Disclaimer: I do not own Sofia the First or any of it's characters. That right belongs to Disney animations and Craig Gerber.
Author's Note: This is, in fact, an Adult!Sofia story. Since I will later be getting into some more mature themes with our dashing older sorcerer Cedric, I felt it necessary to move things as naturally and ungross as possible. ALSO, in this fic, a medieval/renaissance-esque era will be showcased (as in, not totally historically accurate in speech and customs), as that's just kind of where my mind went for this plot... There will be a distinct lack of some things in favor of it having just been the over-active imagination of a child AND please pay attention to my 'tense's,' I will most likely go back and forth in memory and present-day like that in order to save time and get on with the flow without the pesky italics button. So, ...I do it for a reason.
That being said, I AM still new to writing (a human that makes mistakes, as well) and would love any feedback! If you have flames, please fan them into the form of constructive criticism like a reasonable adult, I would very much appreciate it!
Chapter 1:
Her reflection stared back, as the world seemed to dim from all around until the image no longer looked the same, but a stranger stuck in the same place. In a sense, this is kind of true. The past few years has sped around in a tumultuous blur, and Sofia can almost no longer distinguish herself from the person she now is from the girl she used to be. This was all just a bad dream, right? The waking world is right around the corner, tauntingly stretching this nightmare out past it's norm, turning weeks into minutes and years into hours? Any minute, her oceanic orbs will open to the morning light, and she'll be her newly-adult self once again. An eighteenth year to the very day, a reason to celebrate, to be festive and just happy to be alive; unlike what really happened.
She can recall the feelings as if it just happened moments before. The confusion and frantic overwhelming anxiety as the dreaded chirps and squeals of her beloved friends rang out clamorously, nonsensically.
At first, she slapped at her heaving chest, where the amulet lay, nestled in the warmth of her skin. She had gripped it, tears stinging at clear crystal eyes that darted every which way, searching in vain for something she did wrong. For some writing on the wall, a message telling of her misdeed that lead to such a curse. But no, the room remained in stasis, eerily quiet beyond the hopeless calls of her animal comrades.
Everything about the day had started off off, following a fitful, dreamless sleep. There was no turn-down service from Baileywick, nor was there the company of Sofia's handmaiden. There was nothing but blinding, blistering sun beating in on her sweat-sticky skin and an over-abundance of suffocating bedding and anguish at the lacking translation of those the brunette held dear.
She didn't bother to dress, too frazzled by all the happenings and not, her feet carried the girl briskly across fresh threshes and the glinting stone beneath, padding on plush carpet where ever it was afforded. No one turned a head, nor lent a hand, not even a "Good morning, Princess," was given, which, in and of itself, was unheard of.
Having checked every room along the way; Amber, James, her mother and father, servant's quarters, even the dungeonous spire that had long been vacated upon the sorcerer's forced resignation. No one, that could tell the teen anything, could be found, so she moved onward with peeks into the kitchens and dining areas until only one was left: the throne room.
Rubbing a stitch in her side, she took deep breaths, easing the air in and the ache out. Yet, what was this, this heaviness that settled into her bosom? She's just looking for her family, wanting answers...? One determined respiration and a set brow propelled dainty naked feet onward, soft hands gliding habitually against the rough wall working to steady the brunette enough to turn the corner leaving just enough space to thrust the massive, thick-planked door, walking into a scene that will forever haunt her mind.
Still lost in the memory, a single tear slips from her stinging eyes, dry and irritated with her staring contest with this dirtied stranger in the broken mirror. Fixed, but only seeing the past, her breaths are shallow, slender throat poised to fight down pitiful sobs that she will no longer let escape, still, chilly, calloused fingertips wind absently from the splintering wood to the vulnerable space at her collarbone, the skin there still longing to feel the peace the missing jewel used to provide.
One of the first things Sofia had noticed upon entering that daunting room was the pity in Baileywick's eyes as he turned to investigate the creaking barrier. It didn't make sense back then, the look in those kind, wrinkled orbs. One that seemed to scream apologies a hundredfold, blasting her further into befuddlement. Thin chestnut brows knitted, a questioning frown had pulled at her full lips, and onward she walked, studying the steward, almost not wanting to see what his eyes pleaded with her not to witness.
