Once upon a time, there lived a King and Queen who ruled over their country fairly and wisely. Their kingdom edged on a great wood, and every citizen’s first lesson was to learn to respect its power, whether it was in the form of the smallest shoots in the ground to the tallest tree, or in the tiniest ant or a large, vicious wolf.
One day, the Queen and her guards went riding in the forests. They kept their eyes on the ground, mindful to not step on small creatures with their horses’ clumsy hoofs, and the Queen was the first to spot the green stone.
It was a beautiful stone, hidden beneath the dark soil. Yet its edges caught the light, shining a bright green under the sun, and the Queen picked up the stone. It felt warm in her hand, and the leaves shivered with a slight, warm breeze. The Queen understood then that the jewel was a blessing from the forests, and she brought it home. It was set in a place of honour on the right hand of the throne, where it stood even to this day.
The year the stone was found was a fruitful one. The harvest was full and rich, the grain stores were full, and the Queen conceived and gave birth to a son. The boy opened his eyes when he was in the King’s arms, and all present gasped at the brilliance of the colour—the exact colour of the stone that Queen had found in the forests at the heart of spring.
They named the boy Chrysolite Green, in the tradition of their House. Years later, the boy would become King himself, and have by his Queen a daughter named Snow White. Her legends are famous, but this is not her story.
This is her father’s story.
***
“Viggo, Viggo, wait for me!”
“Why should I wait for you? You’re supposed to catch me, Chrys—if I wait, I’ll lose!”
The young Crown Prince, nicknamed Chrys out of courtesy for immature tongues that could not yet wrap around his full name, chased his friend Viggo of Hawk’s End through the hallways and down the great, sprawling staircase. He was barely six years old, with short legs, but it didn’t matter much because his prey was barely taller than him; they were of an age.
A little distance away, the King and Queen watched the Crown Prince and one of the guard’s sons—a commoner from the town of Hawk’s End, so called as it bordered on a hill that was topped with hawk nests—chase themselves across the lush royal gardens. Their son was a lovely boy, with chubby cheeks and a mop of golden hair and eyes that glowed in the sunlight, though he was red-faced and sulky as he made a racket through the hall, tearing over the marble flooring as he chased after his friend. The guard’s boy was whipcord-thin, but it was not starvation that made his cheekbones stand out in his face so—simply the sternness of his features. He would grow to be a handsome boy.
“The councillors would mumble once more that it is unseemly for the Prince to play with a commoner,” the Queen murmured behind her fan, her blue eyes glittering as she looked at her husband.
“Aye,” the King nodded without bothering to hide his smile. The children had managed to chase themselves out of the main hall and one of the guards—not Viggo’s father—peeled himself away from the gates to follow them. “My advisors are wise in governing the kingdom, but they are poor in judging the raising of children.”
“He does look happy, does he not?” the Queen said, and her smile was sad. “I only wish that I was capable of giving you another child, so our son would have siblings to play with.”
Her husband took her hand in his and lifted it up to his lips to kiss the back of it, but the sorrow remained in her eyes. He reached up, and cupped her face gently in his large hands.
“My love, I would rather have you than a dozen of children and heirs. I would not have you risk your health again.”
The Queen leaned into her husband’s hand and his embrace, but her eyes remained on her son and his playmate.
***
Outside, away from his parents’ worries and sorrows, the young Prince was getting rather annoyed.
“Viggo!” he stood in the middle of the gardens and yelled as loud as he could, sending birds flying off in fits of fright, and the leaves shook in disapproval. Chrys bit his lip in contrition at the scolding before he turned around. When he called again, it was in a hoarse whisper, “Viggo! Where are you? This isn’t fun anymore!”
“… Chrys?”
The voice was small, and the Prince stopped in his tracks. His friend sounded… odd. As if he was afraid, which was ridiculous—Viggo had never been afraid in his entire life. At least, Chrys had never seen him afraid. He looked around himself and picked up a stick that looked like it might be helpful. He hadn’t started on his sword-fighting lessons yet, but it couldn’t be all that difficult—it was just smacking people with a long stick. He could do that.
“Viggo?” Chrys called again, raising his voice a little. It was alright; the leaves would understand. “Where are you?”
“I think I’m stuck,” his friend’s voice came over, soft and shaking. Chrys tilted his head, listening closely and watching the leaves at the same time. The plants always loved him—the stone that he was named after was found amongst leaves and grasses and roots—and they would help him find his friend.
