Chapter Text
Long ago, there was a kingdom ruled by a beloved King and Queen.
News of the Queen's first pregnancy spread like wildfire. Every day, citizens brought gifts to the castle ranging from handmade baby clothes to baked goods. The people took care of the royals that took care of them. It was a beautiful relationship that only grew in strength once the firstborn arrived.
Courtland was his name. As he grew up, he took after his father in looks and personality, but he had his mother's eyes. The King and Queen would visit the markets and allow the townsfolk to meet their son, the next ruler of the kingdom. The son, while mischevious, was a gem in the eye of the kingdom. Everyone watched him grow into a smart, wise young man even at the age of seven.
The news of the Queen's second pregnancy spread far and wide in the kingdom, except under a different pretense. The Queen was notably absent from the royal family's weekly visits into the town. When prompted, the King exposed the truth that the Queen's body was not fit to be moving around so much. Worry grew like a seed amongst the townsfolk, and the castle was once again flooded with gifts and prayers for the Queen's recovery.
Courtland was eight years old when the Queen was put on bedrest, mere days from her expected due date. She grew paler by the day, sicker. She could barely squeeze Courtland's hand anymore, she was so exhausted. She could barely move without speaking of unbearable pain. It was then that the King, unable to see his beloved in such agony, sent his soldiers to search for a myth.
A flower, said to cure all ailments. Stories written of the flower described it to be one with six long, golden petals that glowed bright on even the darkest of nights. Courtland read stories of the flower with his mother and even offered to search with the soldiers, but his father would not allow it. He insisted Courtland stay with the Queen to comfort her, to entertain her from her torment.
Courtland was a clever child. Entertainment for the Queen consisted of reading stories in the morning, purposefully mispronouncing words and smiling when his mother corrected him. He put on one person theatrical shows with dramatic storylines and household items used as props. He made silly faces behind the midwives' heads, smiling when it drew a laugh from the Queen.
The flower was found quickly, and was made into a glowing herbal tea for the Queen to consume. Courtland watched his mother drink the golden liquid, mesmerized.
A few days later, the King and Queen were surprised to welcome not one new child, but two. Twin boys. The Queen thankfully survived the birth of the twins after a long night, and held them tightly as she slept. Courtland laid on her right, looking down at his baby brothers. He'd heard of babies being born with heads full of hair, but he didn't believe it. Mother always said that when he was born, he was as bald as a seal.
Courtland put a gentle finger on his brother's head, feeling the thin golden strands on his skin. He gasped when the hair seemed to… glow. Just like the flower. He tried it with his other brother to find the same result. The Queen continued to sleep soundly, unaware of Courtland's discovery. He let his mother sleep, but he continued to brush the twins' hair from their heads, watching the strands glow softly a golden color.
"Magic," he'd whisper in wonder.
A few weeks passed in bliss. The kingdom threw grand parties to celebrate the two new Princes and the Queen's steady recovery. For a full week, people took to the streets with purple flags and images of golden suns, a design supposed to represent a new age of the kingdom full of tranquility and healing. Courtland danced with the townsfolk, though his father had to drag him away from the mead booth with a shake of his head. Courtland was determined to see what the hype was about surrounding the drink, but perhaps not today.
Courtland would play with his brothers every day. Colton and Ryland were their names. Colton was a stubborn, sassy baby that liked to pull on Courtland's clothes with an iron-clad grip. Ryland liked to stare at the mobile over his crib that had stars and planets on it, courtesy of the town's astronomer and woodworker. Every day, Courtland would occupy his brothers' time with stories (Ryland was going to be a reader, he could already tell) and lots of running around and playing pranks on the guards. It was funny since the babies couldn't run, so Courtland would end up running away and leaving a flustered guard calling for help.
"The young Princes have escaped their room!" a particularly nervous guard would yell, and Courtland would die laughing in a corner.
One night, the royal family lay on the giant bed in the King and Queen's bedroom. The twins were asleep in the Queen's arms, the King holding his beloved wife and Courtland's arm from across the bed.
"Courtland," the King said.
"Yes?"
"Your brothers are very special. There is something about them we do not yet fully understand. With time, we will, but there is a problem."
Courtland sat up immediately. "Problem?"
"There are people out there who will do anything to get their hands on the kind of power your brothers possess. Even if we do not know their power, we can assume it is grand, that of the golden flower. Courtland, you must promise me something," the King said gravely. When Courtland nodded, he continued. "You must promise me that you'll protect your brothers. Being part of this family is already enough to put you in the sights of bad people, but them even more so. You must protect them."
Courtland looked down at his brothers, the lights of his life. He couldn't imagine a day without them. He couldn't imagine not being there for them when they learn to walk or talk. He could imagine the days ahead full of tailoring appointments and the annoyed glares Colton would give him in the mirrors. He could imagine seeing Ryland in the town's library, reading to his heart's content. Courtland's resolve hardened. In that moment, he was no longer a boy. He declared himself a man, the protector of the twins.
"I will, Father," he said with a firm nod.
And he kept to that promise as best he could.
Just as all seemed to be going well, darkness crept into the window of the King and Queen's bedroom. Courtland had already begun sword training lessons with the knights and was holding his own quite well. He begged his parents to sleep in their room, to watch over the twins. The Queen gave a pointed look at the King, but conceded and allowed Courtland to sleep in their room by the babies. Courtland slept with his sword by his side every night, ears alert for any danger.
Except one night, someone crept in through the window. Courtland was asleep. He didn't hear until there was a loud gasp.