But, alas, her curiosity had gotten the better of the girl, and her gazed grazed the room, sweeping over the many grand tapestries that hung from the walls, how bright the rich fabrics shone under the unfettered, unfiltered light. The gorgeous stained glass had been replaced by simple bars, clear of the loving family portrait that once resided there. Lips parting, her jaw slackened, slow motions clouded her senses and the young adult could not investigate quick enough. Each stony pore, every curving line of grout, each highlight and low, all of it seemingly committing itself to her very core as tortuously her vision dropped to three thrones, three people sitting, one kneeling upon the thinly be-rugged dais. The way soft feminine shoulders shook beneath silken finery, an unbefitting position of any woman of high enough position to own such clothes.
And then it clicked. Her mother. Why is her mother crying? Suddenly, everything was moving too quickly, or maybe that was the jostling run the blue-eyed girl had broken into in order to comfort the woman on the floor. It took only moments for Sofia to get there, falling to her knees painfully and gathering her sputtering mother within her thin embrace.
"Shh," she had whispered to her mother, "shhh. It's going to be alright, everything is going to be okay." Her own form began to shake, whether it was uncertainty, or fear of such, she still isn't sure, but her trembling fingers began to comb through the elder woman's long, dark tresses, much like she had always done for Sofia.
Miranda was gasping at oxygen that painful rasping sobs would not allow. Salt from tears dried caked and slicked with sorrow that was still running in waterfalls down her flushed cheeks. The moisture seemed to make it even more difficult to breath, and every pull became even more laborious, rapid backward screams. The teen tucked her parent under her chin, pressing her head to her chest so that the woman could hear her heartbeat, Sofia hoped it would be enough to calm her.
"Mom? I'm here, it's alright. Everything will be alright." The younger female couldn't focus on anything but the heart-wrenching sounds coming from her mother, and when she was finally lulled, the girl kept holding the woman yet looked to the others in the room, waiting for something, anything to be offered as explanation.
Amber's namesake-colored orbs remained floorward, a mask of golden hair trying to cover the worrying of her pink lips, James eyes stayed clenched shut, some emotion painting his flaxen, halo-rimmed rounded face with red as her father watched on in a startlingly cold detachment.
"Dad?" The word passed her lips with out thought, a name that now hurts to say, so Sofia just doesn't any longer. He had just looked on, the silence was deafening, his frigid scrutiny a foreign thing that felt filthy against her barely clad flesh. A few more moments passed of this dead air before she dared try again. "Da-"
"Please refrain from calling me as such, Sofia." He boomed with a haughty sophisticated air, cutting the girl off and making her jump. The brunette strengthened her hold on Miranda, pulling her ever closer as she cocked her head in hurt query. The blonde King drew up to full sitting height, regal strappings and medals aglow, intimidating with his grip on the throne's arms whitening his knuckles. "Certain circumstances have come about in which Miranda and yourself will no longer be recognized as members of our royal family."
What exactly did this mean? How could this be? What had gone so wrong that her father was looking at them that way? What ever the answer, Sofia knew that she didn't like it. Warmth scalded her lids, vision swaying with a sheet of unshed tears threatening their spill, but still, she carried on strong, hoping to soak up the information he would grant her. The man, Roland II, was the king, after all. His word, no matter the way her will blew, was law. And it was this, the brunette figured, broke the dam, as he sighed, dropping posture ever-so-slightly in order to rub a palm over weary puffed eyes.
"I," Previously commanding tone faltered in crackles, the regal man cleared his throat, stifling what ever pent up rivaling ethic warring within." I have a duty to my kingdom, before family. And as such, I need you both to understand, treaties running thin and challengers to my throne abroad, my subjects need to be able to put their faith in me to lead them. They need a healthy, tenacious chieftain in such an uncertain time." Not really understanding what Roland's tirade had to do with her mother and self, she continued to listen, closing her eyes, soaking up the warmth of her mother and the pacifying circles her thin fingers massaged into the girl's back.
"Cedric isn't here to fix this." It was barely above a whisper, but it gripped her heart like a vice and she couldn't help the sarcastic spit that fired from behind her grinding teeth as she glowered at the throned majesty.
