Chapter Text
“You feeling any better, Tommy?”
“If I was you think I’d still be holed up in this room?”
Phil sighed, shutting the bedroom door as Tommy fell into a fit of coughs. He handed him a glass of water from his night stand, which Tommy drank eagerly. Joining him sitting on the bed, Phil brushed Tommy’s blond hair aside to feel his forehead. It was burning hot with fever, Tommy’s cheeks unusually flushed as he scowled, placing the cup back on his nightstand.
“I’ve got some good news,” Phil said, standing back up to take the empty cup of water. Tommy sniffled and cradled his tissue box.
“What?”
“Uncle Jack’s here.”
Tommy groaned, clearly not delighted by the so-called good news. “I’m sick, can’t he come another time?”
“He’s here because you’re sick.” Phil left Tommy to grumble in the privacy of his bedroom.
Uncle Jack was not really Tommy's uncle at all, rather a family friend who would visit occasionally, usually at the worst possible times. Sure enough, minutes later Jack burst in, eyes gleaming and a gift in hand.
"Hey Tommy. How's that fever treating you?"
"Treating me like shit," Tommy mumbled. Jack only laughed and pulled up a chair to the side of his bed. Tommy had to admit, his excitement was contagious, and he found himself grinning as Jack dropped the present into his lap.
"Special something I picked up yesterday," Jack waved a hand, queuing him to open the gift. Tommy ripped into the package with renewed vigor and pulled out a book.
"It's a book," he said shortly. He didn't read books much, and was much more inclined to video games.
"Yeah, yeah. I know it's not really your thing but I read it as a kid and thought it was neat." Uncle Jack took the book from his hands and flipped it open to the first page. “Thought I could read it to you, since Phil said you’ve been climbing the walls.”
“Well, what’s it about?” Tommy asked, laying back in his bed, coming to terms with his fate for the next few hours. Jack’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, all manner of things. Spies and swords and fighting and murder. Chases. Monsters. True love even.”
“True love?” Tommy raised a brow. “Well, I do like women so I guess I ought to learn about true love.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “Think you can stay awake?”
“Uncle Jack, I am a big strong man and can always stay awake if I so wish to.”
“I have faith in you.”
George was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin. His favorite pastimes were horse-riding and tormenting the farm-boy that worked there. His name was Dream, but he never called him that.
Nothing gave George as much pleasure as ordering Dream around.
“Dream-boy, polish my horse’s saddle before tomorrow morning. I should be able to see my reflection in it,” he said, brushing a hand through tousled chocolate hair. George made no effort, so he wasn’t as attractive as he might have been, but still surely was one of the most beautiful boys in the world.
Most of all in Dream’s eyes.
“As you wish,” Dream replied, watching him quietly. “As you wish” was all Dream ever said to George.
When Dream was in the middle of chopping wood and George dropped two buckets in front of him:
“Dream-boy, fill these with water--” George paused a beat, “please.”
“As you wish,” Dream replied, eyes trained on him. George stopped, turned, and managed to look away though he still felt Dream’s gaze on his back.
George was amazed to discover that when Dream said “As you wish,” what he meant was “I love you.” Even more amazing was the day he discovered that he loved Dream in turn, and so he went out of his way to hear them as often as possible.
“Dream-boy,” George said slyly as the boy in question entered the kitchen lugging an armful of firewood. “Would you fetch me that pitcher?” He gestured to it, and though it was within his reach, Dream dropped the wood he carried and brought to him.
They stood very close, hands brushing each other, gazing into one other’s eyes with the familiarity of decades spent together, very much in love. Loose locks of blonde hair fell in front of olive green eyes, like sunlight through leaves. Dream handed George the pitcher.
“As you wish.”
And Dream left George standing there in the kitchen, mouth agape.
Unfortunately the love of decades was not enough to keep them together, burning short and fast as flames through cotton.
That is how they found themselves standing on the side of a hill just past the farmhouse, locked at the lips-
“Hold on, Jack,” Tommy interjected. “This has got to be a trick, right? There’s not even any women. Did Phil put you up to this?”
“Hold on, Tommy, hold on.” Jack waved him down.
“Well, when is it gonna get good? I haven’t all day, Jack.”
“Tommy, you are sick and stuck in bed until that fever breaks. I reckon you have got all day,” Jack cracked, earning a glare. “Trust me, we’ll get there, but only if you let me read, alright?”
“Whatever you say, Big Man.”
Dream had no money for marriage, and certainly not the money to give George all that he deserved. So he packed his few belongings and left the farm to seek fortune overseas.
The lovers stood by the farm gate, holding each other as if they might never do so again. After all, how sure were they that they would?