“Tell me what everything looks like around you,” he encouraged, turning his head a little and starting to walk very carefully towards the direction of Viggo’s voice. He really should run back to the castle to call the guards, but what kind of King would he be if he always relied on others to get things done? Chrys might be only six years old, but he knew that he was going to be King one day, and it was a post full of responsibilities.
“It’s dark, and there are… vines here, and cobwebs… I think it’s an old cave, but I don’t see bats, and I always heard that caves have bats… The walls are all slimy and it’s cold here, Chrys. I’m sorry I ran so fast…”
Chrys skirted around the edges of what looked like a collapsed piece of ground. He threw himself down onto his stomach, inching carefully towards the opening. He peered over the edge once he reached it, looking down—and there Viggo was, with his straw brown hair and big blue eyes and a narrow face that was more familiar to Chrys than Chrys’s own. He gave the older boy a small, reassuring smile.
“I’m going to get you out of there, Viggo,” he promised, reaching a hand out to the other boy. Then he reconsidered, because his hands were too short and he wasn’t strong enough to pull Viggo out of the hole. “Stay—stay there.”
“I can’t go anywhere even if I want to, Chrys,” Viggo said, rolling his eyes despite his fear, and Chrys couldn’t help but giggle. They were going to be alright, he told himself. He would make sure of it.
The Prince stood up carefully, looking at the trees around him. Maybe the trees would help him by sending vines down the hole for Viggo to hold and drag himself up? Chrys bit his lip and reached out for the nearest branch. At the very least, he could break that off and send it down to Viggo for him to climb up… Why wasn’t he strong enough to pull his friend up on his own? What kind of future King was he?
Suddenly, from the corner of his eyes, he saw a member of the Royal Guard approaching the two of them. So someone did follow them—usually Chrys would feel annoyed, but now he was only thankful. He jumped up and down, waving the guard over, and the man jumped straight into the hole and picked Viggo up, holding him up to the mouth of the hole.
Chrys immediately grabbed hold of Viggo’s hand, pulling him towards him. They fell backwards immediately, wrapping their arms around each other and yelling before they smacked right against the tree, their breaths knocked out of them. Viggo’s arms were tight around his Prince’s neck, holding him close and hiding his face in Chrys’s chest, for once not caring that he was older and that he had to act so.
“You don’t have to worry, Viggo. Remember that I’ll always find you,” Chrys said. “No matter where you go, no matter what happens, I’ll always find you.”
“If you promise that, then I’ll promise to wait,” Viggo said, and his breath hitched. He pulled away from his prince, and looked into those famous green eyes.
“I’ll wait for you, and if you are too slow, then it’ll be my turn to find you.”
Within his words, spoken within the magicks of the heavy oaks and mahoganies of the palace gardens, the gods started to weave their prophecies. They smiled to themselves, creating a tapestry that gave a weight of those words that was greater than either of the children would ever realise.
***
Years passed, and the children grew. The Prince grew into a tall, lean young man, beautiful and sweet like his mother and strong and wise like his father. There was no guard who could beat him in sword-work—there was no guard who was at all his match. There was only his childhood friend, Viggo of Hawk’s End, who could match his blade. Yet Viggo did not become a guard. He became instead the King’s Jester, after the old died with his Lord and Lady by his side.
Now the King’s Jester was no ignominious post. It was a grand one, created by the first King, Iron Grey and his consort, Queen Garnet Red. The King’s Jester was to entertain his Lord and all of his Lord’s guest, but not only that—while the King’s Councillors and advisors all swirled around him giving polite advice to his next step, the Jester was the bravest man in the court, for he laughed and joked and made fun of the King’s mistakes and potential mistakes. He steered the King and his court away from failures by ridiculing them, and with every word out of his mouth he risked having his head separated from his neck. The Jester was the King’s greatest advisor and asset. There was, after all, no real court without a Jester.
The Prince learned governance alongside his father’s new Jester, and he learned the different tones of his friend’s laugh and the different looks of him when he smiled. He learned to love the slow-blooming lines at the side of his friend’s blue eyes, and the warmth of his hand on his own. Both of them learned slowly, gently, to love the taste of the other’s mouth.
Here, most stories would end off with a ‘happily ever after’, yet this was a true story and no real tale ends without adversity. Even in a kingdom far, far away, happy endings are difficult things to grasp, and this was the bitterest lesson that the Prince ever learned.