"Of course he isn't! Did you expect the man to stick around after you sent him away in mockery! Telling him to apprentice under others, colleagues of his same year! You know, a little faith and a lot less pressure would have gone a long way," Pausing, she took a deep breath, "...Your highness. It's the same with all of the neighboring kingdoms, and you just don't see. Some bridges aren't supposed to burn, though you seem to be in a blaze frenzy! Just... Just tell me one thing. Just one thing, and then we'll do anything you ask of us." Narrowed in on him and impatient, Sofia hummed in annoyance.
"Please, go on." Roland bowed, waving for the girl to continue.
"What exactly did you do that needed fixing from a man that you mistakenly forced from the castle that is so important for you not to be seen as faulty?" The king's gaping maw would have been comical, had this pain not ached and the loss of a great teacher not left a hollow in her soul, Jaw set, Sofia awaited the accused's word.
"I don't know how to answer this in a way that you could ever understand."
"Enlighten me, Your Majesty."
"There is to be one born of royal blood in regular gestation's time." The girl gasped, looking down at deep pools of watery sky of her mother so like her own, the woman shook her head, 'no.' "And both women now house a nuisance that has long been taken care of with the last stock of potions brewed by Goodwin, before his passing." A lip caught between straight teeth, the king gave way to a frustrated silence. "Blood is everything, even in this day in age. And, I'm sorry to say, potion is limited."
The dumb look stretched across her face must have been gargantuan, for all it took was a mere moment for Miranda to switch positions, rearing up and crushing Sofia's numbly limp frame to her own.
"The baby and," stopping to sniffle and regain her voice, the former queen's shaky timbre continued, " i-i-it's mother come first. It really is okay, honey. You're right."
Blank, Sofia recalls as she blinks back to that cracked mirror, there is no other way to describe the way it feels when the securely fortified happy little world your loved one's build up for you comes crashing down with the fragility of glass. Back then, it's all her body would recognize. As if the careful calligraphy of the finest book were dipped in acid, wiping every page clean. Blank.
She stared, unseeing, as all of the happy memories began to wash away, the royalty became nothing but a dream and that moment became nothing but lame parchment.
"W-W..." Sofia bit her lips, willing for sound to join the words she was trying to form. "What 'nuisance' has he left you with, Mom?" It was a weak, airy little question, and she couldn't bear to look at that man any longer, but she had to know, had to understand, needed to be able to listen to something from someone she could trust.
"Syphilis, Honey." Her sure words had sent the girl reeling, nausea burrowed deep in her stomach and her chest hurt. How could the man that she called 'father' deceive mother like this? Marry her without giving the woman this knowledge, and then shatter fidelity, risking the lives of all involved with him? How could he just leave Miranda to suffer this disease, to eventually die?
As if her mother could read her thoughts, whether or not is was easy, she's not sure, maybe the woman could tell by her face, she smiled a wobbly smile. That strong simper that carried them both through her biological father's passing and supported them even when they worked in the village for days at a time with not a chance to sleep. "No, no. It really is okay. King Roland II gave me a small portion of his potion, so it should hold off the effects for a little while at least. You really don't need to worry, sweetheart. But, the future new queen and child need the rest, far more than I. That child should have a chance to live, wouldn't you agree." The elder brunette kept smiling that smile, nodding with every word and Sofia knew it was to convince herself, too. Those honest cerulean pools couldn't lie.
The rest of that day ran smudged and smeared within her memory bank, wordless packing and preparation, burning pity being scorched into her skin by household staff and the ones the brunette called family. Though, what singed and stung most was not the love-longing gaze of those no longer able to associate, but the distant coolness of her beloved Baileywick. That grandfather-esque man with the kind heart and giving nature, no longer speaking with the girl. His silvery hair and glinting spectacles zipped around, staying far from she and the former queen, most likely a purposeful avoidance. Though, their things had been packed with great care, efficiently, she guessed that that would be his final service to them.
And it was. Only few, with the exception of their small fleet, came to see them off. Amber, James... Voices stolen to emotion, their words still to present day, break Sofia's heart.
"I wish it wouldn't have ended like this, Sofia." The blonde's way of saying, I'm sorry that you had to be built up and knocked down. I'm sorry that you had to get used to this life and have it snatched away. I wish you would have ended your stay here with a marriage, whisked away to a beautiful castle with the prince of your dreams, as we so often chatted about. You deserve better.
