her curse had died with her. If his Good Mother did not fly dragonback anymore despite her constant looking to the skies, it was not because she grew more and more tired with each passing year. No, not at all, it was because Sol Imperator had grown lazy in his old age and would rather sleep all day than take flight.
Maven rested a gloved hand on Vulcanus's obsidian scaled neck, the warmth of her scales seeped through the wool glove into his skin. He needed to get out of his head. Today was supposed to be a happy day. Even if his eyes did feel a bit heavy, today would be a wonderful day.
He pulled a glass jar out from one of his saddle bags, and unscrewed the lid. The clouds billowed upon the land, gradually growing fuller and darker. If Thomas had joined him on dragonback today, he would've reached as high into the sky as he could, and he would've been absolutely delighted that the tips of his fingers grazed the clouds as if it were the first time he'd ever touched the heavens. The knight was always sad to see the sky so distant when they were back on the ground.
More than once Maven had seen Thomas trying to draw the different shapes in the sky. The drawings were clumsy and with very little resemblance to what they sought to depict. With a little more practice, he could hone his skills, but he was without the time. In another life, Maven imagined, the knight would've been an artist with hands splattered with paint, instead of having fingers wrapped in bandages from the amount of times he'd injured himself during duels or training.
Maven rose slightly from the saddle, unscrewing the lid of the jar. His eyes going wide as he jostled with each heavy stroke of Vulcanus's wings. If he leaned to much to one side, he'd slip off the saddle and plummet to his death, a fate which he would like to avoid. With great concentration, and his tongue poking out between his teeth, Maven gathered some of the clouds into the jar, and closed the lid up tight.
It was no different than trapping fog in a jar. Fog might've been easier, now that Maven thought about it, but it was the principle of it. Anyone could collect fog in a jar, it was right there wafting over the ground. Only he could pluck the clouds directly from the sky.
Well…he supposed there were others who could do the same.
A large shadow traveled across the length of Vulcanus's body. Maven tipped his head back, and saw the golden underbelly of Sol Invictus. His brother's dragon dipped its gargantuan head, letting out an excited trill at the sight of her rider's brother as well as his own sibling.
Vulcanus let out a low, grumbling sound in response, mirroring Maven's annoyance at his older brother disturbing their peaceful flight.
Overhead, Sol Invictus let out another soft warble. Before a light burst of flame rolled over Vulcanus's scales and had Maven scrunching his nose at the furnace-heat. Cal's laughter rang out from somewhere above the clouds. It was near impossible to see his brother when he was on dragonback. Sol Invictus was colossal for his young age, larger than Vulcanus by far, his shadow took up half of Ceaser's Square, and was still expected to grow. One of these days she'd grow larger than Sol Imperator. Thus Maven was unsure if he was actually glaring at his brother or one of the ridges her spine, he glared nonetheless.
"These clothes are new," he grumbled, brushing the ash off his sleeves. He then tightened his grip on his dragon's reins and pulled, coiling the muscles in its wings. His stomach lurched as the world tilted violently upward. The clouds broke, and though the sun shone brightly, it was much colder up here in the aether.
Now, Cal seemed to be a little more than a squirrel clinging to his dragon's back. Crimson cloak snapping behind him in the wind, the dark-silver of his armor caught the sunlight and reflected it back.
"Brother!" Cal shouted with a great big grin on his face.
Maven narrowed his eyes, patting the side of Vulcanus's neck. His ever loyal beast blew a burst of flame.
Another laugh came from Cal as he shook the ash from his hair. Sol Invictus began to turn its massive body upward. His glinting scales were like beaten gold underneath the sun. A deep rumbling sound began building up in its throat. Maven threw his body forward, the pommel of the saddle dug into his chest, gripping the ridges behind Vulcanus's neck. His heart shot up to his throat as the beast banked downward, narrowly avoiding a fiery stream.
It was not difficult to out fly Cal and Sol Invictus. The war dragon's size made him slow. He trailed behind Vulcanus, always swooping after his brother a second to late, and taking too long to turn.
Maven pressed himself further into the warm cradle of his dragon's scales. Dizzying drop after dizzying drop had split his face with a grin, he could feel his chest trembling with exhilaration but he could not hear his own laughter. The wind was a deafening roar against his face, and the ground was rushing towards him. An intrusive part of his mind thought he should continue screaming downwards and crash into the hard earth.
