Chapter Text
Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not:
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold,
A silly sheep benighted from the fold,
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot,
Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold;
Lest you with me should shiver on the wold,
Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge,
I live alone, I look to die alone:
Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge,
Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,
My heart goes sighing after swallows flown
On sometime summer's unreturning track.
— "From Sunset to Star Rise" by Christina Rossetti
//
Minstrels weren't a royal court's first choice for entertainment, especially not flutists from small villages and of ignoble birth. As such, the Pied Piper was an anomaly in all regards. Born in the empire of Koswig to serfs and bound for a life of labor, Franz von Hameln narrowly escaped an early grave by performing for the lord of the manor with a flute crudely carved from a dead branch. The plague took the rest of his family, but the little music boy would receive the finest musical education one could find in Reverie. Taking credit for the boy's genius would put the lord's small estate on the map. It might even earn him the empress's favor.
Franz hated the academy. One didn't study there to become an artist, he had insisted to Aladdin in a bit of a tipsy furor, but an imitator. And he was no imitator.
Franz left the academy after a year. This was, to put it lightly, an interesting time in his life; for Aladdin's first memory of his dear friend was that of a wanted poster, and of the young man from said poster pointing a knife at him, terrified and intimidating nobody.
The fugitive he would later come to know as Franz (for he didn't give his name until several weeks into their acquaintance) was an angry, hurting thing. He bore a thin frame wasted thinner from hunger; night-dark violet eyes, narrowed and distrustful, made even more unfriendly under the shroud of a hat that was much too large for his head; and a lilting voice wholly unsuited for making threats that Aladdin could possibly take seriously.
"This is you?" Aladdin asked, holding up the poster. He glanced back and forth between the image and its subject. "How unflattering. They've done your face such a disservice."
"S-stay away from me," the young man said, although he had already backed himself into the end of the alleyway. Poor thing wouldn't last a week on these streets.
Aladdin noticed that the stranger carried little on him except a flute in his other hand, clutched tightly to his chest. "You're a musician," he observed. "What's a flute-player doing these days to net such a high bounty on his head?"
"Refusing to bark when its master commands," the stranger replied coldly. "The bounty will go higher if you don't let me go."
"Oh, very scary," Aladdin said with a sage nod. "That's a good line. Keep that. But your back's against the wall, and you aren't holding your knife properly. I could snatch it right out of your hand before you could blink. Hold it like this instead, and pull your arm in. It's a knife, not a conductor's baton."
The stranger frowned, though he followed Aladdin's demonstration, adjusting the knife in his hand uncertainly. "You're…teaching me how to kill you?" he asked.
"I'm teaching you how to survive out here. Lucky for you, I have an even higher bounty! And you don't get bragging rights like that by biting the hand that feeds. That's lesson one of city life. Speaking of." Aladdin reached into his bag and offered the stranger a stale chunk of dark bread. The stranger eyed it skeptically. "It's not much, but it'll keep you from falling on your face."
The bread stayed untouched in his outstretched hand. "Why are you helping me?" the stranger demanded, brandishing the knife (properly this time). "What do you want?"
"How about a song?" Aladdin suggested. "Play something for me, and if I like it, you can come with me."
"And why exactly would I want that?"
Aladdin looked around. "'Cause you'll die out here otherwise?"
But the stranger resolutely shook his head. "I play for nobody's ears but my own."
"Okay, suit yourself," Aladdin said cheerfully, spinning on his heel and walking away. He also dropped the poster, letting it flutter to the ground. "Good luck out there, my ill-tempered friend. Don't worry, I won't rat you out. Lesson two: honor among thieves!"
That would have been the abrupt end of it, because while Aladdin could be incredibly pushy, even he knew when to back off.
(In all the time they knew each other, this would be one of the few times Franz spoke up first.)
"Wait," said the stranger. Aladdin turned. Fortunately, he didn't meet the point of a knife. "I…I'll play. For the bread."
"It's not for bargain," he replied, holding it out. "Just don't tell anyone I stole it," he added with a wink.
The stranger reached out and plucked the bread roll from his palm. "I don't take handouts," he said, defiantly sticking his chin out. "You'll get your song, though I'd prefer to play somewhere more private. There aren't many pipers on the street, and there's only one whose face is on the walls."
Aladdin hummed in agreement. "I can make it happen. Come! To your grand stage, maestro." The stranger scowled but followed along, and off they went to Aladdin's hideout.
To his credit, it actually was a grand stage, though it missed its glory days by about a century. The Sultan at that time loved his performing arts and patronized stages all over the country, but a theater in the center of the slums, where few if any could afford entry to a show, did not last long. The cracked chandelier swung ominously in the breeze that drifted in from the hole in the roof. The stage itself was illuminated only by the moonlight from the crumbling roof and its exposed rafters.
Franz was wanted for running away from his home. In his country, he explained, whoever owned the land one was born into owned them. This was especially true of Franz, who cost his lord a fortune. His lord had put a princely sum into the promise that his virtuoso would dazzle the empress and her court. And Franz made good on that promise, enchanting Her Majesty so completely that she offered to buy him for the exact amount that his capture was currently worth.