"If I would have known,... I thought you both would have lasted..." A young king-in-waiting, using the least words to convey his guilt over not having married already. For not taking the lead seat and allowing both to stay, for not providing cover to this scandal. A silent promise that he'd make sure things return to some sense of normalcy upon his ascension to king. That this wasn't really a farewell, and that he'd fix this. All of it. The girl gave him a knowing smile, bowing her head in deep respect for him, for the both of them.
It wasn't much of a goodbye, but when you have been born into royalty, when that is the place that you belong and you are parting ways with those that were never meant to share a throne in your castle, the brunette guessed that their sentiments were above and beyond any that should have been offered. With one last look back at the shimmering towers and tall decorated walls, the faces that held determination and sorrow, Miranda and Sofia stepped into their plain covered carriage, sitting on the thin cushions of hard wooden seats, awaiting the driver to take them both away into the anonymous night, to the foreign outskirt land that was ready for them. A place that no one knew who they were.
A place for them to be left and for all that knew their faces and loved their presence, to forget them in time. It seemed to work.
It hadn't been too bad, sent on the way with everything they had gained in gifts through the years; Jewels, fine toys, dresses... their crowns had been combined and melted down at the castle forge in order to remain in disconnect from Enchancian royalty, a single, light bar of halved silver and gold was all that was left of their regal headware. How such a small amount of precious metal could be used to craft such elaborate pieces still baffles the mind, but as always, it's of no real consequence.
It took all of the supplies and three weeks of nighttime travel to reach their destination, daytime guards breaking off to triple back in order to throw anyone off of their trail, and they made it to the farming village as the pastel blues, purples and pinks of dawn dusted thatched roofs and many orchards. Thanks to previous agreement, a barn and inn had been erected, along with many other buildings, animals had been sent and visiting merchants now had a hall in which to gather in hopes to boost economy. As sickening the thoughts of King Roland II had made Sofia, he really was a smart ruler, if only a bit pig-headed and testosterone driven.
They had settled in a room at the inn, their things taking up a large portion of floor space which had left them both enough room for a chamber pot, bed, vanity, bathing basin and a small stove, each within few paces from the other. But that was okay, Sofia really didn't want to be too far from her mother, anyway. The older woman needed her, Sofia was old enough to take on some of the emotional burden, to let the elder brunette confide if she so needed. Though, Miranda never did. Whether it was a thin veil of pride that the woman wanted to keep intact or the ache of betrayal she wanted to bury, the girl didn't know... But she would give support and allow her to mourn.
Pressing her palms to the grain of the rickety vanity, Sofia rises to a stand, taking in the small wooden room of chipping dull beige paint and cold concrete floors. The rushes need to be changed out with fresher ones, something that can be done in the morning, she notes mentally. Not much has really changed since their first night and now, they have gained space and lost items. As is the way of trading when work is scarce and funds are low.
The beautiful intricate gowns of colored lace and fine dyed silks had gone one by one, providing them ongoing lodging as week by week the traveling vendor stopped in town to trade and pay. Each week they'd see off a piece of their past life, bittersweet as the coins jingled inside of their rough pockets and their small stomachs gave rumble. Onward the man would gallop, on horseback as the cart disappeared over the horizon, the wares to be sold to many unnameable places.
Settling down, brown locks tucked away from her face by a simple cloth much like her poppy smock, Sofia snuggles into the warmth of her sleeping mother. The mattress crumpling beneath as parchment and poultry feathers give way for the girl's weight. Miranda mumbles incoherently mid-slumber and Sofia nuzzles deeper, a breathy chuckle on her lips.
"Good night, mom. I love you, too."
~O~O~O~
Cool as the night was, it passed with warmth as both had inched closer to the other in the grasp of pleasant unconsciousness. Only in dreams does the worry of livelihood pass in place of serenity and imagination, something that has slowly faded from the waking world day by day. In slumber, horses really could fly, safely catapulting Sofia's younger dream-entity into the clouds to take in many glittering cities and kingdoms as they flew over vast oceans, scaling mountains with silent hoof beats. She could allow herself to lose base with reality in wonderment... Until it ends and her eyes groggily widen to the first soft rays of morning's light.