Luckily his dragon did not listen to his thoughts. In their descent the wing beats slowed, spraying loose snow up into the air. Ice crunched loudly beneath Vulcanus's feet as the dragon lowered itself onto the ground, letting out a heavy breath to let Maven know just how tired she was. If Vulcanus had it her way, she would not fly for the rest of the day. Not even to hunt. The kitchen staff would have to hand cut strips of bison and ensure that each slice were bloody enough for the dragon to deign to eat it. Spoiled beast, Maven lightly scratched behind the front horns on her head before hopping off the saddle.
Sol Invictus was less graceful in his landing, falling heavily onto the snow beside his brother. Unperturbed by Vulcanus snapping his jaws at his brother in annoyance. He let out a soft trill, curling around the smaller dragon, and for all his annoyance Vulcanus still rested against his brother's stomach and fell asleep.
"You had a head start," Cal said, climbing off his dragon's back.
"You're a poor loser," Maven snorted as his brother nearly slipped on the ice.
"Oh yeah you're one to talk," Cal threw his arm around Maven's shoulders, and and together they walked towards the royal boxes. "There's still time for you to join the tourney."
"I will have a much better watching the competition, I assure you." Maven said. The fur lining his cloak tickled the side of his face.
"Good, then I will only have to worry about one of you."
They bowed their heads, holding the position for a few moments, pure obeisance for their queen mother. She sat on throne forged by Sol Imperator's flame—beside their father, who Maven gave a significantly shorter bow—with the image of the great beast embroidered on her flowing golden gown, and a silk veil over her hair.
Siren Queen, Perfect Mother whispered. Singer Queen, Pretender Queen, stole my throne bewitching a weak king with a sweet voice and maiden beauty.
Maven did not react to her voice. He'd long since trained himself not to. Though he would sneer at her words. It was difficult at times, his mothers were adversary in constant conflict with one another. In consequence his own feelings and his sense were also at perpetual war. His mothers who'd both given him life in distinct ways, who'd both raised him—one in the light of day and the other in the shadows—deserved as much loyalty as he gave to both of them. But he could not do so without betraying them at the same time.
"It's just jousting," Cal assured his mother.
"It's not the jousting I'm worried about," Coriane said, although the jousting did worry her. She smoothed down the wind-swept hair on Cal's head. "The Storm Dame competes today."
Mare Barrow, the Storm Dame, she was another one of Maven's knights. She'd earned her name after she nearly clipped Sol Invictus's wing by calling lightning down from the clouds with her sword. Ever since that day, she and Cal had developed a rivalry that knew no such thing as proper court etiquette. Maven tried not to let it bother him too much. Even though Mare had been his knight and his friend first. She'd never been his rival and so Cal had never taken that from him.
"You don't have to worry about Mare," said Cal. "I welcome her challenge."
Among other things, Maven thought.
"I'm sure you do." Coriane lifted her brows with a knowing grin. "She beat you in the last tournament didn't she?" A blush spread over Cal's cheeks. "That was a—" She looked at Maven "—what was it again?"
"A melee," Maven supplied, taking a seat beside his Dear Mother.
"A melee, yes, she's good at melees." The queen nodded. "I've never seen her joust before, but I've heard she's just as good."
"We'll just have to see." Cal lifted his chin. He really didn't like to lose. "I'll apologize in advance," Maven's brother told him. "I'll have to embarrass two of your knights today."
"Keep your apologies," Maven replied. "I'm not going to need them."
Cal grinned, ruffling his hair and then sprinting down the stairs before Maven could take his brother's own sword and cut his arm off.
With a scowl, Maven fussed over his hair. There were a few wind-mused curls that refused to fall into place. He could feel Perfect Mother's disapproval rolling off her spirit. A prince should not look so unkept. Appearance was everything.
"Stop it," his Gentle Mother said, wrapping his cloak a bit tighter around his shoulders. "You look fine."
If she looked at him with some sadness in her eyes, he didn't tell her that he saw it. Just as he did not tell her that some nights he heard her crying as his father attempted to console her, and other nights he heard her pacing the halls outside his bedroom. She did not want him to worry, and he did not want her to know of Other Mother's shadow looming over him. His Distant Mother who saw through his eyes—her eyes—and listened through her ears—his ears. Maven gave the Gentle Queen a small smile. "You look lovely mother."
"Thank you, dear heart," his Gentle Mother said with the softest of smiles.
Has she said your name today? Other Mother asked. Does she ever say your name with such affection as she does your brother's?
Maven chewed the inside of his cheek and refused to show his madness. Silence was answer enough for Other Mother.
"Did your knight like the sword?" his Good Mother asked, taking his hand.