The King died, sudden and quick, a fall from his horse and the horse panicked, slamming his hoof down onto the prone king’s chest. He died without words for his son, only a single look of pleading to take care of his wife, his greatest love, his Queen. The Prince promised, but he had no chance of fulfilling his promise: the King died with his Queen holding his hand, and the Queen placed her head down on the mattress beside her husband and simply let go of life.
The Prince was an orphan, suddenly all alone—alone, and the King, suddenly come to his inheritance in a way he never wanted to imagine.
The Jester, whose father died long ago and who never really had a mother, already predicted the whispers of the councillors and their poisonous glances. He had made his preparations, watching as the Prince was prodded with questions about a potential wife, the potential heir, and all the time the Prince refused for he could not imagining himself marrying without love. His father had married ten years into his own reign—there was no real hurry, he told his councillors.
They were not pacified. The Jester knew that the timing was not their objection—it was the King’s relationship with a man, and the constant wasteful spill of his seed.
Thus it was the second year of the new King’s reign that the Jester brought him a Princess to take for a Queen.
***
“She is beautiful, my Lord,” Viggo said quietly. He tucked his hands behind his back, his eyes lowered to the ground.
“I am not blind,” his King bit off, green eyes blazing as he looked at his Jester, his friend, his dearest love. He reached forward and cupped that familiar face, stroking the sharp cheekbones that showed themselves so clearly in adulthood. “Are you so eager to get me off your back?”
“Your duty to the kingdom comes first, my Lord,” his Jester said, and despite his name there was no laugh whatsoever in his eyes and voice. “The people adore your policies, but the nobles are getting restless: a King must have his Queen.”
“Can’t I marry you instead?” the King murmured, but even as he said the words he knew that they rang false. He shook his head, dropping down to sit on a tree root. They were in the palace gardens, near the spot where their promise was first made, but instead of making him feel at ease, the place made the weight of the crown on his brow feel even more like a branding iron on his skin.
“My Lord,” Viggo dropped onto his knees, catching those eyes with his own. He took the King’s hand into his own, placing a soft kiss at the knuckles. “I will always be by your side, as I promised.”
“Won’t you call me by my name, Viggo?” Chrys asked—and it was no longer a King who spoke, but merely a man weighed down by too much duty and forced into circumstances that he had never wished for. There was no duty that the King hated more than his need to take a Queen—not when he loved the man in front of him so dearly that even looking at the Princess seemed treasonous to his heart.
“Won’t you look at me and call me by the nickname that you gave me? Or has Viggo died alongside my parents, and all I have left is the Jester who presents me a Princess and turns his back on me?”
“I cannot,” the Jester said, closing his eyes. “I am only your Jester, my Lord; nothing else more.”
“So I see,” Chrys said, keeping his voice low to mask the break. He leaned in and kissed his Viggo one last time—when he pulled back, he looked at the other man as a King would to his Jester, with every single bit of royal detachment that his training had given him.
“Take me to my bride, Jester,” the King said, standing up again. He brushed away the leaves from his robes, and every single piece of dirt that hit the ground seemed like the fragments of his childhood, of his innocence, of the fairytale and legends that the last Queen had told him.
When the King looked upon the trees, he knew he would not ever ask them for help. He knew with the cold certainty of rationality that they would never answer.
***
The Princess the King married was a startlingly beautiful creature, with glowing brown eyes and a cheerful smile. Her hair was flame red, spilling all down her back, and when the King took her as his Queen she gave up her home-name and took on the name that the people gave her. The Princess of the faraway land because Queen Rose Red, settling down in the castle. She could tell with one look that her new husband married her for the sake of duty, for his heart was so obviously someone else’s, but she did not say her word.
She had left behind plenty that was precious back in her own kingdom.
The King found comfort and companionship with his new Queen. She was more than beautiful; she was witty and clever, always free with a smile. Even when the Jester play jokes on her and made fun of her, she only laughed, throaty and loud, with her red hair tossed back and her brown eyes glittering.
Despite all that, there was a hint of sorrow at the edges of her eyes that he chose not exorcise, however. Rose Red chose rooms in the castle that looked out towards her kingdom—even though she could see nothing beyond the mountains, she always sat at the window, as if hoping that the sun would one day render the mountain as porous as glass, and she would be able to see her homeland again.