Usually dank with an underlying odor of mold, in bold contrast, the room smells amazing. The rich aroma of fresh savory spices and salted meat wafts in, invading her senses. Without thought, she's already wandering to the small alcove where the little stove lay.
Clinks of metal and wood sound, Miranda gives the pot a good stir before sliding the heat-controlling plate farther into it's slot carefully, so not to char the pot's contents. Looking over her slim shoulder, noticing the drooling girl watching her every move, she smiles, turning to capture her daughter in her embrace.
"Happy birthday, Sofia!" Softly, her lips tickle the girl's neck as she speaks into her hair, giving a quick peck to her cheek as she pulls away to continue her cooking. "It's almost done, but would you mind gathering some water from town? I didn't quite get enough."
That's right... that's today, isn't it? So, it's been two whole years already? Sofia nods to the humming woman before slipping on shoes, gathering her pail and bag, opening the musky, dark, splintered barrier to the bustling little town. The cobbled pavement meets with the steps as she descends the short stair, onward in practiced trek to the village's well.
Sheep and goats bleat from beyond the bordering fences as chickens roam freely, pecking at the ground for scraps and seeds that got lost along farmers' trails. Kids laugh, chasing each other around trees and hiding behind walls, Sofia can't help but smile at the simplicity of this pure happiness. Where these kids and animals, their parents and caretakers all live in a circle of tight reliance upon one another. Trust that runs so deeply, they don't worry, they just live for the sake of living.
Stone-ringed and just a little wet, she approaches the cool basin, attaching the handle to the dangling rope and placing the cleanest rock available inside, lowering the pail. As it sinks, Sofia looks around yet again. Living among these wonderful people has been nice, in the most positive light that can be mustered. But she doesn't belong, witnessing their faith in one another, it's lovely to see, but that feeling has left her. No longer is she able to put stock in another, aside from Miranda. No longer does she belong in a castle, and no longer is she a girl of the village. Then where?
With trained hands, the bucket is lifted upon the twine and she busies herself to untying the knot. Brushing stray auburn strands from her brow, she puffs, gathering strength enough to carry the heavy container steady through the maze of clucking poultry and zooming children, up the creaking steps and to the door of this familiar room. Opening it just enough to unload her burden, Sofia calls out into the abode.
"I'll be back! I'm going to gather fresh flooring, okay?" Without waiting for further word, she shuts the entrance and hurries off down to the opposite end of town. Miranda, hearing the door click shut, shakes her head, lips tugged in a tight line between a grimace and sad smile. A knowing expression that her daughter has never seen.
Sofia arrives at the field, it's campy fragrance making the girl's nose itch as she unflattens the bag at her side, holding it open for it's new bristling occupants. Brown hair falling into her concentrated face, she runs knowledgeable fingertips along each thin stalk, feeling for its dryness and durability, placing ones that pass inspection quickly into the large scratchy sack. Soon enough, it grows heavy, rebellious branchings sticking out of the bag's cloth and poking her in the sides. She takes it all in stride, the vexing pinches no longer truly bothering her as she trots past the gate, back into the heart of the growing village. Back to that inn, where her mother is her heart and also her home.
Only slightly out of breath, the estranged princess bursts through the door, eager to clean up the rotting rushes, to be rid of their stench and unpleasant slime. Her broom moves quick, hands even quicker, tossing the offensive weeds into the outside world, where an animal will make quick use of them, either for food, bed, or removing the fresh mint smell a farmhand used to cleanse them with.
Clover would have loved it. He always did like to nibble on the trash-bits, napping in it's softness once his fill had been had. Sofia looks out, past the town well and into the rolling hills where he spent his last silent days, comforting her with nuzzles that he knew she would understand, even without the power of animalistic translation. Closing her eyes and gently sliding closed the door, she leans against it, allowing a respectful moment of silence for the friend that followed her out of everything they both knew.
Sighing, her hands digging deep into the pregnant satchel, she pulls, throws and spreads. Pull, throw, spread. Pull... throw... Lips quivering, the sack hangs limply at her hip, and she feels arms wrap around her middle, lips on her temple.