"Sword?" His father frowned, finally drawing his attention away from his wine glass long enough to join the conversation. "What sword?"
"The sword I was forging for the Red Knight. I told you."
"You did," his father agreed. "Although I don't understand why you were forging a sword for him. The blacksmiths forge for our knights."
"Yes, but they're courting."
"Courting?" The king's frown deepened at Maven. "You are the prince. You are not supposed to be courting a knight. He should be courting you."
"Tibe," his Kind Mother warned in a hushed tone.
His father cleared his throat, and at the very least had the good sense to apologize to his much-too-good-for-him-lady wife. "The Red Knight is purely decent," he amended his words. "A capable young man. He…compliments you well, I'm sure. You've made a good match, my boy, a very good match."
"Thank you father," Maven mumbled. His composure should be commended. It was very well within his right to keep his father at as much distance as his father kept him. Great Tiberias the Sixth, strong and powerful, Bright Flame of the North. What good was all his strength when it mattered? Where was it when he could not look at his son without seeing his beloved wife fading away day by day? Nowhere. Certainly not at the bottom of his wine glasses.
Maven turned back to his Good Mother. Today she seemed to be in much higher spirits than usual. Fatigue had released her for once. It tightened its hold over him instead, leaving him more easily vexed by his father's breathing. Regardless he did not wish to dower his Kind Mother's mood. "He liked the sword," Maven said. "It was beautifully made."
He'd given Thomas the sword that morning before he took flight with Vulcanus. It was elegant with a strong thrusting blade, featuring a moth-shaped cross-section. (Thomas was of no noble house that had its own sigil, he was common born, but he enjoyed stitching moths onto his clothing, and so Maven had begun associating the creature with his dear knight.) Its cross and pommel were sculpted to resemble twisting branches. The knight had been hesitant to accept it; just as he'd been hesitant to accept the vambraces the night before.
It was endearing, his shyness, as if these offerings were unexpected. When in fact the gifts of armor and weaponry were common in courting rituals. They told everyone that Maven would protect and defend Thomas just as his dear knight already protected and defended him.
There was the blaring of a horn, announcing the start of the tourney. A blush of warmth spread through his chest at the sight of Thomas still wearing the vambraces when he rode out onto the jousting field alongside Mare. The sheer height difference between them, both clad in near identical black armor, was made ever more apparent by the plumes on their helmets (red for Thomas, purple for Mare). Maven covered his mouth and held back a laugh.
Their first meeting was at a tourney much like this. It'd been hosted to celebrate the arrival of spring, his mother had wanted to showcase common born knights so that they might be able to secure a place for themselves within the palace. It was the last tourney Maven would ever participate in. He'd only done so upon his brother and his father's pestering. He'd put up a fairly good show until he was defeated by Evangeline Samos. After which Maven almost hadn't stayed to watch the rest of the tourney. Now he was glad that he did. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have seen Thomas knock off Ptolemus Samos and Triana Osanous, before losing to Cal. Though it had not been a quick loss. There had been blood drawn, and Thomas hadn't really seemed to care that he was fighting the prince, he just wanted to win. So as soon as the tournament ended Maven had tracked Thomas down and told him that he wanted him in his service.
"What makes I want you to be my prince?" Thomas had asked him.
"You are a Knight of the Burning Crown," Maven had said. "I am already your prince."
"I haven't sworn any oaths to any crown," Thomas told him. "I swear oaths to people, and none of whom are you. You haven't earned my oaths yet."
"Earn your oaths?" Maven had repeated, slightly scandalized.
Thomas had crossed his arms over his chest "I know you must be used to getting whatever you want with that handsome face and fancy title," he'd said. "But you won't get me. At least not that easy."
"You can't talk to me like that."
"Oh but I can knock you off your horse just fine."
Maven had huffed. "Do you have any practice walking on your knees?"
"No."
"You should start, I'll be more inclined to forgive your disrespect if you ask nicely."
Thomas had laughed. "Beat me in a duel, prince, then I'll think about apologizing to you."
"And what of your oaths?"
"Beat me in two duels, then maybe you'll get those as well."
Maven had not beat him in their first duel. He hadn't beaten him in their second duel, nor in their third duel. To save time, he hadn't beaten Thomas in any duel. If he were to challenge the knight to another duel right now, he'd lose that duel too. Thomas had said it was his persistence and his "admirable determination" that eventually got the knight into his service. Maven always thought that was just a nice way of saying he'd annoyed Thomas into swearing his oaths.