Her husband was kind, and whenever they were alone, he called her by her home-name, her true name, but it was a name lost in time. The Queen was known only as Rose Red in the records and the songs—no spouse had ever been spared, for it was the law of the kingdom.
The King called his wife by her true name nonetheless, but his Queen knew that he always held something of himself back. She could not have the whole of him, but the more vivacious her smile and witty her words, the more genuine and sincere he smiled. He saw her with shades of someone else covering her features, and only when she reminded him of the one he had lost than could he bring himself to truly love her.
For any other Queen, such a state of affairs would have been unbearable. But Queen Rose Red was glad for his friendship and offered him her own—her love she reserved for the window she sat beside every day, watching the mountains and wishing her eyes could pierce through the distances.
It was some months later that the royal couple announced that they were expecting a child. The Queen smiled, and all said that her vivacity seemed faded—but that must only be the exhaustion of pregnancy. She kept to her window, sewing beautiful little blankets for her new child.
Only the Jester heard her quiet sighs and little laments; only the Jester, who listened to all who spoke no matter how lowly or secretively the words were released into the air, heard her wish.
Oh, how I wish that I had a daughter that had skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony.
The Jester knew the magicks of the trees, for though his King had abandoned the garden and the forests, he never had. He knew instantly that the Queen’s wish would be granted, but the trees, as always, would extract a price—the blood that her fingers had given to the snow was far from enough.
The Queen died the next day, after giving birth to a baby girl of the exact description. The child had skin as white as snow, hair as black as a raven’s wing, and lips as red as the roses that gave her mother her name—as red as blood.
The King, grieving, held his daughter to his chest and named her Snow White. The Jester did not speak a single word of the Queen’s last killing wish.
***
“The girl needs a mother,” the King said, pacing to and fro in his study.
The Jester watched him. It had been ten years since the birth of the King’s daughter, and eleven since the day that they have last touched. The Princess was near-grown, a beauty with her mother’s large brown eyes and a head of thick black hair; and her skin, born as white as snow, had yet to darken even a shade.
It had been longer than even that since the Jester had laughed. He had made plenty laugh around court, but he had not told a single joke that was at all amusing to himself. Perhaps it was simply because it had been years since he had seen a smile grace the King’s face when he was not looking at his daughter.
“Do you wish to marry again, my King?” the Jester, once called Viggo but now rarely heard his birth-name spoken, asked.
The King paused in his steps, his eyes closing as he turned away. “Twice now I had sought happiness and had it snatched away from me,” he said, and his voice was flat. “Tell me, Jester, am I a fool for wishing to try again?”
“No, Sire.”
“Truly?” the King still did not turn around. “Remember your duties, Jester—you are to tell me when I err. If I seek for a new wife, will it be an error?”
“No, Sire,” the Jester spoke carefully. “The kingdom has been missing a Queen for some ten years now, and the castle misses a mistress. If you take another Queen, there will be great celebrations. The Princess Snow White will benefit from having a mother, for she had none before. She will, at the very least, need to learn the ways to run a castle”
The King’s shoulder tensed and he let out a soft, quiet sigh. “Very well, Jester,” he said, turning around. The Jester, once named Viggo, felt the cracks in his heart deepen even further at the emptiness in the King’s eyes.
“Call for a ball, Jester. Tell the kingdom that the King is looking for a new Queen.”
The Jester bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”
***
The next part of the story was well-enough known. During the ball, the King met a beautiful young noble, newly arrived from another land. Her home-name would never be known, yet unlike Queen Rose Red, this noblewoman’s home-name was not one that would be mourned.
The King was only polite to her when they were introduced, yet the next day he seemed as if in a frenzy, calling her to the palace and beseeching her to take rooms in the place, to stay near him. He courted her with almost vulgar intensity, lingering near her like a young boy with his first crush, unwillingly to let her out of his sight as if he was afraid that she would disappear once his head was turned.
The lady had given him a necklace that gleamed silver in the lights, and the King wore it as if it was the greatest of treasures—as if it was worth more than the crown that sat upon his brow. The nobles tittered approvingly, for it had been some time since they had seen their King so lively; that they saw him turn his eyes willingly to something else other than his daughter, his duties, and the Jester.
But the Jester, who knew the King better than any other soul living, could not help but be disturbed by the behaviour. His King did not fall in love quickly and impulsively, for he kept his heart shielded since the first time the Jester had first half-broken it when he had smashed his own into pieces. There was something going on here; tricks perhaps, or even treachery.