He was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn. There was a shadowy figure hovered over the twins' crib. The figure had Ryland tucked into her arm, the other bony hand reaching for Colton. Courtland did not hesitate. He swiped at the hand, watching it retreat into a dark cloak.
"Let go of my brother!" he shouted.
The King and Queen awoke at his shout, watching him chase the figure to the open windowsil. Courtland raised the blade again, aiming for the figure's heart. The figure, an older woman, laughed at him and swept her cloak before his eyes. He swung anyway, but the blade didn't pierce skin. He watched, transfixed, as the woman seemed to disappear into the night, the bright blue moon on the horizon illuminating the running figure along the side of the castle.
Courtland was running out of the room before he could blink. "Guards! Prince Ryland has been taken!"
Every guard in the vacinity rallied to his side, equal embers of anger in their eyes as they barked orders, waking up the castle. Courtland ignored his Father's calls and climbed onto a horse with the General, taking off down the cobble streets. People opened their doors, bleary eyed as the alarm bells rang throughout the kingdom. Courtland gave his description of the woman to the General, the man who had been training him to fight. The man nodded firmly and snapped the horse's reigns.
As the guards approached the dark woods, Courtland blinked feverishly. Every shadow he saw seemed to move, reminiscent of the old woman. He growled in frustration. Why does his brain try to play tricks on him right now?
The guards searched the woods far and wide until the sun's rays broke the horizon. Courtland, still in his silk pajamas and bare feet, searched the longest even when the General ordered his men to retreat to the castle for shift change. The General continued to search with Courtland behind every bush, every tree, every crevice of the woods.
Every second that passed, Courtland saw baby Ryland the day he was born. He saw his baby brother babbling happily, his sticky hand pressed in a book. He saw the future he imagined for himself and his brothers crumbling before his eyes. He blinked back tears every other second, calling out for his brother only to hear birdsong in reply.
It was when the sun began to glow orange in the evening sky that the General gently coaxed Courtland back to the castle, promising him that the castle guards would continue to search every minute. Courtland returned home with his heart ripped from his chest, the crushing feeling that he'd failed twisting his gut painfully. How could he face his father when he promised he'd take care of them? Protect them? He failed.
But his Father did not yell, did not shout. He simply brought Courtland into an embrace, and the eldest son broke.
Courtland grew unhealthily dependent on Colton. He spent every waking moment with his brother, which the baby didn't seem to mind at all. For weeks, Courtland awaited news from the guards. He'd hold Colton in his arms and stare out at the forest. If Colton couldn't sleep, he'd hold him the same way, watching the orange glow of the guards' lanterns in the forest move about.
"They'll find Ryland. Of course they will," Courtland would whisper to Colton, who had started to become restless day by day with his twin's absence. "If they don't, I'll go out there again myself."
Townsfolk were outraged and aided in the search, but weeks turned into months. The Queen and King were visibly saddened every day. Courtland maintained hope, for he knew Ryland was out there somewhere. The old woman couldn't have gotten far. She was clever, that's for sure, but her age would surely catch up to her. She couldn't have fled too far. She just needed to be found.
Courtland would take Colton out on the town now that he could walk. Near the town's center, he stopped, transfixed as the local artists painted a mural on the stone walls. He saw his Mother and Father smiling back at him. He saw his own youthful face, forever stuck at eight years old, standing proud beside his father. In the arms of his parents were the twins, heads of golden hair and bright blue eyes. Courtland stared at the artists staining their hands blue and gold, tears falling from his cheeks.
Deep in the forest, the woman holed up in an old tower, raising the child as her own. Every night, she sung the fated song, her hand carding through the baby's hair as the healing took effect. Wrinkles receded, her rough voice took a more youthful approach. Her gray hair returned to its silky brown color.
She knew of the King and Queen's chosen name for the baby. Ryland. A mouthful, she thought. This baby that had the powers of her saving grace, and it deserved a name that reflected that significance. After days of consideration, she came to a conclusion as she watched the baby sit in front of the fire with sad eyes.
"Saving grace," she muttered. "Grace. You will be Grace from today on. My flower."
The baby stared at the flames, too aware for a child so young to know that something was wrong. His heart was heavy with grief, with loss. He didn't know why. Not like he could put words to it, but he felt incomplete sitting in the tower with a woman and no one else.
"Why can't I go outside?" he finally asked when he was six years old and sitting before a fire on a chilly night. Mother combed his hair after he sang the song that made it glow. He didn't understand why that happened, and neither did Mother, for she never told him why his hair was so special.
"The outside world is a dangerous place, filled with horrible, selfish people. You must stay here where you're safe. Do you understand, flower?" Mother said as she continued to brush.
Grace slumped, staring at the fire and wondering why the yellow and orange flames reminded him of something. "Yes, Mother."
Each year that passed, baby Ryland would stay up late and watch beautiful lights float into the starry skies on his birthday. Each year, he watched, and he wondered if it was for him—if the deep ache that he carried would be solved if he could just see those lights up close.
That's how the tale of the lost prince begins. Sad, right? How does it end?
The view from the tower was beautiful. The clouds were almost in arms reach. The waterfall behind the tower created rainbows daily. The sunrises and sunsets were gorgeous. The air was always fresh and breezy.
Rocky lay on the windowsil, pressing into it, changing his skin color to match the painted ceramic.
