The Prince's New Garments-by Samayel
Because it is the way in which all good fairy tales begin, it is precisely the way in which we shall begin this one...and so...
Once upon a time:
"TRASH! Utter garbage! Pathetic rags! Unfit for the lowest of beggars to caper about in, begging for their alms!"
His Royal Highness, Prince Draco, hurled invective and vented bile as he flung each outfit from his closet onto the floor. It wasn't an unusual scene, since the prince was widely known for his intemperate nature, but his people loved him just the same, since he was also known for his exceptional and captivating beauty.
One might imagine that the people of a great nation might value a kindly nature in their future leader as more precious than beauty that charmed every eye, but people are ever strange, and they took great pride in the stunning appearance of the heir to the throne.
Only months remained until the coronation proper, when their young prince would come of age and be acknowledged publicly, blessed, and crowned as the heir apparent, and since, like so many people of surpassing beauty, Draco had often had a care for his appearance and dressed splendidly for every occasion, he found himself at a loss for new finery that befit such an august occasion!
After exhausting his store of withering curses and emptying his entire closet, his chambers strewn with outfits that might easily have bankrupted lesser men, pulling his hair in frustration at the ignominy of soon parading through the streets of the capitol, dressed in clothes that might leave people whispering that his familiar magnificence had somehow waned, only then did Draco accept the advice of a terrified maidservant.
"A what? Speak up! What was that notion you babbled about?"
"A contest...Your Highness?" Squeaked the girl. "For all the tailors in the land. Let them each bring their ideas, and hire the one who impresses you most. Surely the promise of such a rewarding contract would have every tailor and seamstress redoubling their efforts and offering only their finest."
Draco grinned from ear to ear, eyes glittering as his imagination took over. It would be a spectacle that would not only endear him further to his people, since all who lacked gold loved to hear of a common merchant enriched by skillful labor, but he would also be ensured his pick of the most majestic and eye-catching garments of which his nation's many peoples could concieve!
"It's...it's brilliant! Here, now...fetch me ink and parchment, so that I can prepare a decree...then have it copied and delivered to the fastest riders in our employ so that the word might be passed to every city. Take this gold for yourself as well...you have simply made my day."
Draco could show largesse when he was pleased, just as he could show utter spite when frustrated. A single gold coin was far above the wages of even palace staff, and so the girl made haste, letters were penned and copied and riders were winding their way through the countryside by day's end, telling all and sundry of the prince's prize and contest.
One thousand golden talents was quite literally a king's ransom, sufficient to make a person wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of ordinary folk. The word spread from hamlet and village, town to city, each echoing the people's amazement at their prince's generosity, and of course, many stopped to speak also of his uncanny beauty.
And in a very small village, far on the edge of the nation in which they dwelt, someone listened to the tale of the contest avidly, mulling the story of the golden fortune over in his mind, entranced by the rider's casual reference to the prince's sublime appearance.
The process of interviewing the prospective tailors began almost immediately, as the people nearest the capitol rushed to make their skills known to the prince, each hoping to be chosen before too many other competitors could arrive, but it was not to be so. The prince's slate grey eyes danced with visions of greater finery than he had ever known, and he was patient (for him) in the extreme.
This is not to say that there weren't incidents involving unfortunate vagabonds passing themselves off as tailors, idly hoping that they might spin a wild tale of their skills and wrest a small downpayment before the work was even started, thereby acquiring even a small amount of gold before they fled. Such people were dealt with in the harshest manner that the courts allowed, and such was the adoration of the prince's loving cityfolk that these scoundrels were dipped in tar, covered in feathers and chased from the capitol with sticks and rocks flung in their direction as they fled. It should be mentioned that, after just three such incidents, the throng vying to enter the palace and describe their potential creations quickly thinned to more manageable proportions.