“I can’t believe I may never see you again,” George mumbled into Dream’s chest. “Standing here with me now, you feel so real, but I fear you’ll fade into my imagination.”
“Of course you will see me again.” Dream stroked George’s hair. “If not in person, in your dreams.” He smiled at his own joke.
“Don’t even say that. What if something happens to you?” He couldn’t keep tears from rising in his eyes.
“George?” Dream pulled them apart so he could look George in his hazelnut eyes. “I will come for you.”
“But how can you be sure-”
“This is true love. You think this happens everyday? We will find one another again, I promise.” Dream smiled at George, and despite the horrible feeling brewing his stomach, George smiled back.
They kissed again, quick and desperate, and then Dream was a ghost on George’s lips as he watched his dream-boy ride off.
Dream never reached his destination. His ship was attacked and captured by pirates, who killed every man, woman, and child on board. They never left captives alive.
When George received new of Dream’s murder, he tore the farmhouse apart in grief, cursing his name to the wind for leaving nothing to remember him by.
Once his exhaustion preceded his anger, George went into his room and shut the door. For days he neither slept nor ate, no longer feeling the need to do so knowing he was alone in the world without his soulmate.
He watched out the window, face perfect and perfectly sad, waiting to see Dream ride over the horizon and run into his arms.
It was then that George decided to never love again.
Five years later, the main square of Florin city was buzzing with the news that the great Prince Blevins intended to announce his spouse-to-be.
Prince Blevins was a man of incredible power and standing, commanding the attention of the townspeople as he stood on his royal balcony. Three others stood behind him: the elderly King and Queen, as well as a count who might be the only man who could rival the prince in power
The Prince raised his hands to speak.
“My people, a month from today our great country will celebrate its five-hundredth anniversary. On that day, I shall marry a man who was once as much a commoner as you, but now shines among royalty.” He paused for dramatic affect. “Perhaps you wish to meet him?”
The crowd roared so loud you might have thought there was a summer thunderstorm as it rolled over you. Prince Blevins was particularly proud of his choice in husband, and so he flashed a charming grin to his people and gestured to a large staircase below, where a figure had just become visible below the arch.
George stepped into the light, brilliant golden rays of sun raining down on him like a spotlight. He had been dressed in a sage green silk gown that puffed out at the shoulders and hugged his torso with a stiff-boned corset, allowing great billows of gleaming fabric to hang off his hips in a way that made him look perfectly regal. In addition to the dress, a heavy headpiece made up of two parts sat at his brow. One was a circlet that rested in the curls at his hairline, painted a light bronze-y color and dripping pearls. The second haloed above him in a band of spiked sun-beams, furthering the illusion that he was nothing short of an angel.
Skin painted with rose hues and opaline powder that shown in the noon light, George made a resplendent prince-to-be.
“My people,” Prince Blevins announced, his own voice laced with adoration. “My betrothed, Prince George.”
George began to descend the stairs, each step echoing over the silent crowd, expression entirely peaceful and resolute, a picture in itself.
Unprompted, the crowd began to kneel. In a great wave, the townspeople dropped to their knees, some with heads bowed and others still looking on in awe.
George paused on the steps, so greatly moved by the submission of his subjects, but his emptiness was all-consuming. The law of the land gave the prince his choice of betrothed, but George did not love him.
He swore he never would, as his heart was buried underneath the ruins of a ship at the bottom of the sea, where it was so dark you might as well be looking through ink.
When George had been presented with the news of his betrothal, the Prince had been the first to assure him that he would grow to love the Prince in turn. Despite these assurances, the only joy George found was in his daily ride through the woods.
It was the only freedom they allowed him, a single unattended horse ride, so he savored it as much as possible. When the leaves turned all the shades of the sunset, and the wind blew by deafeningly, he could close his eyes and pretend he was just out for a chore, and he’d come back home and Dream would be there waiting for him.
It hadn’t occurred to him what might be waiting for him in the woods when he saddled his horse on a late-fall day, wrapped in a crimson cloak.
The ride was lovely and quiet . The palace was all noise and bustle that made him want to climb the walls. It was one of many things he cherished, so when he was stopped in a wooded glen close to sundown by three travelers, he was all the more vulnerable.
“I’m sorry, my lord. May we have a word?” One of them said. He was a tall fellow with scraggly mutton chops and a hooked nose. Beside him was another man, clean-shaved with fluffy hair, standing with the precision and tautness of a swordsman. The third was a giant, with thin hair and glassy eyes, as if he wasn’t entirely present.