He knew that he must do his duty.
***
“Ah, what a sight, what a sight,” the Jester strolled into the ballroom. The event had yet to start, but there were a goodly number of nobles who had already arrived. The Jester was dressed as a duck, and he turned to smirk at the King, who wore his costume of a rather large dog with aplomb.
“It seems that you have chosen a costume that suits your behaviour lately, my King,” the words came at a drawl, and all the nobles hushed themselves immediately. It had been years since the Jester had derided the King in public; the King had not made many mistakes in his reign.
“What do you mean, Jester?” the noblewoman’s voice was cold as frost, chilling the air. The Jester was known for his insolence, however, and only smiled, turning to her. He gave her a small bow.
“I commend you, my Lady, that you are so quick to have collared the dog who seemed to adore tailing after you as if you were a bitch in heat,” the Jester drawled every word out, his lips curling up into a disdainful smile. “If you can pardon my coarse language.”
“You dare—” the woman’s face was red, and it clashed badly with the yellow of her outfit—made to dress her as a golden bird of paradise. Or, more aptly, a canary.
It seemed that the King was not lost to them yet, for he immediately threw his head back and laughed. His hand went to the chain around his neck, tugging at the pendant before he let his hand fall back to his side. The Jester did not miss the noblewoman’s sudden narrowing of her eyes when the King’s hand touched the necklace.
There might be trickery here, the Jester thought.
“It seems that I have been behaving rather unseemly, does it not?” he murmured the words, green eyes fixed upon the Jester.
“Aye, sir,” the Jester said, and he smiled, making another deep bow. ‘If your majesty’s infatuation continues, I would consider naming the lady ‘Starthistle Gold’.”
The King turned to the lady, taking her hand into his own and kissing the back of it. “Will you consent then, my lady, to take on the name my Jester has given you?”
The lady looked at him for a long, considering moment, her eyes still narrowed—then, after the silence had almost finished making the King a fool, she smiled.
“Yes, my Lord,” she said, and made a little curtsey. Her smile was triumphant and cold and wicked all at once, and the Jester thought that it was the most emotion he had ever seen on her face.
“I will be your Queen.”
At the moment, the Jester felt a cold fist wrap itself around his chest, and he thought he could not breathe. He had walked across his own grave with his own cleverness, sealing his doom.
***
The new Queen waited, accepting her new marital name with a vicious smile. She allowed none but the King to her call by it, and even then shortened the name to simply ‘Star’—perhaps to spite the King, who kept ‘Chrys’ from her and only allowed her to call him by his full name, or ‘my Lord’. The boy who was once called ‘Chrys’ had died a long time ago, he told her, his eyes sorrowful and a deeper green than the trees in the gardens. There was no one who called himself by that name any longer.
Yet the Queen was not fooled by those words. Though she was vain and greedy, she was also clever. She knew the way that the Jester looked upon the King, and with every single joke the Jester made she kept the insult deep inside her heart, letting it fester and rot while pretending to laugh joyfully. She knew that the Jester could see through her, for his blue eyes pierced through the masks of all; she knew, more than anyone, that it was the Jester who threatened the reign she held over the King’s heart and mind.
She had not forgotten that it was the Jester who named her; who had given her such the insulting name of a weed when the last Queen was given the name of the most beautiful flower in the kingdom. But for the moment she said nothing, keeping her hatred inside like a predator that gathered up the scent of her prey and stored it in her lungs, keeping it in her memory while she waited for the most opportune time to strike.
The time came when the Jester spoke, in his own way, the concerns of the King’s Council.
Oh now our King’s acting like a boy
Tugging at his new Queen’s skirts
Wonder how it’s like to be such a toy
It must be so fun, not worrying ‘bout the Turks!
There was none in the kingdom who loved the King better than his Jester, the servants whispered. Perhaps the Jester knew his fate, they shook their head, and he was simply hurrying towards it so he could avert his eyes and not watch the one he loved behave in such an undignified manner.
He was no longer their King anymore; not the one whom the servants had watched growing up next to their Jester. He was the Queen’s King, tied up in her skirts so tightly that he forgot the ties of childhood; that he had forgotten the Jester’s duty; that he no longer listened to his people. The servants shook their heads, and many of them cried with their eyes hidden beneath their sleeves.
For the Jester was banished from the kingdom, threatened with a slit throat if he should ever be seen by anyone within the court again—and the King decreed that the post of the Jester was now outlawed, for he could not bear to hear his Queen made fun of.