There was but a single month left until the coronation, and Draco had reached the end of his princely rope. So many contestants, so many ideas that his head simply swam with them night and day, and yet so many seemed but variations upon what he already had seen and worn. In his more lucid moments of brutal self honesty, it occured to him that perhaps, just perhaps, had he not been quite so extravagant a dresser in the past, there might still be something that would suit his tastes and flatter his natural beauty in a new way. Then he would shake his head, return to brushing the silky strands of yellow-gold that tumbled from his scalp, and fret anew over the few exceptional offers that had been made so far.
On the last day of the contest, still with no answer in sight, struggling to commit to one of the finalists, a last, single petitioner arrived at court to make his offer. At a distance, the man was nothing special, clad in peasant greens and browns, humble in the presence of so many noble folk, but when he was bidden to approach the throne and speak his mind, he whisked off his cap and offered a proper bow, smiling pleasantly and comfortably despite strange surroundings, and his brilliant emerald eyes met the prince's for the first time.
Draco felt his stomach flip oddly, unnerved by the pacific calm in those eyes, and entranced by the faint but lively sparkle of intelligence in them. The strangest sense of...connection...fluttered through his very being. It was certain that he had seen handsome fellows before, but since none were handsomer than himself, it had seemed irrelevant. While this man could not be described as handsomer than the prince, he was very fine to look upon, with a tanned face and unruly dark hair, fit and strong, and uncommonly young for one who professed to be a skilled craftsman.
Draco's voice found its way back to him. "Tell us then, what...what is it that you can offer me that so many others cannot? Speak."
And the stranger began his tale.
"I can offer what no other in this realm can, but let me first tell you how. See you this scar upon my brow?"
Draco nodded as the stranger brushed aside his dark locks to show a scar like unto a lightning bolt above his eye.
"O Prince, it came to pass that as an infant I was marked by the Fey...the Faerykind...who dwell deep in the woods near the edge of this land. The mark they placed upon me granted me certain gifts that others might envy, and while I am prosperous for a young man, I could not ignore a challenge only my skills could truly answer. I would have come sooner, but it is a very long journey for one so far away from the capitol.
I can enter the deepest reaches of the woods, and commune with the few fairy folk who dwell there still. I can make use of ingredients and materials that few among mortals can even touch. There exist within that unknowably deep forest many creatures of legend, and of magic. What mere tailor can weave for you clothes from the silk of great spiders, vested with the fine linen of the Fair Folk with their own magic lovingly breathed into them? Or weave in the dust of Faeries which glows even in the night, like a nimbus of rainbow light, shimmering with their eldritch power? Only I can offer these materials, and I would make no such clothes for any ordinary man or woman, but for you, my prince, for you I would employ both my Art and Craft to spin these materials into garb that befits our beloved prince.
Alone among all others, I would ask for no compensation until my work is finished. Not as much as a single coin, for I am so confident that when I am finished, you shall be satisfied and reward me accordingly. I warn you only of this. I must work by night, alone, in a tower room where the light of stars can be seen, else the magic cannot be woven into the cloth. In addition, the cloth can be seen only by the truly wise and good, such as yourself. An ignoble soul, besmirched by wickedness, cannot look upon the stuff of the Fey. To such unfortunate souls the cloth will be as light and air...untouchable and unreachable. That...that is why I have never crafted garments of such quality before, because I have waited my whole life long to seek out a soul worthy to wear them, Your Highness."
Draco gulped softly, suddenly remembering that the handsome young man had stopped speaking. The eyes had held him enspelled throughout the story. Even had there been no promise of garments to be made or contests to win, he wanted to see more of those eyes, hear that voice speak unendingly. His decision was made while his pulse thundered in his chest.
"It is done. You will be the maker of my coronation finery. Servants will attend you, and bring your wares into our highest tower. Make ready to begin at once, for there is little time left. Are we agreed?"
And the man bowed low, smiling all the while. "We are agreed, Your Highness."