"Now where could he have gone, hm? Definitely not in the kitchen, not in the closet… hm…"
Rocky scooted over slightly, ignoring the grand fall before him if he slipped. The footsteps drew closer. Hands slammed on the wood of the windowsil, but Rocky managed not to jump.
"Ha! Oh. Well, I guess Rocky's not hiding out here."
Rocky exhaled with relief, as much as he could in a little chameleon's body. It turned out to be his greatest mistake, for a familiar hand wrapped around him and pulled him from his hiding spot.
"Gotcha!"
Rocky pouted as Grace's finger scratched the top of his head. The human looked down at him with a fond smile. His hair was getting longer, sitting just below his shoulders, though there was a slight curl to them that seemed to always stay in the picture-perfect position. He looked… well, like royalty. If royalty liked to wear hair in low ponytails.
"Don't be so sad. We've got plenty of time for you to find a good hiding spot. That's twenty two for me. Best out of forty-five?" Grace said. Rocky sent him a glare. He sat on the windowsil, feeling the afternoon breeze pass through. He used to be scared of sitting on a ledge that high, but he'd had plenty of time to get used to it. "Okay, well, what do you want to do?"
Rocky eagerly pointed out towards the grass of the small valley. From his vantage point, Grace could see pops of color in between the sea of green. Yellows and purples and pinks, much like the flowers that adorned his windowsil. Speaking of, he needed to water them. He watched the water in the pond below sparkle in the morning light, wondering what it'd feel like to run his hand through the ripples.
"Yeah, I don't think so. I like it in here and so do you," he said, earning another pout from Rocky. "Come on, Rock, it's not so bad in there."
Grace cupped Rocky in his hands and turned back into the tower. He opened the skylights by a hanging chord, looking at the clock mounted on the wall. 7 AM. Right on time. He began sweeping the floors, wondering how so much dust accumulated in the space in such a short time. He dusted, mopped the floors until he could see his reflection in the tile, and even sorted out the assortment of cardigans he'd knitted on the coat rack near the entrance.
By the time that was done, he looked at the clock to see that only fifteen minutes had passed. He huffed. Really, time was an interesting entity. It passed so slowly whenever he wanted it to pass fast and vice versa. He looked back at Rocky to find the chameleon unimpressed. Grace rolled his eyes and turned to his expansive bookshelf, running his fingertips along the worn spines. Some of the lettering on them had begun to fade.
"How about the stars today, Rock?"
The chameleon climbed onto his shoulder as he tugged the thick book off of the wall. He took it to the lounge area in the center of the tower, opening the book and lying on his stomach on the floor. Rocky leaned over his shoulder as he read the words aloud. They learned about supernovas and light until lunchtime, where Grace decided to try his hand at baking again. He and Rocky flung flour at each other, smiling and laughing even though the chameleon couldn't laugh like a human. He was very expressive, regardless.
He didn't set anything on fire this time, thankfully.
After lunch, it was completing the 500 piece puzzle he recieved as a gift last year from Mother. After that, it was dancing to invisible music. After that, he picked up his knitting needles and continued to work on the sweater Mother requested months ago for the upcoming winter season (though it wasn't for another six months). And after all of that, he retreated to his box full of paint. He looked over the walls.
Spending a little over seventeen years cooped up in the walls of the tower gave Grace a lot of things to think about. A lot to imagine of the outside world. He had books Mother bought him upon his request, and he read all of them front to back many times to soak up as much information about the world as he could. He really liked the informative books with the illustrations because they did most of the imagining for him, allowing him to see the picture of a beach and questioning what grains of sand felt beneath his toes. Many nights did he spend staring at the stars and sketching their shapes into a blank notebook, Rocky correcting some of his mistakes from his shoulder. Mother thought it was just him taking his education into his own hands with the resources she gave him, and sure, it was, but it was also a secret study he was conducting.
The stars on the countless papers he had stuffed in his chest upstairs eventually made it onto the walls of the tower due to Grace's boredom throughout the long days. He was twelve when he requested Mother purchase the materials for painting, and she obliged with a confused smile. From then on, he painted his findings onto the walls. Every day and every night, he saw the stars blinking back at him under the moon's rays; and every day and every night, he asked a sky that couldn't respond why he felt so connected to them.
Grace climbed onto the mantle above the fireplace, carefully placing his paint next to his feet. Rocky hummed nervously on his shoulder as he dipped the brush into deep blue paint.
He primarily painted the stars he'd charted, but today was different. Today, Grace would take matters into his own hands. He was nearly an adult, just a day shy of turning eighteen. Now that he was older, Mother might consider letting him go. Grace painted the last strokes of the gold that represented his hair.
This painting felt much different from the others he did. For one, he included himself, which never happened. He painted himself staring up as golden lanterns floated into the dark blue sky, conveying the years of unanswered questions and longing he's pushed down for the sake of keeping Mother happy. Today, that would change. Today, he'd show Mother his painting and finally ask the fated question.
"Today's the day, Rocky. I'm finally gonna do it! I'm gonna ask her!" he said to the chameleon.
"Grace?" a voice rang from the outside in a sing-song tone. "Grace, let down the rope!"
"It's time," he whispered in excitement. Nervous anticipation. Rocky did a little prance on his shoulder. "Here, come on, don't let her see you."
Once Rocky was hidden along with his new painting, Grace hastily cleaned up his painting supplies and wiped his palms on his trousers. Bits of blue paint flaked off. He made his way to the open window that cast the entryway in a light glow.
"I'm not getting any younger down here!" Mother called.