Not even Princess Snow White’s tears—tears for her usual playmate, the one man in the court who always had time for her no matter how trivial her worries seemed in the eyes of all of her father’s duties—could dissuade him. The Jester was gone, never to return, and the King and Queen’s eyes were the only dry ones as the court watched him leave, with only a small bag—the sum of his life’s possession.
The plants remembered the King’s promise, but it seemed that they were the only ones who did.
It was two years into the new Queen’s reign—hers, for the King seemed to not listen to anyone else at all. The Princess was twelve. A month after the Jester’s banishment, the King disappeared. His Queen announced him dead.
The kingdom was plunged into darkness.
***
Seven years into the Queen’s reign, five since the King’s death, and the towns and villages seemed veiled in ash and smoke and sorrow. The people used to sing and dance, parents told their children, but all they received for their nostalgia and wistfulness was a blank, uncomprehending stare. These children knew nothing of the old King’s reign; knew nothing of happiness and prosperity and a life that was not at the whims of a foolish, vain Queen—one who wished for too much power and, now that she had received it, knew nothing about wielding it.
Yet there were still little pieces. It started off as whispers and stifled giggles, little mobs huddling around a large canvas. People were not so easy to rule over—when displeased, they found their own way to rebel.
“This is treasonous,” the magistrate tried to admonish, but it was difficult to take his words seriously when he giggled when saying it, his eyes dancing as he bit down on his lip.
“Marvellous, ain’t it?” one of the blacksmiths in town threw his head back and laughed.
His fingers pointed straight down in the middle of the canvas—right in the middle of the Queen’s bulbous breasts, so large that they seemed to overtake her head. That wasn’t very difficult, her head was drawn to be no larger than a coin—in the exact shape, in fact, as the new coins minted for the new reign. The brown-and-green surrounding her hair was wispy and the exact colour of tarnished bronze; no longer gold, in fact, because the kingdom could no longer afford it.
The magistrate shook his head, looking closer at the portrait. It was a caricature, with the Queen with huge breasts and a tiny waist and skirts so rich and full that they covered almost the whole of the canvas. Her lips were clownishly wide, yet retaining its shape—or at least, as far as the magistrate could tell, for he had never met the Queen and he had no wish whatsoever to.
The townspeople of Hawk’s End knew her best through these caricatures. No one knew who the artist was, and they had no wish to know; it was their method of protecting the man who was brave enough to make fun of the Queen who, they knew, had caused the death of their beloved King. The magistrate had his suspicions—these portraits were drawn too well for the artist to have not met the Queen before, and though there were many who hated the Queen, there were little who were so bold—but he kept his silence.
He had to do his part for this man who had brought them so much joy, and who spoke when no one else dared to speak.
***
Children were advised to stay away from the forests. Their parents told them tales of beasts that could swallow them up in one bite; of the most ferocious beast of all, who ate careless children every day. Yet there was a single draw—there was a man who called himself Peter who stayed in a little hut just at the edge of the forests, and he always had stories and sweets for the children to enjoy.
Today Peter was sitting on one of the great stumps that littered to borders of the forests, carving little animals with a small knife as some of the town’s children sat around him.
“Why do you not live in the town, Mister Peter?”
The man smiled, and he gave a one-armed shrug, turning his striking blue eyes back to his work. He had a strange face, all sharp angles with a strong chin, and his hair was starting to grey at his temples.
“The town doesn’t suit me, little one,” he murmured, and the children leaned in even closer to catch his soft voice. “The forests are quiet, and the animals like me.”
“Even the beasts?”
“Even the biggest one? The Great Beast?”
Peter’s eyes closed and his hands stilled. He tipped his head up to look at the skies. It seemed that since the King’s death had been announced, even the stars had decided that her kingdom wasn’t worth shining upon. “Aye,” he forced his smile wider, tipping his head down to look at the children. “I have not seen him in a long time, however, but he always seems to welcome me.”
“The great beast can speak?” Gasps ran out throughout the little throng.
“No,” Peter smiled, and he ruffled the hair of the child nearest to him.”But sometimes, if you listen clearly enough, you don’t need words to know what someone is saying.”
The blacksmith’s boy shook his head, “That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Your father shoe horses, does he not?”
“Aye.”