On the first night after the man had settled in, Prince Draco was obliged to enter the tower to have his measurements taken, and by the letter of their agreement he came alone. A fine loom stood in one corner, and baskets and bales were strewn about the room alongside needles and other strange and foreign objects, doubtlessly related to some sort of Faery magic that was required. The young man knelt low and withdrew a measuring string from his pouch, then set pen and parchment near at hand.
"Begging your pardon, your Highness, but since this clothing must be crafted with the greatest of care, I cannot take the chance of an inaccurate measurement. If you could but disrobe for me...?"
Draco was long used to being attended by servants, both when bathing and dressing, but the soft spoken and confident young man before him now made his entire body flush with feelings of self-consciousness and uncertainty. he stammered his reply as he fumbled with his fastenings awkwardly. It was one thing to be dressed in the morning by familiar maids, but it was another altogether to meet a handsome youth he did not know in a tower late at night. He scrambled for small talk to distract himself as he disrobed.
"Of...of course. Tailor...I don't believe I caught your name during your tale. How shall I call you?"
"I am simply called Harry, Your Highness."
Draco's breath hitched in his throat as the measuring string was employed with meticulous care. He had never been quite so aware of the closeness of another person before. The dark haired young man moved quickly and with ease, turning back to his paper to make notes as he went about his business. Draco lifted his arms when requested to do so, or extended a long and slender leg as needed, while Harry took what measurements he required.
When his shoulders were measured and Harry stood behind him, the young prince was almost certain that he could feel the heat of Harry's breath brushing gently against the nape of his neck. A torrent of inappropriate thoughts flooded the prince's mind, while the tailor quietly measured his waist and hips and legs, and this was an unusual thing, for the prince may have sometimes shown poor temper to his subjects, but his personal conduct had always been above reproach. He had exemplified every princely virtue and had disdained all but the most forgivable of vices. It was suddenly terrifying for him to realize that he might be as subject to the pangs of lust as any common serving wench!
Draco sighed with relief when Harry bowed and announced that he was finished, offering kindly to assist the prince in his dressing since Draco's maids could not enter the tower room. There was a very genuine warmth in the young man's smile that made Draco blush furiously while he accepted a modest amount of assistance.
"Would it be impertinent of a common man to speak his mind with your permission, Your Highness?"
The question had come as Draco had nervously reached the door handle.
"Perhaps, but you may speak."
"I live very far from the here, but even there, the people speak of the greatness of our prince's beauty. Many who have never traveled assume that all tales embellish the truth. I count myself among the fortunate who know firsthand that such stories are but the palest shadows of the truth. I was right to come here, so that the Arts which only I can employ might benefit a leader who is truly wise, truly just and virtuous, and truly beautiful. Good night, Your Highness."
Draco refused to turn to face the tailor, face burning with unfamiliar embarrassment at such heartfelt sounding praise.
"Good night, O Tailor of the Fey. You are well spoken. Summon me again when your wares are ready to be tried upon my person."
The nights that followed were restless nights indeed. As virtuous as the prince may have been, his imagination was on fire with thoughts of the handsome tailor who worked by night and was never seen by day. He longed to make an excuse to visit the dark haired youth whose magic would make Draco's beauty legendary even among nobles, but to give in and tempt himself with such closeness would be paramount to disaster!
That same denial made a small desire kindle its way into a burning flame that consumed him from within. Draco's dreams became the wanton sort that plagued the young, restless night after restless night, mind afire with visions of smoldering green eyes and skillful hands. His dreaming mind saw him ravished nightly, savoring every touch and caress, but waking each morning to an empty bed and tangled sheets (soiled in the night by his own seed, spilled in ecstacy at the hands of common tailor, be he Fey or no!)
And all was not well at court. The older nobles grumbled that as days and days passed with no product forthcoming, the tailor should pulled from the tower and his work inspected. Draco's temper, already flaring from the frustration of so many guilty, restless, nights of self pleasure, snapped utterly.