"I'll finish it. Go eat, baby." Sofia leans into her mother, soaking in her warmth and the sweet scent that seemed to follow her from riches to poverty, her scent. Breathing deeply, it lulls her, and she pastes on her own cheerful smile, cricking over enough to catch the corner of those honest blue eyes and nods gratefully.
"Yes ma'am!" Miranda giggles at the girl's new-found enthusiasm, pulling the strap from her shoulder as she ducks over to the bedding, where a bowl of warm stew lay in wait for her eager consumption. Should she tell her? Let her know so that she may prepare for the inevitable? Or... would that just make everything harder for her? The former queen ponders as the pleasant layers of flooring is spread to perfection. One thing is certain... Not today. Any day but today.
Brushing her palms of remaining debris, her long chestnut locks falling in oily waves at her back and sides, she admires their work with a small hum of approval before claiming her spot at Sofia's side, grabbing her own bowl and spoon. They sip at the rich fat-laden broth, letting it coat their throats as it works to rid the small chill from their bodies, warming them both from the core on, inviting health, wellness, ultimately happiness.
In this moment, with her daughter at her side, that lovely smile spread across gorgeous rounded cheeks and her innocent eyes telling Miranda of this simple bliss, the former queen makes a silent wish for her little girl's birthday.
Let Sofia never have to hurt because of her ever again, let life sweep her up in a love that can erase the pain she's endured... Let her never be afraid to wear her heart on her sleeve, as she did when she was young... and let the man or woman that brings her all of this, protect it, fight for it, and praise it, holding it high with the sacrecy it deserves. Simply, she wishes for Sofia to smile again, full of light and love, like she used to be.
~O~O~O~
"CA-CAW! CA-CAWWW!"
"My dearest friend, Wormwood... Please find it in your bleak little heart," Silvery bangs dangle, barely whispering against an aged yellow page as he leans into the scripture, the man speaks lightly into the binding, marking the next paragraph with a lithe finger to turn toward the pair of noisy ebony ravens, "to CONTROL YOUR SPAWN!"
Turning back to the old novel, lit by flickering candles' flames, he huffs, willing patience to settle frazzled nerves and the many answers spurring his search to jump from the fragile parchment. Cedric has done this for so long, holed up in an abandoned cellar with only candles and annoyingly squawking fowls to keep him company, his honey brown eyes may just be stuck in a state of dilation. If it weren't for these birds, he may have passed long ago, lushly drinking up the stock of aged wine a bite of anything except the dried, salted fish strung up in lines.
He blinks weary orbs, lifting his aching neck and rubbing at the tight knots with creaky lithe hands. Maybe he needs some fresh air. Far too much time has passed, he guesses a change of scenery may lead to something other than disappointing dead ends and hung-over heartburn. Suppressing a shudder, he presses up from the small stool, his knees let off unappealing pops and cracks, and looks at the shelf serving as a makeshift desk skeptically before turning to his quietly twittering feathered companions. They go silent as his gaze falls upon them and he quirks one thin, jet brow.
"What?" The sorcerer had to ask, two sets of beady birdy eyes reflecting dim light, casting shadows to look like narrowed lids in crackling silence is... unnerving.
The youngest of the two ravens gives a strained crow, stretching out it's gullet as it's feathers puff, raising almost intimidatingly. And then, in a stringy white-green line, he defecates.
"COME ON!" Squealing with appalled horror in the most manliest of ways, the man scrunches his defined aristocratic nose, closing an eye at the disgusting pile as his other beseeches the eldest bird. "SHOW YOUR BEAST PROGENY SOME SORT OF COMMON COURTESY AT LEAST!" His digit-revealing gloved hand points toward a dark corner where a crude pewter bucket sits.
"Caa caa caa." Both fowls seem to chuckle at the silver streaked noirette's distress and he gives up, rolling amber orbs at the utter hopelessness of cellar-training.
"Well then, let's be off. I'm sure you both are relieved not to be running supply operations, yeah?" With that, his long legs stretched with each small stride, straightening out from their sit-stiffness as he traversed the hard-soiled floor to the carved-rock steps leading to wooden flap, barred doors hiding sunshine and the busy life of the village beyond.
