Chapter Text
There is clearly nothing for it but to drop down in the lush grass and howl, so Prince Louis of Pointe du Lac does just that. The Palace is, for all its trappings, the world’s most escape-proof gilded cage, but just for this moment, just in this place - the tiny, enclosed corner of the royal gardens, complete with whimsical wishing well, which His Highness had made his own, private sanctuary since boyhood - he can at least be left alone long enough to kick away his imperial dignity and give vent to his feelings… Almost certainly for the last time, the Prince remembers, which only makes him howl all the more. His lovely head drops to the sun-warmed stones forming the rim of the wishing well; his tear-filled eyes shut. Thus, he nearly jumps when he hears it - a low, warm baritone just by his ear, “Why do you cry, Beautiful One?”
Startled and mortified - after all, a Prince must keep up appearances, especially now, right before… he casts about for the speaker. “What? Who said that? Show yourself!” His hand instinctively goes to the hilt of his (admittedly ceremonial) sword.
“Over here. The well.” Something about the disembodied voice sounds familiar, and goes straight to his heart. His eyes follow the sound, and…
“Aah!” This time, Louis does jump. “Holy shit, a talking frog!”
“Guilty as charged.” The Prince’s unusual companion rises on his remarkably long hind legs and executes a surprisingly elegant courtly bow. As far as frogs go, he is rather a handsome fellow of powerful, elegant lines and a shiny green-chartreuse-gold pattern; startlingly, his large, protuberant eyes are an almost preternatural shade of blue. They also currently fix on His Highness with a look he could almost mistake for fondness. “Go on, then…” the creature waves a wet hand in encouragement. “Share your sorrow with me - what could possibly be the harm?”
Louis sighs, wiping his cheek but suddenly feeling the need to unburden himself to the solicitous frog. “Two sorrows, my good beast…” His brow creases above his viridian eyes. “I am to be married off on the morrow,” sensing the frog’s natural question, holds up a royal’s soft hand before huffing a bitter laugh. “No, not married off as much as sold, by my own mother - Her Royal Majesty, Queen Florence - like some pedigreed stallion put out to stud… Merely an advantageous token traded as part of her alliance with Queen Akasha of Kemet, mated to one of her daughters… Maharet? Or is it Mekare?.. They’re twins, and I have barely met them, so I don’t even know which one I’m meant to marry…”
He feels a moist, froggy hand gently patting his own. “Ah, my poor young Prince…” His unusual new friend nods solemnly. “My family sold me, too.”
“Wait - your frog family?” Prince Louis inquires, then realizes how foolish that sounds. “Oh - pardon me - of course you weren’t always a frog, or else you couldn’t talk!” It is his turn to show solicitousness and understanding. “You’re cursed, aren’t you? Under an evil spell?”
The amphibian head nods. “Oui. Prince Lestat of Lioncourt, at your service. Youngest, unwanted son of an impoverished, crumbling royal house… So, when an vile old sorcerer named Magnus made my father an offer for me - barely bothering with the charade of wanting me as an apprentice… Well.” The frog’s round, blue eyes turn a cloudy grey. “When he came to my bed, I made sure to have my blade ready, and dispatched him straight… but, not fast enough, not before he cursed me with his dying breath, turning me into the loathed creature that you see.”
The frog - Lestat - sighs dramatically. Forestalls any expression of sympathy by asking, “But you said, ‘two sorrows’? What other evil troubles you?”
“One entirely of my own making, I fear.” Louis shrugs, feeling his own grief pale when set nest to what his new… Frog? Friend? Companion? Has endured. “I got so angry that, when I got here, I sort of… took my wedding ring - you know, the one I’m meant to present to my bride tomorrow - and… well, I kind of,” he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck while blushing crimson, “threw it… down the well.” He mimes the clumsy gesture. “Only now I can’t get it back, and, it’s still Her Majesty’s precious heirloom, I had no right…”
Unexpectedly the frog? Prince? Leaps to his webbed feet. “Now there’s a sorrow I can lift quite easily!” he cries out. “Mon cher, stay but a little - I will come again!” He leaps into the well’s still waters with a splash.
Sure enough, just a little while later, the Frog surfaces triumphantly, the ring - wrought like a shiny, jewelled crown - clamped tightly in his mouth. Deposits it, with a light, “Ptui!” into the Prince’s palm. Sits there, looking more self-satisfied at Louis’ thanks than an amphibian should reasonably contrive. “As for your greater sorrow…” he muses, “perhaps I can help there as well… but first, my sweet Prince Louis, you must obey them - three commands of mine, which will restore me to my proper form.” And the befuddled royal must admit that taking orders from a talking frog is quite a new experience for him… but, at this point, what has he got to lose?
The first command, “Bring me up to your bedchamber, sweet Prince; let me rest on your own pillow.” Easy enough: Louis improvises a cup out of elephant’s ear leaves and fills it with well water for Lestat to ride in without drying out his skin. His actions garner little notice save an imperious, “Eurgh! Mon fils, if you desire frog’s legs for dinner, take that thing to Mademoiselle Lily in the kitchen,” at the sight of him, and an indifferent, “You have our leave to go” upon telling his royal mother that he wishes to spend the evening in his chambers praying over his upcoming nuptials.
The imperious amphibian settles in quite well, hopping about rather cheerfully on the silk-encased pillow. “My second command,” the smug baritone sounds again. “Sustain me, sweet Prince; fill my poor belly to make me strong.”
Louis frowns. “I, um, had cheeses, cold meats and wine sent up. I’d gladly share…”
Well, who knew a frog could look so condescending? “Prince Louis,” Lestat sighs, gold belly visibly expanding. “I have a biological imperative at odds with human food. We are insectivores.”
“What am I to do, hunt flies for you like some…” His Highness splutters… Then, he has a brilliant idea. His wardrobe has lately been beset by moths, and, noting their preference for his ornate, unwanted wedding clothes, he had allowed them free reign as an act of spite. As he watches the self-proclaimed Prince leap after them, tongue darting out - a fearsome predator in his own way, he supposes - Louis has trouble concealing his smile.
“And what’s your final wish, Your Highness?” he inquires indulgently.
Those uncanny blue eyes fix him with their stare. The froggy mouth spreads even wider in a grin. “Kiss me, sweet Prince. Kiss me.”
His Highness Prince Louis of Pointe du Lac practically falls on his royal arse. “What… What the fuck’s wrong with your head, Lestat?! I am not - not - kissing your slimy frog lips!” He crosses his arms like a petulant child.
Now, frogs definitely do not have eyebrows. This does not prevent Lestat from clearly raising one above a serious stink-eye. “Well…” he drawls, “It’s either that, or, tomorrow, you will be kissing your royal bride at the altar. Remind me, is it Maharet, or Mekare? And you had better figure out which, because, ere the Sun runs its full course again, you will be bound to her for the rest of your life.” And that is easily the most sensible and helpful thing Lestat has said in Louis’ presence, and it brings him round at once. Slimy frog lips it is, any day of the week.
Prince Louis almost tenderly extends his hand for Lestat to leap onto, so he can lift him up. He schools his facial muscles into neutrality and resists squeezing his eyes shut, so as not to seem insulting. Takes a deep breath and presses his full lips against the little amphibian mouth… The magic hits like a battering ram. But, even as it sings and sizzles and swirls, Louis cannot detect any change to Lestat’s appearance, though his own body melts and shrinks and reforms. He comes to, panting, on his pillow, nose to nose with Frog Prince Lestat. Knows it with full certainty, even before his eyes note his little webbed foot.
“Aw, God damn it…” groans Frog Prince Louis.