“He has to listen to the horses when he shoes them, so they will not kick them accidentally,” Peter explained gently, bending his head to his carving again. “The beasts of the forests are little different from the horses and dogs you know, though your touch has to be gentler.”
The boy nodded, though he still looked doubtful. Peter turned his head up and looked at the skies again.
“It’s getting dark,” he said, standing up. He reached behind him and took a rolled-up canvas, handing it to one of the girls. “Will you pass this around town for me?”
She took the canvas, peeping inside and giggling, “Yes, Peter.”
The artist opened his hand, showing a small little pig sitting in the middle of his palm, “Thank you.”
Mock-fighting with each other, clambering to look at the newest picture, the children raced each other back to the town. Left behind in his solitude, Peter looked into the forests, listening to the song of the leaves.
“I’m still waiting, Chrys,” he murmured, audible for a single moment before the winds swept his words away, scattering them into the forests and trees.
As Peter turned back to his hut, the howl of the Great Beast ran out. Parents ushered their children back into the house, never once noticing the tears that choked that voice.
***
Snow White triumphed eventually, fighting a war against the false Queen alongside bandits and a foreign prince. She found her father again, hidden in the form of the Great Beast and chained to the Queen in the cruelest of ways. Starthistle Gold was defeated, but that story had been told thousands of times and it was a story that would not be repeated here, for this was the King’s story; the King and his Jester.
The King found his castle once again, and he was horrified at its emptiness and silence; at his own actions while under the thrall of the false Queen. He remembered his harsh words against the Jester and wept silently. Yet he kept the words inside, for he thought his daughter did not deserve to have her triumph tainted by his regrets.
Her foreign Prince married the Princess, and he took the name of Prince Consort Oak Brown, after the colour of his hair. The King, knowing his own sorrows that his mother and Queen Rose Red’s names had never been recorded, ordered the imperial scribes to write down Prince Alcott’s name, over and over, so that it would never be lost to the winds and sands of time.
It was his daughter’s happily ever after, yet the King was still unhappy.
***
“You’re not happy, Father,” the Princess, almost-Queen, said as she entered her father’s library.
The King, nearly abdicated, looked up from the book that he was blindly staring at without reading a single word, and looked at his daughter. “That is not true, Snow,” he said quietly. “I am home once more, and the kingdom looks to be recovering its prosperity and joy. There is little cause for unhappiness.”
Snow White shook her head, walking closer and sitting down on the rich cushions opposite the King. “I am not proud of the years that I have spent timid and silent in the castle, Father, but what I learned then was to watch without being seen. You mourn.”
The King closed his book and rubbed at his eyes, half-smiling at his daughter who had came so far while he was trapped in the body of the Great Beast. “We have sent out envoys to call back all those who had been wronged by Starthistle’s rule,” he said quietly, turning his head to stare at the fading embers at the grate. “I called for our Jester to come home, and I sent out the call to all seven kingdoms in the land, yet there has been no news. I fear him dead.”
“Father,” Snow White said, sliding off the chair to her knees, holding her father’s hands in her own. “In but a few weeks, you will no longer be a King. Look for him then; I think... he might be waiting for you to come, rather than our envoys.”
“What father would I be to abandon my daughter when she needs me for his own selfish wishes?” he tucked a strand of her hair away from her eyes. “I might not be King, but your reign will still be new, and there are many crises to deal with still.”
She shook her head, “You have given up too much for this realm already, Father. I cannot—I will not hold you from finding the man you love.”
The King started, his breath catching in his throat, “You knew—”
“Baker Margaret told me stories,” Snow White ducked her head down, her pale cheeks finely dusted with pink. “Well, she told me stories of you, and the Jester was almost always there… I remembered the Court’s shock when you banished the Jester and the looks you used to give each other…”
“I loved your mother,” the King said helplessly in reply.
“I know you did, but I have never known her,” his daughter bit her lip, clasping her hands together. “Mother can’t make you happy, Father, but the Jester—but Viggo can, and I want you to be happy. And I loved him once—I cried when he was forced to leave. Bring him home for my sake, Father, even if you can’t do it for your own.”
The King closed his eyes, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against Snow White’s forehead. “I will,” he murmured. “For both of our sakes.”
***
The King—no longer King, but now only a Duke—thought his Jester had long left the lands surrounding the castle, for the guards had orders to kill him at sight. He started his search from the lands furthest away from the castles, along the way bringing the peoples great hope. The King they loved was alive and the tyrant Queen was truly gone. They started singing again, daring to look forward to a great future where there was no hunger or poverty or the lingering threat of invasion by the neighbours taking advantage of a kingdom struggling under an incompetent ruler.