With the flick of his wrist, the sorcerer plucks an expertly carved wand from the fold of his robes, swiping an arch in the air almost violently. Heavy is the metal latch that slides from the lock in perfect synchronization with the swinging of the planks that bang clamorously against the ground outside as Cedric makes his ascent into the brisk, cool wind of the world above.
"A bit dramatic, don't you think?" Slugswamp whispers to his father, in the form of garble to the human ear, he ruffles his sleek inky feathers before flapping after the man's retreating form.
"You have no idea." Wormwood caws, hopping from the highest shelf in free-fall before spreading his long wings to follow. "At least he's gotten better with time."
Chatter of fabric merchants and blacksmiths fill the air as their many customers haggle for the lowest bargain. Babies wail in their mother's sturdy arms as they juggle their shopping in baskets and the loud, squirmy bundles. Children run, laughing and playing amidst the street corners and shop-keeps yell out warnings about breaking their wares. Cedric purses his lips at the unruly, distasteful conduct, but breathes deep the refreshing oxygen that is both sweet and clean, unlike the stale, dusty stagnant atmosphere he had been cloaked in for...years.
Grip tight on the smooth surface of his wand, hidden well by loose midnight violet robes, he passes many stalls in an even pace, taking advantage of the space with a straight back and squared shoulders. A nudge to the left here, a flick to the right there, his eyes give off nothing but a stalwart stare forward. Would he be successful? He needn't worry about that now. Only time will tell if practice has paid off. But that doesn't stop echoes of voices past from nagging at his brain.
"You've failed yet again... Such a pity."
"What did I really expect from you?"
"It seems you can't even complete the simplest of tasks, Cedric."
"I need someone more accomplished to stand on my court, Cedric. I'm afraid your orders are to 'desist' until you have been reformed under an actual sorcerer."
Teeth gnashing against one another beneath lips pressed into a taut line, a low growl brews in the man's throat. There is no room for second guessing, no slack in his thirty one years growth for nerves to discombobulate broiled intention. No, self-conscious deprecation reigned over this body from the tender ages of three, when his parents thrust him into day-in day-out training, straight into maturity at twenty-one when that bastard of a king sent Cedric off in mockery, amelioration be damned! Knuckles so tight against carefully burnished wood, he jerks the magical baton as the trio passes a portly man bearing a wicker basket of sugared rolls.
His bright, burnt-honey pools narrow as the trek turns into a charged stomp, the paved cobbled path beneath becoming loose stones, the solidarity lessens gradually into packed soil and rolling green hills enter the sorcerer's vision. Tall emerald grass sways against his socked calves as a gentle breeze gusts, almost pushing the man's lithe frame toward a towering tree, with the help of his billowing robe acting as a pseudo-sail. He stumbles only slightly, his free arm juts out quickly to catch the thick trunk, it's giving bark rough enough to dig in, though soft enough to cushion. Cedric lets out a sigh, releasing the tree to sit, nestling into a nook in it's large surfaced roots as he swats the silver and black strands from his face.
King Roland II's message was a humiliating one, infuriating,... discouraging. Though having had a lifetime of both triumph and failure, a royal announcement of the latter really was too much. Familial pride had spurned sorcerer's of the neighboring kingdoms, and off Cedric had set to rework himself in order to better plan his take over by obtaining the Amulet of Avalor.
At first, the streaked noirette had taken to the forest, across the moat's rushing waters and into the deep brush, where alchemic ingredients were plentiful and elbow room was abundant. After many a week, Cedric had come to realize every potion had proved unsuccessful and every spell a dud when it came to breaching the castle's defenses. He tried to go over the walls, finding he was terrified of heights. Concentration blown, he had been dropped into the water without so much as a glimpse over the outermost barrier. The potion version of such proved too successful, floating far past the clouds with no control in his directional pull.
Invisibility was a great attempt, but it was far too fleeting an effect, running out before he could walk half-way onto the drawbridge, even quicker still, the spell which would work only if Cedric were looking in a mirror. Otherwise, he ended up with a vanishing nose for about twenty seconds... Which was horrifying.
More attempts had followed and with them, further he slunk in on himself. The man gave in, trying to find a suitable place to study, desperately searching for sanctuary far from the village of Dunwitty, where they knew of his situation and taunted him, jeering the man from the many inns and taverns out into the open roads.