"Coming!" he called back. He fixed the rope on the hook and lowered it down. Once he saw Mother hanging on, he tugged the rope up bit by bit until Mother's silhouette filled the window, her velvet red dress like roses against the sun's rays. He huffed as she entered, wiping his brow. "Hi, welcome home, Mother."
"Oh, Grace, how you manage to do that every single day without fail," Mother spoke as she placed her basket down, coming to run her hand along his face and cup his cheek. "It looks absolutely exhausting, darling."
"It's nothing," Grace chuckled nervously.
"Then I don't know why it takes so long. Oh, just teasing, darling, you know!"
Another awkward chuckle.
"All right," he muttered to himself, following Mother as she walked further into the tower. "So, Mother, you know tomorrow is a very big day—"
"Grace, look in that mirror," Mother said, grasping his arm to pull him into the reflection. "You know what I see? I see a strong, confident, beautiful young lad. Oh, you're here too! I'm just teasing. Stop taking everything so seriously."
Grace studied his expression in the mirror. He wouldn't consider the face staring back at him as serious, more like I'm so nervous right now that I'm going to melt into the floor. As Mother went back to admiring her reflection (which she did a little too much, in Grace's opinion), he cleared his throat. Courage. He would have courage today.
"Okay. So, Mother, as I was saying. Tomorrow is—"
"I'm feeling a little run-down, darling. Would you sing for me, my dearest? Then we'll talk."
She was considering it. "It" meaning the serious talk he's been trying to have since she climbed through the window. This was it! This was his chance! He quickly rushed to push her favorite red chair into the center of the room and grabbed the brush Mother used on his hair. He helped her sit in her chair, shoved the brush into her hands, and sat in front of her legs and started singing.
"Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine—" he rushed, and even with his eyes closed he could see a difference in the lighting as his hair worked its magic "—make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine—"
"Grace!" Mother said chastizingly as the air poofed around them, the magic accumulating in a huff of warm air.
The warmth of the magic quickly dissipated as Grace shot back to his feet.
"So, Mother," he started with a smile, "earlier I was saying tomorrow is a big day and you didn't respond. So I'm just going to tell you—it's my birthday! Ta da!"
He clung to her arm, watching her expression simmer into something calm, collected. He had braced himself for her odd moods, but he couldn't really read this one. She took his hand away from her arm to hold it.
"No no no, I distinctly remember your birthday was last year."
"That's the funny thing about birthdays. They're kind of an annual thing." Grace backed away to sit on a nearby stool, puffing his hair out of his eyes. He bore into Mother's eyes. "Mother, I'm turning eighteen, and I wanted to ask… what I really want for this birthday—actually, what I've wanted for quite a few birthdays now—"
"Grace, please, stop with the mumbling," Mother interjected with a slight sharpness to her tone. "You know how I feel about it, the mumbling. Blah blah blah. It's very annoying. I'm just teasing, you're adorable! I love you so much, darling."
He frowned when she reached over to laugh and pinch his cheeks before walking away. He released his breath, dejected. Why was she being so… weird about this? She did like to tease him, but not usually to this amount. There would be a comment every other day or so, not ten in fifteen minutes. Was it his upcoming request? Did she think he's been asking for too much recently? Grace gazed off to the side, finding that Rocky had climbed down from the mantle. The chameleon waved his hand as if saying go on!
Grace squeezed his eyes shut, fists curling the fabric of his brown trousers. He couldn't take it anymore. If he spent one more year not knowing what the floating lights were, he was going to die. He needed to know! He needed to understand why they were so different from the stars. He needed to see them up close, to understand why they felt targeted towards him specifically, like they were for him and him alone. Why they only took to the skies on his birthday.
"I want to see the floating lights!" Grace exclaimed in a breath.
Mother paused where she'd started unloading the contents of her basket onto the counter, a red apple shining in the light. He watched her eyes dart about for a moment, as if trying to come up with something to say, before she schooled her expression.
"What?"
Grace stood again, using a taller stool to reach the curtain covering the mantle. "I was hoping you would take me to see the floating lights," he said hopefully, showing her the painting.
"Oh, you mean the stars," Mother said with a slight nod as she studied the painting.
"That's the thing!" Grace said, reaching for another dangling cord to open the taller skylight. The new light showed the larger portions of the upper walls which were a mess of maps, of bright, twinkling stars made of white paint. "I've charted stars, and they're always constant. But these… these floating lights, they appear every year on my birthday, Mother. Only on my birthday. A-and I can't help but feel like they're meant for me."
He glanced back at her. Mother's eyes went from the charted stars to the portrait, her brows furrowing. Her expression soured a little bit, which only made the chip in Grace's hopeful heart crack a little more. He hopped off of the stool, his bare feet slamming against the tile. A stinging pain ran up his legs but he didn't care. He needed her to understand the importance of this event. If he waited another year… well, he didn't know if he could take it anymore. He could only stay cooped up in the tower long enough. It sounded awful in his head to plot against his Mother's wishes, but he just… he couldn't take it anymore! He was practically eighteen already! He needed to go out, to explore, to answer the questions he's theorized answers to for years.
"I need to see them, Mother," he pleaded. "Not just from the window. In person. I have to know what they are."
Mother stalked towards the window, her confident and calm aura returning in her motions. "You want to go outside? Why, Grace, you'd be eaten alive out there!"
