Chapter Text
Once again, the Prince is dreaming.
The burning carnival, the stalled parade… the faces of his Family, masks melting to their faces as they beg for mercy. None is given.
Maman The Princess, her fine dress covered in ash as she gives him his orders. Even as their dais begins to catch alight, her face never breaks from its smile.
The parade must always go on. With the Kings and Princess dead, rebuilding the kingdom falls to its last remaining prince. He cannot fail her. Thus, his path becomes clear.
“Live.”
Meursault turns away from her as he always does, and the dream slips away into darkness.
There is a polite cough, and the Prince opens his eyes.
His Squire stands before the throne, waiting with his hands folded behind his back. With the remnants of the dream still clinging to him, the Prince cannot help but compare his sole Kindred to those of the lost Parade.
With his sallow skin and overgrown hair, this man— Yi Sang, as he had introduced himself, although that name no longer mattered— had looked half dead even before he was turned. If anything, the Family’s blood seems to have brought some colour back to his cheeks. His W Corp uniform has been replaced, of course, with clothing more suited to his new station… but it is thrown-together and patchy, far too clearly composed of the scraps he has taken from other passengers. Nothing like the finery of La Manchaland.
His air of melancholy, too, is ill-suited to the joy of the Parade. But as the Squire, he does not often serve as the Parade’s face; because of this, he is (reluctantly) permitted to go without a smile. He has other roles to fulfill, and he does them well and without complaint. Thus, he remains a member of the Family.
Currently, his red eyes—made more striking still by the dark bags beneath them— are shifting aimlessly around the cargo bay. The Prince follows his gaze.
It is warmly lit, the fluorescent lights stained red by blood splatters, and the trappings of a throne room line its walls. But not the stolen decorations, nor the crudely constructed throne, nor the ribbons and carpets of blood can disguise the room’s original purpose. Like his Squire’s clothing, it is clearly just a pale imitation of what it should be.
Could the Princess forgive him for living in such squalor? Surely, she would understand he is doing all he can… But of course, she is dead, and her opinion cannot impact anything anymore.
…In time, he will find a way to restore the Parade to all its former glory.
The Prince sighs, and his Squire’s eyes snap back to him.
“Ah, Your Majesty. You have returned from the lands of rest. Shall I report unto thee what has transpired while you slumbered?”
The Prince nods his acquiescence.
“We have marched to the third quarter of the Economy Class’s seats, as Your Majesty asked of us. Six bloodbags have been created, two from each quarter, and not a one in excess. Almost all is now ready for the final march, and thus the time comes for you to join the rear of our procession.”
…The Prince pauses in the midst of standing from his throne. “Almost all? Clarify your statement.”
The Squire coughs again. “You had said, Your Majesty, that you desired to sire a second Kindred to aid you in our march. As the winds of chance would have it, I have found a man who might be of interest… but the situation is, perhaps, unideal. He defeated the Bloodbags who entered his car with great ease, and t’was naught but a minute into our spar that he told me I lacked the strength to stand against him. As such, he has not yet been brought to heel...”
The Prince has turned to the small mirror on the wall to fix his appearance, but in the reflection his eyes pierce through the Squire. “So he roams free and aware of our presence, in the final hour before the Parade’s finalé? You have failed me, then.”
No emotion is present in the words, but the Squire flinches back from them nonetheless. “Although your judgement is law, I would put forth a plea that no failure has yet occurred, for I have not yet managed to relate all aspects of this tale…”
He trails off yet again, and the Prince holds back another sigh. The Squire’s manner of speech, flowery and full of pauses as it is, is truly the largest obstacle the Prince has found in their relationship. Although his poetic nature serves his task of enshrining the Parade to the realm of story, it is decidedly unsuited for battle reports.
“…Very well. Continue.”
“My thanks, Your Majesty. I shall make haste to summarize. What came to pass was this, then: upon decreeing me an unfit opponent, he laid down a challenge unto thee instead, and bid me carry it to you. A force of Bloodbags have been left in the car he resides in, with instructions to stop him should he choose to leave… but in truth, I doubt they should be able to. The same goes for myself, had I stayed locked in that endless conflict. Thus, I deemed the most effective path towards subduing him was to acquiesce to his requests for the moment.”
He hesitates, picking at the blood caked around his broken nails. “Should you deem this matter unsuitable of your time, of course, I shall return to the fight and carry on for however long it takes to defeat him. …Such is all I have to say.”
“Hmm.”
The Prince finishes readying himself, and turns to his Squire.
“Non. You were right to retreat, in this case. He has issued a challenge to the Prince, so the Prince he shall receive. If his strength is as you say, he will provide much to our forces once tamed.”
A faint smile stretches its way across the Prince’s face, then, his fangs lengthening. “And perhaps it will serve well as the penultimate act to today’s grand Finalé.”
The Squire bows, an answering upturn to his lips. “Then I shall make record of the battle, Your Majesty, that your elegance and prowess shall be sung for all the generations to come.”
Red gauntlets forming around his hands, the Prince sets out for the door, his Squire falling in behind him. “Come, then. Let the Joyous Parade begin.”