He smiled for his people and stayed with them as long as his heart could take it. He asked them questions of the Jester and they gave him honest answers, their eyes bright and clear. They had never met the man, they told him; he had never come this way before. The King approached his own castle by the day and he despaired, for it had been nearly a year since he had left on his quest and he still could not find his Jester.
It was on the three hundred and seventy-second day since the beginning of his journey that he reached Hawk’s End, full of so much despair that he could barely muster up a smile for the magistrate who came to greet him. He stilled his hands and prevented them from shaking when he was invited to dinner with the magistrate’s family, and he did not turn his head away and weep, no matter how much he wished to.
Though he was merely a Duke and no longer a King, he still knew his duty. His people’s needs were far above his own.
“My lord,” the magistrate spoke, shaking him out of his thoughts. The Duke lifted his eyes, tilting his head slightly.
“Magistrate?”
“My lord, pardon me…” the magistrate shifted from foot to foot, looking guilty. “I have news that I should have given you a long time ago. I have kept it from myself for fear is habit-forming, yet tonight I have seen your sorrow and I cannot still my tongue any longer.”
The Duke put on a kindly smile, reaching out to take the Duke’s trembling hands into his own. “What is it, my good man?”
“My lord, I know where the Jester is.”
***
The magistrate had told him a tale of a hermit who lived at the edge of the forests. He showed the Duke the many caricatures the hermit had made of the false Queen, talking haltingly of the laughter the man had brought that kept the people’s spirits up when the taxes seemed to weigh them down until their necks wanted to break from the strain. He was, the magistrate said haltingly, a man who seemed to have a mastery over beasts that seemed almost magical if not for the fact that there was never any sorcery witnessed.
A man whom the children said had tamed the Great Beast.
Now the Duke stood a distance from the edge of the forest, his hands on an old tree. The bark felt familiar under his skin, and he wondered if he should be glad that he remembered nothing of his time in the beastly form, chained to the false Queen by the necklace she had given him upon their first meeting. If he had remembered, he didn’t know if he would have been so foolish as to waste a year to travel to faraway lands when the one who sought was right at his doorstep.
The Duke closed his eyes, and took a step forward, raising a hand to knock on the door—
“I hear that you have given up the throne,” he heard a familiar voice behind him, and he turned around. A man stood a little distance away, a small axe in one hand and firewood in the other, and the Duke’s breath was taken away by the unchanging, bright blue eyes that looked at him.
“I hear,” his Jester said, clearing his throat and dropping the wood at his feet, “that you have decided to become the hope of the people, travelling all over the lands and hearing their grievances.”
“Nay,” the Duke said, taking a hesitant step forward. The Jester did not move, but his hand clenched into a fist. “That was only an excuse the Queen had given me. I travelled to—to look for you.”
“I promised to wait,” the Jester who had not been a Jester for a long time said, his voice uncertain.
The Duke swallowed, looking at the ground. It took some time to gather his courage before he took the necessary steps forward until he could touch his Jester, curling his hand against the other man’s neck. The Jester tilted his head, rubbing his cheek against the Duke’s wrist. Their eyes never once left each other.
“Viggo,” the Duke said, his voice trembling. “Come home. Come home with me.”
The Jester took a long breath, inhaling the name from the Duke’s lips and reclaiming it as his own. He tilted his head up, leaning his forehead against his Duke.
“Chrys,” he murmured. “Chrysolite Green, as brilliant as the jewel on the throne.”
It had been over a year since the Duke had his true body returned to him, but it was only now that he felt like he had come home.
***
Chrys took Viggo back to the castle, where there was a celebration for their return. But Viggo never did take up his position as Jester again, and Chrys didn’t stay long—they travelled together throughout the lands that the new Queen ruled over, bringing glad tidings and hope and a listening ear to wherever their horses’ hooves landed.
And they lived happily ever after.
Summary: The father of a girl with a destiny has a destiny of his own. Though his tale is much simpler, it is still one that deserves to be told. A Viggo/Sean fairytale.
Rated: PG-13
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: King Chrysolite/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 7930 Read: 536
Published: 31 May 2012 Updated: 31 May 2012
Story Notes:
Chrysolite is the King (Sean Bean) from Mirror Mirror