“You may,” George replied consciously, gripping the reins until his knuckles turned white. The scraggly man bowed and continued, seemingly the speaker for the trio.
“We are poor lost performers and we are contractually obligated to be at the next village by sundown. Is there one nearby?” He smiled wide in a way that made George wrinkle his nose.
“You are very far off the path,” he replied shortly, eager to get on with his ride. “There isn’t anything around for miles.” To his surprise, the scraggly man only smiled wider.
“So, if you were to scream, no one would hear?” George took too long to realize what he meant, and before he could unsaddle his horse and unshealth the blade hidden in his robes, he felt a massive blow to the side of his head and fell off the horse.
“Charlie, you idiot!” The scraggly man yelled as George’s vision began to fade. “You weren’t supposed to hit him, just choke him out a little. He’s not gonna be as useful if he’s got a concussion!”
“Sorry, Schlatt,” the giant, Charlie, grumbled. The lean swordsman looked down at George pensively.
“He’ll be fine, I think,” he said with a thick accent. “Still pretty at least.”
“Shut up , Wilbur,” Schlatt groaned. “I told you, no crushing on the captives.”
Wilbur gave some kind of retort but George couldn’t hear it. The sound was fuzzy, and suddenly his eyes were shut and he was plunging through the ground into darkness.
The trio’s sailboat was tied at an isolated port of the Florin channel. It was dusk when they arrived, Charlie holding George, gently cradling him and occasionally moving the hair out of his face. The shadows began to grow long as Wilbur, the swordsman, began to untie the boat’s moorings.
“You look happy, Charlie,” Wil commented offhandedly. Charlie didn’t reply, just continued cradling his precious cargo. Schlatt was occupied, tearing fabric with one hand and swigging gin with the other. While a talented conman, he was also a terrible drunk.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doin’, Wil?” Schlatt asked loudly. Wilbur rolled his eyes but heeded his boss.
“What are you doing, Schlatt?”
“It’s a genius plan, Wilbur. I’m a genius,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink. “I’m ripping fabric from a Guilder soldier. That oughta throw them off our trail.”
“Guilder?” Charlie rumbled. Wilbur pointed out the landmass on the other side of the sea.
“It’s a country across the water, and a sworn enemy of Florin. The Prince will really think the Guildarians stole his fiance?”
“When they find the fabric, that’ll be the only smart conclusion.” He chuckled into the mouth of his bottle and Wilbur gave him the side eyes. “It’ll only be confirmed when they see Prince George’s corpse on the Guildarian coast.”
“You never said anything about killing him,” Charlie’s brow furrowed as he clutched George tighter to his chest. Schlatt hopped on the boat and gestured for Wilbur and Charlie to do the same.
“I hired you to help me start a war, numb-nuts. What did you think we were gonna do, go on a fucking picnic?”
Charlie looked down at George’s limp form as he boarded, the boat wobbling a bit under his weight. “I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent boy. He didn’t decide to marry the Prince.”
“You don’t think anything,” Schlatt snapped at him, making the giant wince. “You don’t have the goddamn brain cells to question me, you sorry sack of shit. Remember who you’re speakin’ to.”
“I agree with Charlie,” Wilbur said calmly, pushing the boat away from the pier. Schlatt went entirely red.
“Oh, the poet has deigned to speak with us! It doesn’t matter what you think, I will kill him.” Schlatt walked up to Wilbur, getting in his face. “Don’t you forget that I found you slobbering fucking drunk, singing in some old tavern because you couldn’t even afford more brandy.”
Schlatt spun around to face Charlie, who backed up as much as the confines of the boat allowed despite the fact that he probably had a foot and a half of height on Schlatt. “And you ,” Schlatt barked, “friendless and brainless. You’d be lucky to be a goddamn sideshow freak if it weren’t for me. Now put the boy down and, for the love of god, shut up.”
With a last glare, Schlatt retreated to the helm, leaving Wilbur with Charlie. Charlie set George’s body down gingerly, pulling a tarp over his robes so he wouldn’t get wet.
“Schlatt can be a bit fussy ,” Wilbur assured him. “He is an angry man, do not let it bother you.”
“Fuss...fuss,” Charlie repeated in confusion before shaking his head. “He just likes to scream at us.”
Wilbur nodded. “I don’t think he means harm.”
“He’s really very short on charm,” Charlie smiled, and Wilbur’s eyes lit up with renewed vigor.
“You should sing,” he said proudly. “You’ve a gift for rhyme.” Charlie smiled sheepishly.
“Some of the time.”
“Would you two stop that?” Schlatt groaned from the helm. Charlie winced but Wilbur gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.
Underneath a tarp, George was beginning to stir.