Though he wasn't sure when was the exact moment, or the exact event that led to vows made in annoyance, becoming vows sworn by lips that were pressed against his flesh. Maven was undeserving of such loyalty. He knew he was, but he was greedy and selfish as all those of royal blood tended to be. He wanted Thomas in any way he could have him, and had no intention of ever letting him go once he got him. Even if the disrespect hadn't disappeared after those oaths had been sworn.
It was hardly surprising. In all honesty, Maven didn't think either of his knights were capable of showing respect. He was sure that he would be significantly less fond of them if they were as dull as half of the knighted noble born, or if they possessed the name Ptolemus Samos. He winced as Mare drove her lance into Cal's shoulder. Wooden splintered and sprayed across the field. His brother tumbled from his horse, and his Good Mother held Maven's hand a little tighter.
On the ground, Cal flipped up the shield of his helmet. A grand stupid smile stretched across his face. Mare drew her sword and pointed at him. A wordless challenge to continue their match in single combat. Cal merely lifted his chin as if her sword were under it, quite content to have been defeated by her.
"Are they courting as well?" His father asked his Queen Mother. "Is weaponry now required to express your affections for another? Can't they just give them a palace like I did you?"
Maven put his head in his hands and groaned.
After the tourney there was a feast. A rather large, loud, expensive feast that Maven didn't care much for. If he had it his way, he'd spend his birthday watching performances at the theater, and having a nice quiet meal with the few people he cared about. He might've asked Mare if her sword could call down rain as well as lightning. That way he could enjoy a new book—because surely Cal had gotten him a book, as was the tradition of their Gentle Mother's family—by the candlelight with the soothing rumble of a thunderstorm outside his window. But he was the prince, the second-born prince, still the prince nonetheless. It was expected for the royal family to have a grand celebration for his coming of age.
Maven honestly didn't think anyone enjoyed the long speeches or the inane pleasantries. No one ever said anything because, well, when else would they be able to get close enough to kiss the king's feet without being accused of doing so? Maven had sat in the banquet hall, endured the politician's smiles, only for as long as he was required to. Then he left his brother to carry on with his loud conversations, his parents to continue working their way through the line of dignitaries, and escaped to the palace gardens.
Snow-dusted foliage stretched out around him. Maven sat in the grass, resting his back against Vulcanus's side, his circlet—a silver braid inlaid with lustrous ruby stones—laid discarded by his feet. In the distance, he could hear Sol Imperator's deep snoring from where the great lazy beast slept at the base of the king's residence. While directly against his ears, he heard the soughing of wind disturbing knobbly skeleton trees and the whispering of the roses.
Prince crowned in thorns.
Maven pulled the rose buds off their stems, dropped them at his feet.
His shall be a kingdom of death-like sleep.
He wove the briary stems together in the same way he'd seen his Other Mother do so when he was abandoned to her care.
100 years for 100 injuries.
"I don't know if princes are supposed to escape feasts that were thrown in their honor."
Maven's hands stilled, he looked up to find Thomas standing under a floral arch. Vulcanus chirruped at the knight, large ornamented tail sweeping in the snow to reveal the frozen grass underneath. He'd changed out of his tourney armor, polished his dragon-scale vambraces, and now wore his new sword across his back. It was a welcomed sight.
"I hate feasts," Maven said, his breath clouding in the cold. "They're loud."
"They are," Thomas agreed. "But at least you get to dress up all nice and princely for them."
Maven crinkled his nose. He liked to think he dressed up all nice and princely every day. It was simply that for feasts he opted to dress slightly more sophisticated and elegant than he normally did. Tonight for instance he wore a coat with a high collar and crimson ribbing that complimented his cloak, a pair of dark trousers, and sleek black boots that went over the knee and long, thin heels. Exceedingly princely and rose his height by just enough that Thomas could not exaggerate having to look down to speak to him.
"I saw you dancing with some noble ladies," Thomas said. "A great representation of the high class education members of court receive."
"Jealous were you," Maven said, rummaging through his dragon's saddle bags.
"Of course not," Thomas lied with a scoff. "All I'm saying is that I wouldn't have stepped on your toes."
Maven snorted. No one had really stepped on his feet. Except for one noble from Tiraxes who would've much rather been dancing with his brother. (Cal didn't want to dance with any of the noble children anymore than Maven did. He suspected his brother would sneak off soon, if he hadn't already, to have one of his secret-but-not-so-secret dances with Mare.) Maven had left the noblewoman in the middle of the dance. One day he wouldn't have to endure entertaining visiting dignitaries. He would be able to deny any dance he so pleased. The only person he would have to dance with was Thomas, and Thomas was the only person he wanted to dance with anyways.