And after hearing him play for the first time, Aladdin could see why. 'Maestro' was no longer a moniker to be made in jest. Franz should have been performing for gods, so beautiful was his music, yet instead he was playing for Aladdin in a dark and mouldering building. What he played that evening was a song about a child's dreams of adventure; of freedom far from his boring little farm; of diamond-gleaming castles and thunderous applause from a crowd of millions. The song had no words, but who needed words when the notes themselves were starbursts of color painting the story directly into your mind's eye?
"Wait, wait, let me get this straight," Aladdin said after the song ended, waving his hands frantically. "You could have lived in a palace, and yet you chose to be here, eating stale bread and drinking shitty wine?"
Franz downed his diluted wine and said, utterly serious, "I chose life outside of a gilded cage. I am nobody's property."
"Still," Aladdin replied, swirling his chipped cup wistfully, "I'd kill for a glass of actual wine. And a real bed."
"We already have bounties. How much is murder going to add?"
Aladdin gawked at him, worried that he had actually opened his home to a serial killer. It wouldn't be unheard of, would it? The scrawny figure and pitiful street sense could simply be a facade. But Franz gave a wry smile and said, in the flat affect that would define his humor, "I'm joking. Look at me, do you think I'm actually capable of murder?"
"You're certainly mean enough," Aladdin answered, more irritably than he intended. To his surprise, Franz threw his head back and laughed.
"So," Aladdin then said, lying back on the tattered rug that was his bed. "What was your plan? Fake your death and hide until the end of your days? Run as far from the empire as possible?"
"If I had to, yes," said Franz without a moment's hesitation.
"It's not as fun as you might think, being hunted. I don't know how Sir Robin Hood does it. And he doesn't keep any of the gold, either, did you know that? All that work, and he and his band still live off the people's offerings. Like sacrifices to a god."
"Why don't you join him? Safety in numbers."
Aladdin snorted. "If I could find the bastard. Why do you think he hasn't been caught yet? They're not a thieves' guild."
"You're a thief," said Franz, eyes narrowed. It was not a question. "What did you steal?"
"I steal whatever I need to survive," Aladdin answered. "If you're asking about the current bounty…"
"The necklace," the musician keenly guessed. "The one you're wearing. It looks brand new. Not like the rest of your jewelry."
"Hey, that's rude." Aladdin fished the garnet pendant out from under the folds of his cloak, wondering how Franz managed to catch sight of it. Goodness, but was it a beauty to behold. "But you're right. You've got a good eye, you know. That's useful around these parts."
Franz scoffed. "So how does that help you survive? I would think you'd sell it and never want for the rest of your life, but you are here, sleeping on a rug in an abandoned theater, drinking shitty wine."
"Well, I can't survive without pretty things," said Aladdin. Franz stared at him dubiously. "It's true! Think of this as medicine for my soul. Spiritual health is just as important as physical, don't you know."
"Unbelievable," Franz replied, rolling his eyes.
So it went between them, Aladdin trying to convince his new apprentice, as his self-declared mentor, that stealing was going to be a cruel necessity if he wanted to live undetected in the city. And the city, for all its glittering veneer and rotting core, was far more preferable than trying to eke out a living in the desert. Besides, Aladdin argued—sandstorms probably weren't good for the flute. Franz, however, was dead set on getting out of the Swirling Sands as soon as possible, and back to the forests of Koswig. The heat was unbearable.
When Aladdin awoke the next morning, he was surprised to find his guest still in the theater, sitting next to a veritable feast. Freshly baked bread, a wedge of cheese, and hot coffee. It could damn well have been a mirage. "Stars above," he breathed, "where'd you get all this?"
"The market," said Franz, raising his flute to his lips. "Now that you're awake, I can practice. Hope you don't mind. I promise, it won't be loud enough to bring the royal guard on our heads."
"Obviously you got it from the market," Aladdin snapped, though he plopped down across from the musician and served himself breakfast. "My question is, how?"
"By paying for it."
"You—" Aladdin huffed. "I ought to turn you in, for all the headache you're giving me."
Franz paused in his scales to explain, "I played in the square. Two songs were enough for the day. I'll even let you choose what's for dinner."
The foolish, arrogant bastard—he could have been caught. A bounty like that made everyone around you a vulture, and he practically served himself up to them on a silver platter. Aladdin let him know this in no uncertain terms. But, Franz would later confess to him, that morning in the market square was the first time he'd played in weeks. Returning to his music after being parted for so long felt like sealing a crack in his soul, and he vowed not to be silenced again. Come hell or high water, chains or the hangman's noose, he'd play.
"After all," he added with a lopsided grin, "spiritual health is just as important as physical health. I learned that from my great mentor."
Aladdin could not argue, for while he was many things, he refused to be condemned as a hypocrite. Franz's stubborn insistence on continuing to play even while he remained a fugitive also gave him a wonderful, brilliant idea.
//
The plan was simple: Franz would perform, enchanting the audience—even the guards who were meant to arrest him—and Aladdin would take advantage of the distraction to pick pockets and sneak into buildings. They'd make enough to pay off both their bounties. Aladdin would get a clean slate, and Franz would be officially free of any ties to his lord.