The entryway dimmed as she closed the window, the sound reverberating through the tower like a prison sentence. He'd read about those in a fantasy novel Mother got for him a few years ago. Incarceration, he'd learned from a dictionary. The act of being confined in a facility like a jail or prison, being deprived of personal liberty. He couldn't help but feel like her closing the window was the equivalent of subtly telling him the possibility was out the window. It solidified in his gut as she approached him with that small smile, that one she usually used when he was six years old and still learning how to cook. Berating in a kind way.
"You know why we stay up in this tower," she said.
"Yeah, but—"
"It's to keep you safe and sound, darling." She let her fingertips grasp a strand of his hair, smiling as the strand brushed her skin. She let his hair go and moved towards the window, closing the curtain. "I knew this day would come when you'd want to leave the nest but, oh, I didn't think it'd come so soon."
Grace reached out but retracted his hand as Mother began to pace. It was all weird, all odd. She'd warned him about the outside world once, a long time ago, and he'd taken it to heart like all the lessons she gave him. He hung off her every word because Mother's word was best, even if he read dozens of books about the wonders of crafting, woodworking, sewing, all things that people outside did same as him. His curiosity was, frankly, killing him, and he couldn't understand why Mother was so keen on keeping him in the tower. She could accompany him to see the lights. She's been outside far longer than him, she would be able to keep him safe regardless of what dangers lie outside.
"It's so scary out there, Grace. If we go out, we could run into ruffians, thugs, poison ivy, the plague! How dreadful!" Mother circled him. "Big bugs, men with sharp teeth! I say we skip all of that drama and stay here where it's safe because Grace, I love you, but you wouldn't survive outside. You're gullible, naive, ditsy and clumsy."
Grace let her poke and prod at his middle, his arms, considering her words. She… she was right. He knew nothing of the people outside. He didn't want to encounter men with spiky teeth or poison ivy. He liked the safety, the comfort of the tower, even as he felt the world spin around him without him ever living in it. He just wanted to feel the grass beneath his toes, how it felt to walk on dirt. Mother didn't understand that.
But she knew the outside better than he ever would, understood it in a way the books could never convey. He once again took her words to heart, letting her bring him into an embrace. She was right, like always. Here, in the tower, she could protect him. She could keep him from harm and wrongdoing, both things Grace was not fond of.
"Grace?"
"Yes?"
She pulled away from the hug, resting her hands firmly on his shoulders. "Don't ever ask to leave this tower again."
She had that look in her eye, the one that left no room for argument. Grace stared into them, all hopes associated with his portrait crushed beneath his feet. He looked down at the tile, at his toes. No grass. There was no grass in the tower. Was it so wrong for him to want to just… take a little lap outside? To run around the tower once and then come back up?
There was risk to that, a voice in his head said, sounding too similar to Mother. There was risk in stepping a single foot outside of the tower, risk of people finding him and taking him away. Risk of all sorts of sicknesses or injuries. It… it probably would be better to stay in the tower where nothing could happen, where he could control his environment.
It didn't mean his curiosity dimmed at all. It may lie dormant, upset and depressed, but it still lurked in the shadows ever present.
"Yes, Mother," he conceded sadly.
She reached a finger to tilt his chin, looking him deep in the eyes. "I love you very much, darling."
The sincerity of her voice made him forget for a moment the crushed dream in his head.
"I love you more," he replied.
"I love you most. Mother knows best, after all."
Mother gathered her basket and cloak once more, allowing the light to flood in from the now open window. She tied her cloak at her collarbone. He put on gloves before grabbing the rope, lowering her back into the outside world he wished so desperately to learn about.
"I'll see you in a little bit, my dear!" Mother chided as she hit the grass.
Grace let go of the rope, watching it sway in the wind. He watched her go from the windowsil, imagining himself walking beside her. Earth beneath his feet. Wind in his hair. He gazed out at the horizon, that same stabbing feeling in his chest coming back, the same feeling of wrongness he's been feeling his entire life. Something was out there calling for him. He wished so desperately he could find out what.
"I'll be here," he muttered. Grace imagined the sky being dark, of lanterns flooding the sky. He sighed. Mother knows best.
The thieves jumped from rooftop to rooftop, the tile clacking against their boots. The sun beat down on their backs, reminiscent of the potential punishment they could recieve for what they were about to do.
The plan was simple, and would most certainly not work under normal conditions, but the thieves had to try. It was too good of an opportunity to not take it. The lost prince's crown, sitting on a pedestal in a room the King and Queen hardly went in? What a steal. The only issue was the dozens of guards that stood between them and the prized jewel.
Except, that's why they ran across the roof of the castle. The ceilings inside were too high for anyone to notice the noise, which made their plan absolutely perfect. Three men, perfect for the job, especially with their backgrounds.
Tom Ryder, an experienced conman with a gift for putting up a face, an actor, if you will. He could sway anyone into giving him what he wanted. It was a special skill that was primarily how they managed to have money for food at the end of the day (though they weren't below stealing a few loaves of bread). He'd even managed to put on a good enough act that a royal guard took pity on him and gave him a small bag of apples. He still bragged about it two years later.
Dressler. Don't know if he has a last name or not. The man stood out like a sore thumb with his bodybuilder build and flaming red hair. He usually wore some sort of hat to cover his hair. He was the most stealthy, though he did most of the fighting if it came to it. He carried brass knuckles on him at all times that he was an expert with in combat. He also happened to be the primary mastermind behind their most nerve-wracking heists, like today's. He and Tom were partners in crime for years before the third one joined in.