"I have something else for you," Maven said, rising to his feet.
"Another gift?" Thomas's brows rose. "Shouldn't I be the one showering you with gifts, and not the other way around?"
"Sweet as you are, I don't think you could get me this." Maven handed him the jar which he had taken the time to wrap a big red bow on top, for presentation of course. It might be odd to just hand someone a jar of smoke, and so he thought that he should explain, "it's a cloud."
"You brought me a cloud," Thomas repeated. "From…from the sky?"
Maven stared dully at him. It was a good thing this knight had a handsome face. All those times he got knocked off his horse in tourneys had left his brain with some bruising. "No," Maven said with great sarcasm. "I brought you a cloud from the ocean."
"Hilarious aren't we?" Thomas deadpanned. He lifted the jar closer to his face, squinting at its contents. "It's just I've never had anyone gift me a cloud before. I've had people give me other things, but a cloud is singular."
Maven furrowed his brows together. "Who has given you other things?"
"No one of equal importance to you," Thomas assured him.
Was someone else courting his knight? No, not possible. Well, it certainty was possible, this was Thomas after all. His knight was very court-able. It would be an offensive if Maven was the only one courting him. Just as it was an offense that someone would think they could compete with him for his knight's affections. Offense aside, he should like to know who was this other person giving Thomas things. He wasn't going to kill them, but exile never hurt anyone.
"You should head back inside," Thomas said, he held. "Your mother is worried."
"Yes, let me just—" Maven started fussing over his clothes. The last thing he needed was to go back into the banquet hall with grass stains on rumpled clothes.
Thomas's gauntlet brushed gently against Maven's throat, a cold kiss against his skin. It was hardly any different than all those times Thomas had taken his hand. This was a fleeting touch. Yet Maven went still as Thomas caressed the curls from his face.
"There," his knight said softly. "Handsome."
"Hush." Maven slammed the visor of the knight's helmet down, drawing a light chuckle from Thomas. He felt himself flush all the way up to his ears, and was glad for the dark. It sparred him from further light teasing that would've only made him flush more.
He took the knight's arm, so that Thomas could escort him back to the banquet hall. They left Vulcanus to contently gnaw on the bones of a bison. The snow crunched underneath their feet, and the cool breeze tumbled their cloaks.
Prince crowned in thorns.
Maven's head twitched to towards the whispering voices. A phantom darted out from where it had been hiding in the dark rings of his vision. It scurried across the garden and this time it did not disappear when. The shadow possessed a humanoid form, and state of being. It fell into step with him, stared at him, followed him out of the garden and into the palace, whispering incoherently in a eerie hollow voice. Then it broke away. It wandered down the corridor opposite of the one that led to the banquet hall. Maven was gripped by the urge to follow it
"Stay here," he said, barely recognizing his own dazed voice. If Thomas asked him why or where he was going, Maven did not know. He hadn't waited for any response before he ran after the phantom.
Distantly, Thomas called out to him, grasped for him, but there were bees flitting around the air. He thought there were at least. They came in from the garden—where else would they have come from?—they crawled into his ears and filled them with honey.
His legs carried him on their own whim, down the twisting corridors, and up the winding staircases. The familiar path to his bedroom. With every step he took the air grew colder, the shadows deepened and darkened.
His shall be a kingdom of death-like sleep.
"God-Mother," Maven said. That creeping sense of dread that was often curled around his throat, now tightened its coil like a serpent constricting its prey.
Elara Merandus stood in the middle of his bedroom. He could see her clearer than he had ever been able to see her before. In her flowing blue robes with her ash-blonde hair wound together in plaints, sapphires set upon her brow, and dragon scales draped over her shoulders—they looked familiar, as if she'd skinned Sol Imperator and now wore his hide.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Enveloped in the thorny embrace of rose vines that crept in from the balcony with vibrant, bleeding red flowers. She wasn't supposed to appear so physically, not on this day. That was the rule. He wasn't supposed to see her on his birthday. Not unless this birthday was the birthday. And this birthday couldn't be the birthday though. It simply couldn't.
"I want more time," Maven said. His eyes felt heavy, and his body felt slow, but he did not want to sleep. Not yet, not just yet.
"You are without your crown," God-Mother said, as if Maven had not spoken at all. In her hands she held the braid of thorns that he had made in the garden.