This plan wasn't without its hurdles, of course. Twice, Franz was attacked by mercenaries in the middle of his performance. In a bizarre twist of fate, his music had incited a sort of frenzied passion in his audience, and when the music was abruptly cut short, a sizable mob chased down the mercenaries. Aladdin would remember with great fondness grabbing his partner-in-crime by the hand and sprinting for the slums, laughing while Franz trailed behind him with a breathless grin.
Then one day Aladdin got caught in the taxman's office. He unlatched the third-story window to access the rooftops, but as he did, the music flowed sweetly into the room, and the workers within froze, listening with rapturous attention. It was a bit creepy, if he was being honest, as if Medusa's voice rather than her glare could turn people to stone. He made a swift and quiet escape and mentioned nothing of it to Franz.
This was when Aladdin realized that Franz was truly something special. Special and terrifying, because music was not meant to sound like this. In the span of a single song, he made hearts soar to heights thought impossible and sent them crashing into abysses untold, then lifted them gently back into their owners' ribcages. He played arias as powerful as love potions and dirges that made the clouds themselves weep.
His music captivated everyone who heard it. But when Aladdin described this to Franz, his reaction was simply this:
"Yes. Everyone but you."
Aladdin was not one to dwell on a person's words. Life was far too quick, and people far too chatty (himself, for example), to get tangled up in doublespeak and hidden meanings. But his dear friend spoke little, so when he did make his thoughts known, Aladdin listened.
He listened, but he didn't understand.
"Are you mad at me, Franz?" he asked innocently.
"Mm?" Franz looked up blankly from his half-finished composition. "No, of course not. Why would I be?"
Aladdin frowned. "I don't know. You sounded upset. When I told you about your music having magical powers and all that."
"Oh, no," said his friend, shaking his head. "I'm not upset. Merely…confused." He glanced down at the parchment, then back up at Aladdin, not unlike a painter studying his model. "You're the only who doesn't respond that way, you know. I find it intriguing."
"In a good way, I hope?"
Franz laughed warmly. "The best, my friend. I do so love a challenge."
Aladdin left that conversation with more questions than answers, but he at least felt somewhat confident that Franz really wasn't mad at him. Rather, he felt confident as one could when attempting to divine Franz von Hameln's secrets.
This became their routine—performance and pickpocketing by day, and rehearsal and rest by nightfall. Franz slept little, if at all, for Aladdin never actually saw the man so much as doze off. He worried that his evening practice bothered Aladdin. If anything, the flowing, gentle notes were soothing. Over time, Aladdin would find it difficult to fall asleep without the music.
Like when he woke from a nightmare, panicked and disoriented. Franz laid beside him, gazing up at the stars through the jagged lens of the caved-in roof. "Aladdin?" he asked, immediately sitting up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Aladdin mumbled, although his heart was racing. "Uh, nothing. Just a bad dream, is all." He laid back down, closing his eyes and steadying his breath. "The music was gone. But it was just a dream."
He'd remember little of that night beyond slow, drifting songs, blanketing him in a warm embrace and holding the nightmares at bay.
It took an entire year of scrounging together their dream shards, hard-earned and ill-gotten alike, to finally pay off Franz's bounty. Ignoring Aladdin's bounty contributed significantly to their progress, and though Franz vehemently protested, Aladdin only shrugged. "They're used to me," he reassured his friend. "At this point, the bounty's just a formality. As if to warn people, 'Hey, he's at it again. Lock up your belongings.' They won't ever catch me, that I can promise you."
Franz held the sack of glittering shards in his hands. "I-I've never seen this much money in my life," he confessed with an embarrassed chuckle. His smile, though, quickly faded from his lips. "To think that this is how much I'm worth."
"You aren't worth that—sorry, oh, damn it all, that came out badly." Aladdin groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stars above. What I mean is that…"
"I know what you meant," Franz said softly. "How can I ever thank you?"
"Well, when you get another appointment in a palace, bring me along. I'll be your butler."
Franz hummed thoughtfully. "The Pied Piper doesn't have to be a solo act," he said.
Aladdin snorted. "Oh, no. You don't want to hear me play an instrument. Or sing. I guarantee it. No, Franz, don't give me that look. You really don't want to hear me sing."
"Don't be ridiculous. I could listen to you for hours." Franz blinked owlishly, like he hadn't meant to say any of that, and bowed his head, hiding his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. "I…I hope our paths cross again, my friend. Thank you. Truly."
Aladdin accompanied Franz to the dock, neither of them speaking. For the first time, he found himself utterly tongue-tied. It wasn't because he didn't know what to say; he knew very well what he wanted to say. You don't have to go alone.
Take me with you.
Stay here.
He had too much to say. That was the problem. Franz would never say 'no' to Aladdin. But it was wrong to take advantage of his friend's selflessness. The Pied Piper was destined for greatness; he would take his song to the stars and the heavens. And there was no place in that fairytale for a street rat like himself.
Aladdin watched his friend board the ship, then he watched the ship shrink into the horizon. And then Franz was gone.