And finally, The Convict. He had a name, but the other two didn't know it. He made sure they didn't know as it wasn't their information to have. They were co-workers, simple as that. Nothing else. Convict's primary job was to actually do the stealing, as he had great stamina and thought quickly on his feet in the event that their plan went wrong. He was quiet but easily got hotheaded and clashed with his co-workers (conspirators) more than he conversed with them.
They made it to the entry point. Convict looked over the kingdom, using one hand to block the sun from his eyes.
"Wow, I could get used to this view," he said. He really could. The kingdom was beautiful, even if he spent most of his time in his jail cell or ducking between dark alleys to escape the castle guards.
"Convict, focus," Dressler snapped. He handed Convict the rope.
Right, the plan. Repel down from the ceiling, snatch the crown without a word, and get out. Easy peasy.
As the Convict tied the rope securely around his waist, he wondered if the crown looked similar to Prince Colton's. Silver with blue teardrop shaped jewels embedded like the pedals of a flower at the front of the crown. Prince Courtland hardly wore his crown, though it was a requirement for royal family to adorn their jewels in public appearances.
Convict almost felt bad about stealing the crown. The entire kingdom had been on the lookout for nearly eighteen years for the lost prince, Ryland. The King and Queen offered riches beyond belief for the person who could find their lost son, and while it was great incentive to spread the search, the townsfolk were already looking for their beloved Prince as far and wide as they could. The Convict was way too young to remember much about the initial announcement of the Prince's absence, but he knew the story like everyone else. Someone snuck into the King and Queen's bedroom at dead of night and attempted to steal both babies from their crib. Prince Courtland managed to protect one brother but lost the other. The eldest Prince never forgot that mistake.
Many times in the Convict's criminal career had he come close to Prince Courtland's clutches. Prince Courtland had devoted his entire being—mind, body, and soul—into finding his lost brother. He forced the knights of the kingdom to train him in combat. Admittedly, it was not a Prince's place to learn swordplay, but Convict guessed the kingdom was too desperate to turn him away, especially when he spent every waking moment searching for the lost prince. Convict had great respect for the Prince even when running away from him with whatever he stole in his leather satchel. The Prince was ruthless in his persuit, in his search, and Convict knew that if anyone were to find the lost prince, it would be the eldest sibling.
When Prince Courtland wasn't searching, he was accompanying the younger Prince around on his daily visits into the town. Prince Colton had his own way of searching for his missing half, which consisted of building good rapport with the townsfolk and asking if they'd heard word from any land, any person who stepped foot in the kingdom about his lost brother. The townsfolk already adored the kind-hearted Princes enough to give the information freely, but they seemed even more determined to find word on the lost prince when Prince Colton would walk back to the castle with a dejected look in his eye every day. Prince Colton would sometimes accompany his older brother on his searches in the forest, though he didn't stay out too long. Convict didn't know why, but sometimes he'd see the Prince riding back to the castle as if he were in great physical pain.
A mystery, for sure. Twins.
Convict peeked over their opening, seeing the floor probably forty or fifty feet below. He could see silver glinting in the afternoon lighting, the jewels shimmering. Dressler and Tom nodded at him, and he began the descent, putting trust in his conspirators that they surely didn't deserve as they lowered him. One, two, three… he counted fifteen guards in the great hall and… seriously? None of them thought to stand facing the crown? They all had to look at the doorway? Whatever, it made his job much easier.
He was lowered until he was just a few inches above the crown. He gently grasped the metal, fingertips jolting with a shock at the cold metal in his palm. It was nearly identical to Prince Colton's, except the teardrop jewels were the color of honey as opposed to the bright blue sky. He, again, felt a great guilt in taking the crown because he was stealing from a family that he admired. It didn't help that he'd heard rumors from some of the castle's staff that both Princes would spend hours with the crown, murmuring to each other about what the crown would look like on their brother's head if he were still with them. He admired the family for staying true and just, and he admired the Princes for their strong wills and hearts, which only made his chest felt like an anvil rested upon it as he stuffed the crown in his satchel.
The guard closest to him sneezed, the sound echoing in the vast hall. Before Convict could stop himself, instinct took over.
"Bless you," he said, much to his horror.
"Oh, thank you," the guard said as he absentmindedly turned, sending the Convict an appreciative nod. He almost felt bad for the sake of the guards, too, because while they were devoted to upholding the laws he broke on the daily, they were good people at the end of the day. He could only imagine what the King and Queen were going to do to them once they realized the guards let the crown be stolen.
The Convict swallowed back his racing heart, sweat beading on his brow. "Hay fever?"
"Yeah."
Convict tugged on the rope frantically. He was pulled up just as the guard realized his mistake.
"Hey!" the guard shouted, but Convict was already back on the rooftop.
He tightened his hold on the satchel as they bolted across the kingdom.
"Seriously? You got us caught because you couldn't hold back a bless you?" Tom shouted as they jumped.
"It's not like I wanted to say it! It just came out!" Convict bit back.
"Just run, you idiots!" Dressler said.
Convict ran ahead of the two, and he had to admit, he loved the adrenaline rush that came with the chase. No doubt Prince Courtland had already caught wind of the grand heist and was gearing up to hunt for them. It only made the chase more thrilling, giving more incentive to not get caught. He hopped from rooftop to rooftop until they reached the lower part of the town, running across the bridge connecting the town to the forest. The wind billowed through his hair, his clothes, and despite his legs and lungs protesting slightly at their escape, he had never felt more alive.