"Just until the sun sets?" Maven asked, wide eyed. A child asking if he could stay up past his bedtime. "Can I have just a little longer?"
"A king cannot be without his crown," she said, taking a step forward.
He could run. To where? He did not know. There was no place he could hide where she would not find him. He could fight her, fight against her power, but with what strength? She was his mother, and he was her son damned from birth. What son truly had the strength to fight against their mother?
The crown was laid upon his brow, and the thorns buried themselves bone-deep into his skin.
100 years for 100 injuries.
The Forest of Thorns
The Calore Monarchs had held onto their power with their flame and their dragons. But what could dragons hope to when Sleep took Norta into its arms faster than the great beasts could lift their heads to spit fire at the brambles that overran the palace? Brambles that did not melt, that were not even scorched by their flame.
All the dragons could do was circle the tomb that the palace had become, and sing their mourning songs. Thomas heard them, day in and day out, caught in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness. The curse had imprisoned him in his own armor. He could not move, he could not speak. He stood where Maven had left him, where a living wall had risen to bar him from following the prince when he ran off that night. A statue of a knight, aware of the world around him, unable to escape. Not even to his dreams.
There were no dreams, for the prince dreamed of nothing. Thomas stood in the dark. Not far from the throne room, he heard Elara proclaim herself (fraudulent) Queen of a Slumbering Empire and amuse herself with the (rightful) Queen Coriane.
"Such a pretty songbird you are in your cage," said Elara. Her voice sardonic. "Now I see how you filthy hands grasped what was mine so easily." The sound of her nails drumming against what must've been the iron bars of the queen's cell. "Sing me a song pretty bird."
The queen's song was also a lament. She wept for her first son who'd also been entombed in his own armor, begged to see her second son who was locked away in a tower, and pleaded for the life of her husband. When Elara grew tired of her weeping she told the queen to be grateful that she loved her son enough to put himself to sleep, instead of killing him and taking him from Coriane forever.
"Your love is a vile farce!" Coriane would shout. "Do not waste your breath trying to convince me of your lies. I have always known you as you are, your words have never been pretty to me."
Elara would then tell her to be silent or she'd feed her husband's heart to her, and after she would cut out her tongue.
Why Elara didn't just kill the remaining members of the royal family, Thomas couldn't say. It was crueler to keep them all alive and separate, he supposed, and Elara Merandus had quite the appetite for cruelty. Which Thomas should have protected his prince from. More so than he had already tried too.
It was not enough. How could it be? When it mattered, he hadn't held onto Maven tight enough. He wasn't there when Elara came to take Maven away.
He should've been there.
The shield of his helmet was flipped up. A powder was blown into his face. Thomas sputtered and coughed, blinking rapidly to clear up his vision. "Mare?"
"Oh good it worked!" The Storm Dame, who was very much awake, grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "I was worried for a second there. You wouldn't believe how long it took me to find you."
"You did not find him."
Thomas tipped his head back and found the Dame Evangeline Samos sitting on top of the briar wall. How much time had passed that the Iron Maiden of House Samos had come to the capital all the way from the Rift? He recalled that Cal had given her leave a few weeks before the tourney so that she could spend the winter holidays with her darling wife. Half her soul must still be with Elane, wherever she was.
"How come neither of you are asleep?" Thomas asked. His muscles protested greatly as he moved for the first time in who knew how many days.
"I mixed rowan berries with cacao beans," Mare said.
"What?" Thomas frowned.
"Don't," Evangeline said. "It makes very little sense."
"Rowan berries protect against folk magic and cacao beans keep you awake," Mare explained. "Mixed together, they protect you from a sleeping curse. I popped them into my mouth as soon as I saw the royals passing out in their thrones."
"That is a ridiculous explanation."
"As I said." Eve climbed down from the briar wall. Pieces of her silver armor were blackened by soot. "Very little sense."
Mare shrugged. "Don't look at me. I didn't make up the rules for this curse."
Thomas dragged a hand down his face, and left it at that. He didn't have the brain to make sense of things now. He had to find Maven and make sure that the prince was okay.
As okay as anyone could be under a sleeping curse. What did that even mean? The brambles that consumed the palace could be growing out of his very body. Briar vines could be bursting from the cavity of his chest, roses could be growing out of his eye sockets. Was he aware of what was going on around him like Thomas had been, or was he simply sleeping? Thomas could hear everything going on around him, could Maven? It had been torture being a prisoner to his own armor, what must it be like to be a prisoner to one's own body?