"Know this! Soon I shall have the finest garments this kingdom has ever seen, visible, as you all have heard, only to the wise and virtuous! I shall know who among you is without virtue and unwise, and rest assured, I will seek out the council of ONLY those gentlefolk who have shown that they can see my new garments!"
The grumbling and carping nobles fell silent as one, realizing as they did that they might find themselves replaced at court by fresh faces if they drew the prince's ire, and that neatly solved that! The problem of the prince's own virtue remained at hand, though, and Draco hovered between eagerness to indulge in wicked fantasies about his marvelous tailor and utter shame that his once virtuous imagination had become a playground for lewd and lascivious conjurations, always centered around the notion of giving his body to the handsome young man marked by the Fey, to let himself abandon all pretense of power and authority and simply submit himself to the capable, plundering strength of another.
When only days were left until the coronation, Draco finally paced the halls of the highest tower alone at night, desperate for a glimpse that would soothe his fears. He could hear the loom spinning and the rustle of cloth from beyond the door, and so the tailor must surely be working his magic by night as he had agreed. It was unbearable, and so Draco, in desperation, peeked through the large old keyhole into the candle-lit room beyond.
The tailor labored, hands aflutter and loom turning, needle flashing by the light of the candle, his handsome face furrowed in stern concentration as he worked his magic...upon thin air. His hands dipped into baskets and withdrew only air, seeming to dust the unseen cloth he spun with substances that likewise could not be seen.
Draco stepped away in horror, stifling a gasp and biting his fist to silence himself. It was the cruelest of ironies, that he should find the clothes beyond his ability to see. He deserved no less...for his mind had become a sink of depravity in just a few short weeks, and only the virtuous could see the cloth of the Faeries. He fled swiftly to his chambers, dismissed his maids and made ready for slumber, wracked by guilt and sorrow. The finest clothes ever spun, and he would never see them, and while he might someday know who among his councilors was wise and just, he would always live with the knowledge that he was not their equal.
They could never know, he promised himself between sobs. He would hold his head high and make certain that they all believed he could see his garments. But what would the tailor think...if he knew that his clothing had been spun so carefully for someone unworthy of such a gift? He would say nothing cruel to royalty, but would those eyes see through him? Would they cast a gaze of bitter disappointment even while the man's voice was silent?
And Draco's last nights before the coronation were haunted by nightmares, echoes of his own fear and self hatred battering him each time his eyes closed.
The tailor sent word by servant that the work was finished, and that Draco might be dressed on the morning of the event itself, with only the tailor who knew the garments personally and well to assist him. Then he would hold a brief audience with his councilors before the coronation ceremony, and then and only then would the parade begin, letting the people look upon their radiant and newly crowned heir.
The matter of payment was never brought up, but Draco had prepared a thousand golden coins, in one heavy purse, to be handed to the tailor when the audience was over. He morosely consoled himself that it was hardly the tailor's fault that Draco had proven weak and had given in to temptation. If the councilors looked upon the garments and found them fit, Draco would simply give Harry the gold and send him away, back to whatever magical forests he had come from, well rewarded for his efforts.
The time for dressing came and, after a sleepless night and countless tears, Draco bathed and permitted the tailor entrance to his chambers. Harry came with a heavy trunk, smiling pleasantly as he had before, warm and kindly green eyes meeting cloudy and slightly reddened grey. Harry opened the trunk and carefully laid out his wares upon Draco's bed with exaggerated grace and pomp. Draco waited mournfully for the process to begin, painfully aware of his own absence of virtue and its terrible cost.
The name of each article of clothing was called off as it was applied, but they were each as light and air to Draco, non-existent to the eyes or touch of the unwise and unjust. The tailor held out each article for Draco, who nervously went through the motions of donning each peice, thankful that his knowledge of clothing allowed him to pantomime the act skillfully in the tailor's presence. When they were done, Draco stood before the mirror, knowing himself to be naked to his own unworthy eyes, and preened carefully, praising the tailor's skill while Harry waited quietly in the corner, bowing at the kind words.