The cover of the trees allowed them a moment to catch their breaths. He leaned against a tree, loving the feeling of the bark scraping his skin. He tensed as a parade of footsteps barreled through the forest, making the ground vibrate. Horses. Dozens of them. Great. Him and his big mouth he hardly used. The one time he uses it, they're on the run yet again. He hit his head on the tree, cringing when he heard the crinkling of paper in his ear. He turned around.
A sketch of himself stared back. The sketch was decently done, applause to whoever did it, but there was one thing wrong with it. One thing that stook out like a sore thumb as opposed to the wonderful sketches of his co-workers resting below his.
"Seriously?" he muttered as he took the wanted poster from the nail it was attached to.
"What?" Dressler grunted, holding his side. He was never the best runner.
He flashed the two men the poster. "They just can't get my nose right."
He would consider his nose to be a bit bigger than a regular person, or maybe it just fit his massive skull in a way the artists didn't know how to draw. Every poster he saw, his nose was wrong. It was crooked, abnormally long, abnormally short, or too bulky. One artist even drew a scar over the bridge of his nose when it didn't exist.
Tom took the paper from him and balled it up, throwing it behind him. "Who cares?"
"Easy for you to say. You guys look amazing…" Convict said as he looked back at their posters.
"There!"
Convict whirled around to see none other than Prince Courtland above his mighty steed, eyes like steel and sharp as knives. They seemed to grow even angrier when they landed on the Convict.
"Oh crap," he said. He may respect Prince Courtland greatly, but he did not want to know what kind of punishment the Prince had in mind for a repeat thief, especially one who took his beloved brother's crown.
And they were running again. Convict naturally overtook them in the chase, leading them to zigzag through the trees as the party of horses joined their leader. Their armor clinked, echoing through the woods and gaining quickly on the thieves. Convict took an abrupt left, sliding under a fallen tree. He spotted a large stone wall around fifty yards away, a dead end. He sprinted, hearing Tom's feet slamming into the Earth beside him.
Convict reached the wall first. He couldn't jump it on his own. That was the only downside to some of their heists—he was short. Well, five foot ten wasn't necessarily short, but in comparison to Dressler who was built like a bulky jouster, he was short.
"Give me a boost and I'll pull you up!" Convict barked at Tom.
Just as he said that, Dressler finally approached. He glanced at Tom with furrowed brows.
"Give us the satchel first," he said gruffly.
"Wha—I just… I can't believe after all we've been through together, you don't trust me?" Convict said. He was only half joking. He knew the two didn't trust him one bit, not with his reputation as a lone wolf amongst the town's shops. He rolled his eyes at their impassive expressions. "Ouch."
He handed over the satchel to Tom. He stepped back to let Tom step on Dressler's shoulders. It took a second for them to maintain balance, but once they got it, Dressler nodded at him to go. Convict used the two as a ladder, grinning to himself as he took used their distracted state to his advantage. He climbed up to the edge of the wall, huffing a breath.
"Now help us up!" Tom exclaimed, his fingertips barely brushing the wall.
Convict felt the outline of the crown in the bag. He grinned, waving the satchel. "Sorry, boys. My hands are full."
He bolted.
"Convict!" he heard Tom shout after him, his voice echoing in the forest. Probably a big mistake on his part. The guards would easily be able to find them.
Convict ran through the forest, jumping over exposed roots and slight dips in the ground. He came to a small clearing, frowning when he noted the lack of grass in some patches. That was when he heard the clopping of a few horses headed his way. He sprinted down the makeshift road, listening to the galloping and clashing metal behind him.
"Retrieve that satchel at any cost!" Prince Courtland shouted to his men, and oh God did that make Convict nervous. Prince Courtland's ruthless reputation was closing in on the Convict and he didn't like it.
Convict slid under a huge tree root just as the guards fired their crossbows. He watched the wooden arrows imbed in the wood, panic clawing at his chest. He was fast, but they were gaining on him. He jumped through a small tree with an opening, hearing a few of the guards tugging the horses to a stop. But of course, Prince Courtland wasn't going to be stopped so easily.
"We've got him now, Jean-Claude," the Prince said with determination to his horse, who replied with a gusty neigh.
Convict's lungs begged for him to stop, to get some fresh air without being in persuit by his royal highness, but he had a feeling that if he stopped he was dead. So he pushed his body, leg muscles screaming and aching, but he couldn't stop. He spotted a hanging vine up ahead. He leapt off of a rock, grabbing onto the vine and utilizing it as a swing of sorts. He whizzed behind a tree, coming up behind the Prince. The Prince aimed his crossbow at Convict but was too slow. Convict kicked the Prince off of his steed and took his place on the saddle.
"Ha! Hyahh!" he exclaimed as he snapped the reigns.
To his horror, the horse skidded to a stop, his face falling into the horse's dirty blonde mane. The horse whirled its head around to glower at him with intensely sharp brown eyes. Convict sat upright, tapping the horse's side with his foot.
"Come on, fleabag. Forward," he said, tapping the horse again as he clung tight to the satchel in his right hand.
But the horse had other plans. Convict barely had time to move the satchel away before the horse snapped its teeth at the strap.
"No," Convict warned as the horse snapped again. "No, no! Stop it! Give it to me!"
He tried putting his hand on the horse's face, but it only seemed to make the steed angrier. It spun in circles trying to get the satchel, moving them further into the trees. Convict fought harder once the horse finally grasped the edge of the satchel. He pushed at the horse's head, tugging the satchel with all of his strength.