No. Even if Maven was only sleeping, he could not leave the prince in that state any longer. And if he was not sleeping, if he was no longer…Thomas shook his head and steeled himself with a breath. "If we tried your weird fairy dust on Maven, would it work?"
"It's not the same for him." Mare shook her head. "He isn't under the curse. He is the curse."
"Couldn't you try?"
"How? I can't reach him."
"What do you mean?"
"We haven't been able to get to him," said Evangeline. "The thorns are too thick to cut through. They are impervious to Imperator and Invictus's dragon fire. Barrow's little lightning shows are useless."
Mare folded her arms, vambraces clanking against her chest plate, and popped her hip. "If I remember correctly my "useless, little" lightning shows kept you from becoming dragon meat."
"Don't flatter yourself," Evangeline scoffed. "Your lightning saved you more than it saved me. If you hadn't called it down, I would've just fed you to the overgrown lizard and made my escape."
"Wait, wait," Thomas interrupted the two bickering knights. "Vulcanus doesn't eat people." Not unless Maven personally fed someone to his dragon. The beast thought human bones to be too small and bothersome. Not nearly as enjoyable to chew on in comparison to bison bones. "What happened? Why did she attack you?"
"She's been guarding Maven's tower ever since he fell asleep," Mare explained. "She's angry and scared and won't let anyone get to him. I woke up four other knights before Eve found you. Sent them all to try and get him out of the tower while the two of us searched for Cal and his parents. None of them came back."
"And since we cannot risk Maven falling to insanity should we slay the beast," Evangeline said. "We will slay Elara instead."
"You'd rather fight the lady who came back from the dead and put the whole kingdom to sleep, than a dragon whose just protecting its rider?" Thomas arched a brow.
"I already got up close and personal with Vulcanus's teeth," Mare said. "I rather not meet her stomach."
That was understandable.
"And," Mare huffed, tightening her grip on her rapier, "I need to get to Cal."
Of course.
"You handle one dragon then," Thomas said. "I'll handle the other."
The dragon was not so much guarding a tower, rather it was mourning at a tomb. Its caterwauling could be heard across Ceaser's Square. A deep, drawn-out song of melancholy that only grew louder and more mournful the further up the tower Thomas climbed.
His muscles burned as he pulled himself up the rose vines that consumed tower. The thorns pricked his skin through the leather of his gauntlets. He tugged at each vine, testing its strength, before he used it to heft himself up and over the balcony railing.
Storm clouds rumbled, heavy with rain and bright with lightning. Vulcanus's grand silhouette loomed above him, vaned elbows rose like spires. The palace, it seemed, was not the only thing overgrown with briars . Ensanguine roses sprouted from between the dragon's scales, blistering the surrounding skin, and burst from the creature's eyes leaving it blind. Sharp talons gripped the brambles, folding itself over the tower side, and its barbed jaw yawned open. Strings of saliva stretched between its fangs. The beast barely looked at him before its scales came alive with heat. The glow of a flame laced the inside of its maw, curling pale smoke into the air.
Thomas scrambled to grab his cloak and shoved it up against one of the dragon's nostrils.
Vulcanus snapped its jaw's shut, the fire dying in its throat, and took in a deep breath. Rattling wings folded themselves, Vulcanus cocked its head to the side and let out a soft chirrup.
"Good girl," Thomas murmured, resting his hand underneath the dragon's jaw. "Can I see him?"
With another distressed rumbling, the great beast retreated to its perch.
Thomas hurried into the room, sword drawn. He was prepared to fight any manner of adversary or monster that might stand between him and the prince.
There was nothing. Maven was alone. He laid upon on his bed, ebony tresses a halo upon the pillows, his arms folded over his stomach. A crown of thorns laid on his brow. Rivulets of red trickled down the sharp planes of his face from where the crown buried itself into his flesh. The smell of blood and roses permeated the room.
Most people looked peaceful while they slept, but while Maven's features did relax, there was always a little knit between his brows. It never smoothed out, no matter how many times Thomas brushed his thumb over it. As if Maven were warning whoever came upon him not to disturb his slumber. He was never kind when his peace was disrupted, for his peace never came easy to him. Not like this unnatural tranquility, this fabricated serenity. Thomas dusted a handful of Mare's ridiculous curse-breaking powder, but his prince did not wake.
Outside lightning came down from the storm clouds, striking the banquet hall. Mare Barrow had killed Elara Merandus. Surely. Undoubtedly. That was one of the biggest lightning bolts he'd ever seen in his life. No one could've survived that. Yet still his prince did not wake, and now Thomas was unsure what to do.