When they emerged into the audience chamber the assembled nobles burst into applause, beaming and cheering, each lavishing louder praise than the one before, not one among them speaking slightingly of the tailor's work, and Draco posed regally, accepting their praise in turn, doing his level best not to let his sorrow show on his face before such an important ceremony. At the audiences end, only the tailor remained behind, silent and humble even after having crafted a miracle. Draco approached him and withdrew the heavy purse of coins from a chest nearby.
"Here, Tailor. You have done your part most expertly. It seems a shame that we have seen so little of you, but you have earned your reward. Go with our blessings and thanks."
Draco could not completely check the welling sadness and anxiety that filled him as he handed over the coins, and the tailor that had been the ironic and unintentional source of his downfall gave him a strange look that made Draco cringe with the fear that the man could see the nature of Draco's distress. The tailor took the coins in hand, tucked them into a purse at his side and spoke softly, eyes intense and smoldering with sincerity.
"O Prince, here is a wisdom that the Fey possess, and I would share it with you because you well deserve it. Worry not overmuch regarding what others think of you, within or without. The scorn of others is a petty thing, and only you can weigh your own thoughts and find them good or wanting. It has been a rare priviledge to have served you, and I too regret the shortness of my stay. Be well, Your Highness."
They parted then and there, the tailor leaving for his distant, northern forest reaches, the prince going to his destiny. The most obvious part of the tale we can guess: a coronation of stifled gasps and fatuous false praise, a parade interrupted by the comment of an innocent child, a carefully woven illusion unveiled and a terrible humiliation dealt to both vain royalty and sycophantic nobles alike, but there is more to the story still, and this part should not go untold.
When the chaos of the day was done, angry words and recriminations unleashed and oaths of vengeance uttered, Draco fled to his chambers to sulk in humiliated privacy. It was there that he found two curious things. There was a heavy purse, brimming with golden coins, and a letter. Though his first impulse was to scatter the coins by flinging the purse to the wall and to burn the letter without opening it, his curiousity got the better of him, and this is what he read:
"My Prince,
Where I dwell the people spoke often of the beauty and vanity of their heir, and those marked by the Fey often have a trickster's heart. When I heard of a contest to serve your vanity, I could no more have resisted the urge to humble you than I could have chosen not to breathe air.
I could not have known when I concieved my plan that I would look upon you with such fondness, or know so much regret for my pointed prank. It is as I said before, and the words are no less true now, the scorn of others is a petty thing, and I was guilty of that scorn as well, else I would never have done as I have.
I return to you your thousand coins, save for one, which we shall rightly call stolen, and it is my hope that you will seek to take that last coin back from me in person. For one who is Fey, the forests of the North are protection enough, even from the greatest of armies, but where no knight or squire could pass, the single person whom I most desire to see could easily travel.
Do you weary of your empty courts? Do your ears ache from hollow praise? I cannot give you the pleasure of palaces or the adulation of crowds, but all that I have will be yours should you find me.
The Humblest Of Your Servants, Harry"
-
Many hundreds of years after the time of that infamous prince, there is a tale told, most particularly in the North, in the villages and camps near the Fey forests. They tell of a time many centuries before, when a prince was humbled and scorned by his own people, laid low by the tricks of a charming creature of Fey. They also tell that the prank was not without a cost, for as smitten as the prince may have been, so also was the creature of the Fey. The Prince abandoned his high station, rode away from his palace and servants, put away all trappings of rank and high birth and went north into the forest, never to be heard from again.
And it is also said that, when lone travelers dare to journey into the deeper reaches of the forest, that the voices of two young men can be heard raised in laughter on the breeze, and that those who hear them are suffused with a sense of peace and unabashed joy, and always make their way home from the forest safely...
...and live happily ever after.
FIN