Which sent the satchel flying when the horse lost its grip on it. Convict watched the satchel fly through the air and land on a thin branch of a tree that just so happened to grow out over a giant cliff edge. He didn't know horses could be so expressive or intelligent, but he wasn't risking losing the crown. Convict glared at the horse before pushing off of it, rushing for the tree. The horse ran alongside him, equally determined. Convict grabbed its legs and dragged it down into the dirt, gaining a few second headstart.
The horse bit his shoe, making him trip and nearly land face first in the grass. Convict recovered quickly just as the horse started to prance atop the tree. He jumped onto the horse's head, covering its eyes. The horse whinnied and shook ferociously until Convict lost his holding, falling and clutching to the trunk of the tree. He swallowed back a scream seeing the foggy ground below. Yeah, if he fell, it was over, and this horse wasn't making his job any easier. He respected the dedication, but jeez!
The horse stomped where his hands wrapped around the trunk. Convict quickly scrambled to the thin branch, where the satchel had started to slip thanks to the horse's powerful stomps. He managed to swing, grasping the larger branch above the satchel and catching the leather bag just as the strap left the branch. He held it up to the horse's face.
"Ha ha!" he bragged.
Snap!
Once again, Convict was insanely surprised that the horse seemed to understand social cues. He and the horse shared a look of oh crap as the base of the tree snapped, sending them into a free fall down the cliffside. Convict screamed, clinging to the tree as the wind billowed through them. He swore he even heard the horse screaming in fear. He shouted in horror when the branch hit a protruding rock from the cliffside. The force and weight accompanying the tree was enough to have it snap in half, sending Convict tumbling to the left and the horse to the right.
He landed with an oof at the beginnings of a hill. He grunted and groaned when his body lifted from the ground to slam into the grass again, rolling at a high speed down the hill. He eventually came to a stop on even ground, satchel still over his shoulder. He scrambled to sit up and feel the bag. He slumped in relief at the outline of the crown still in there. Gosh, what would he have done if he went all through that trouble just to lose the crown to a horse of all things?
But he, ironically, wasn't out of the woods yet. Convict heard the telltale signs of the horse neighing nearby. He clutched the satchel close to him and searched his immediate surroundings. Trees trees trees, bushes. He couldn't hide in a tree, that was a death trap. The horse could corner him and steal the satchel. Couldn't hide in a bush, either, because that's just too obvious. He stumbled a few yards forward, putting his hand against another tall cliff edge.
He crept along the wall, eyes peeled for the golden brown horse, when his fingertips brushed vines. Convict looked, seeing a small portion of the wall covered in greenery. He almost didn't think twice about it because look, it's a forest, there's green everywhere, but he did a double take when his fingers brushed past the vines. He frowned, pushing his hand further until he stepped into a small alclove covered by the vines. It was dark, camouflaged, perfect for hiding until the horse lost his trail.
Convict quickly hid behind a rock as he heard hooves approaching. He pressed himself against the rock, risking a peek. He held his breath, watching as the outline of the horse skittered away, sniffling the ground. Convict quickly got to his feet. Not only was he on the run from Prince Courtland and his highly trained knights, but also from his conspirators who definitely wanted him dead now more than ever. He needed to get out of town quick.
In the meantime, his lungs and legs needed a break. He kept his eyes on the entrance as he backed up, expecting to hit a wall only to stumble when another set of vines curled around his form.
"What the…?" he murmured. He followed his hand further into the dark, surpressing a shiver as the vines tickled his exposed forearms.
"Oh wow."
The afternoon sunlight blinded him as he came into a clearing. It was beautiful. He'd never seen anything like it and wondered why he'd never found this good of a hiding spot in all his years of running. It was a small valley, an alcove hidden from the rest of the world with high cliff faces and a gorgeous waterfall behind a tall tower with a pointy roof, the noise surprisingly not deafening. There were trees, bushes, even a small river where the waterfall ran off. The tiles on the roof of the tower were purple, sticking out against the light. There was a window, seemingly the only entrance to the inside of the tower, but Convict couldn't see anything from his low vantage point. He jolted as he heard another neigh. The horse was close by.
Presumably, since the place was so secluded, the tower had to be abandoned, right? That horse was as strong and determined as Prince Courtland, and he wasn't taking his chances. He hastily made his way across the grass, side stepping groups of beautiful pink, blue, and yellow flowers until he reached the bottom of the stone pillar. He took two arrows he'd stolen from the horse's quiver pocket and stuck them into the stone.
He pulled, testing the stability. Good enough. He started the climb, heart in his throat the further he got along the tower. He didn't have a problem with heights—he was jumping off rooftops an hour ago—but this felt different somehow. First off, he was tresspassing (not that he cared) in an unknown place seemingly nobody in the kingdom knew about thanks to the vines hiding the entrance. Second off, while the tower was beautiful, he couldn't tell if it was structurally sound or not. His arrows piercing the stone didn't make him feel any better about the climb, since every time he stabbed them into the stone, small to medium chunks of it would fall back into the grass below.
Finally, after much grunting and sweating, Convict finally clambored up onto the windowsil. He quickly shut the heavy wooden doors to the window, blinking to readjust to the sudden dim lighting. He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath, wondering why the tower that basked in sunlight felt a little chilly with no windflow. Perhaps it was haunted.
Convict opened the satchel, seeing the yellow jewels gleaming back at him. "Finally, alone at last."
Pain exploded in the back of his head, and he was gone.