This curse, he'd always known was something he could not protect the prince from. Swords after all could do nothing against an intangible force. Shields also could not ward off something that was interwoven into Maven's very being. Thomas had prepared himself for the day that the curse would come to claim his prince. At least he told himself that he had. In truth, some part of his mind had never actually believed that it was real. He'd deceived himself, convinced himself that the years would pass, Maven would wake up every morning, and the story of the prince's sleeping curse would remain just that. A story. Why couldn't it have just remained a story.
Heavy armor thudded against the wooden floor as Thomas fell to his knees at the prince's bedside. With a trembling hand he drew a dagger from where it was sheathed at his wrist, and pressed the tip against the prince's chest.
Protect me this night? Thomas imagined Maven would ask him now. He would swear that he would guard the prince every night. Only this time he did not know if he had the strength to. It was different when he knew that Maven would rise the next day to judge every person he came across, and to discuss whatever book he was currently reading even if Thomas himself had never heard of it. But to stand guard at his prince's door, night and day, knowing Maven was on the other side, death to the world that was moving on without him; Thomas did not know if he could endure it.
He did not want to endure it.
A gloved hand cradled the prince's head, trailing a thumb over his cheek bone. The kiss was a soft and sweet thing. It wasn't meant to linger. It was meant to be brief, a wistful goodbye. If anything of the curse lingered on his prince, Thomas would take it in himself. He would follow Maven into the arms of Sleep and they could succumb to darkness together.
There was a fleeting touch against his jaw, a trembling hand came to rest against his neck. Cold lips moved against his. Thomas startled back. Maven chased after him. A faint blush tinted his cheeks. The dagger clattered on the floor. Thomas stared at him, disbelieving.
The prince's mouth hung slightly open, but it wasn't words that came out. He doubled over, coughing up bloodied roses onto the bed. That startled Thomas out of his stupor.
"Are you okay?" Thomas grasped at Maven's arms, hitting the space between his shoulder blades. "Maven? My prince?"
Maven wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, seemingly undisturbed by the bits of lung that clung to the rose petals he'd hacked up. He looked at Thomas with eyes that had gone large and round. "Where you going to stab me?"
"I—" Thomas blindly scrambled to grab the dagger off the floor, refusing to tear his eyes away from his prince "—I didn't want to."
Maven picked up the dagger, dragging his finger along the edge of the blade. "It's a very pretty knife." He found his own reflection in the ruby studded hilt. "I don't think I would've been all that angry if you had."
"You…" Thomas wasn't sure how to respond to that. He wasn't all that sure about what was happening. "You can have it if you want."
Maven hugged the dagger to his chest now and leaned forward. It was slightly disturbing, how the prince acted as though everything were completely normal. As if he had not just awaken from a death-like state. "Does this mean you accept my courting gifts?"
"Courting…" Thomas's eyes searched his face for confusion, or disorientation that might've been left behind by the curse. He found none. His eyes drifted to the vambraces still on his arms, the sword that laid discarded on the bed, and he thought back to the cloud in the jar he'd been given. "Those were courting gifts?!"
"Yes." Maven frowned and tilted his head in a manner that was very similar to his dragon. "Did you not want them to be courting gifts?"
"No!" Thomas shook his head. "I mean yes! No wait—no—" his face was burning "—I mean—court me, yes, please!"
"I was already courting you," Maven reminded him gently.
"Then let me court you back!" Thomas took the prince's face in his hands once again. "Wait, how do I do that? What stage are we on? We're not engaged yet are we?"
Oh dear, if they were engaged already and he didn't yet know it—
"We're not engaged yet, no," Maven snickered. "If we were dragons we'd lock talons and cartwheel towards the earth."
"Don't eagles do that too?" Thomas asked.
"Yes, but we are neither dragons nor eagles," Maven said.
Thomas took the prince's hand, and threaded their fingers together. "Talons locked…can I just kiss you again instead of tumbling towards the earth?"
"Yes that seems like a fair alternative."
Thomas grinned, capturing the prince's lips once again.
Late, Mare would make a light-hearted jab at him for forgetting about the rest of the kingdom while he was kissing his prince in the tower Thomas would remind her that his kiss had been what broke the sleeping curse that gripped the kingdom. He did not pretend to understand what had happened, or how that single kiss had seemingly broken a curse with death-like properties. Maybe Thomas possessed magical properties himself…or maybe the laws of magic were simply ridiculous.