Scratching alerts the sorcerer to his companions' perch on the branches above as they dig in and release, like one would settle into a seat on an unfamiliar piece of furniture. Elderly birdy Wormy and his dimwitted son are getting antsy to see the day's prizes, it seems. Giving an audible sigh, half exaggerating his irritation, his fingers pluck the dark wooden wand from his robe, the right words playing throughout his mind as he gracefully traces the correct symbol in the air, the rune lighting a transparent flicker of orange until completion, turning into a cold blaze that disappeared leaving nothing but his boons drifting down with a weightlessness in it's wake.
Eyes widening, the man takes inventory of pilfered treasures, his lips curling in self-satisfaction as the birds call happily, flailing inky black wings while falling to attack their share of rolls. This act may have been naught but few parlor tricks, but he pulled through, a complete success amidst an entire town full of witnesses. It's a step toward the right direction... Enchancia's castle.
Has Cedric has improved enough to gain back the title 'Royal Sorcerer?' Maybe. He grins, closing bright amber to let out a dazed sigh. All of the travel, hiding and starvation, tests upon his patience and endurance... Maybe it had been worth it. Could he return now? Would this be of that king's liking? Oh, how easy it would be to swipe that amulet now, residing in his beloved spire stocked with only the finest for the noirette's mystical concoctions and... so close to her.
"What would she be like, now?" He ponders the question aloud in a drawled hush. Wormwood perks at the sound, swallowing the remaining flakes greedily. Having had only three years with the little brunette he can only hope that her interest in the magical arts hasn't been relieved by way of some other... hobby. Involuntarily his body gives a little shiver, the thought was a bit too despicable. Though in truth, it has been a long decade. Through the eyes of such a, daresay, precocious young idealist, anything would be an opportunity and could have swept her away from the subject within the absence.
"No matter." Really, it's just a matter of ease. But to be under the same roof should be enough. "I will get that amulet." Sight opening to the brilliant blue sky once more, he moves, shifting to indulge himself to the town bakery's finest. "Poseidon's pumpkins! You two couldn't leave me a bite at least ?!"
Hecklish squawks as the streaked noirette's only response, he settles for a bladder of sweet citrus water. Giving off a delectably hollow 'thunk' as the cork is pulled, Cedric raises the hard stitched-leather container to his lips, gulping down the cool refreshment. It rinses his throat of it's stickiness, banishing the torrid state and washing the tenseness of dehydration from the sorcerer's mind.
"What ya think he's gonna do?" Slugswamp clicks, surveying the ground for any stray edibles. Wormwood cocks his sleek ebony head, a rumbling growl puffing the bird's feathers before he flies the short distance from grass to branch. Silently reeling over whether or not that was a serious question.
"The same as always." Finally the elderly raven clucks, exasperated, a hint of worry tugging at his rapidly beating little heart. Maybe he hadn't chosen well enough? This immature fowl still has a long way to go. There was still so much to teach, so much of importance... Would he be able to train his replacement in time? He could feel it in his hollow bones and has been noticing the luster of his feathers has been dulling. Should he have chosen a bigger egg to take under his wing? Had he handled the fragile little thing a bit too roughly upon it's snatching? His sharp sideways eyes blink away the sun's rays as he forces down his feelings of regret. It's not over yet.
As Wormwood opens his little orbs, one taking in the site below, his fears begin to dissolve with every excitable peck and it's vying refusal.
"C'mon! I caught it for you!"
"Thank you, but I don't eat worms, Swampy."
"Open up, you towering, bony behemoth!"
"OW!"
"Sayyyyyy 'AHHHHH'!"
"GAH! MERLIN'S MUSHROOMS, SLUGSWAMP! I DO NOT EAT WORMS!"
Wormy chuckles, a ragged coo escaping his broad breastplate of thinning down. "Nah. He'll be fine."
~O~O~O~
With nothing but his feathered companions in the sky, clothes at his back, satchel at his shoulder and heavy ancient tome curled protectively at his chest, Cedric set off on the beaten dirt road toward the magnificence of Enchancia. No matter that it has been years since he has been so active, the strenuous trek is fueled by something far beyond physical. It is a fiery will that burns deep in the slender man's gut, pride's electricity that jolts throughout every vein pulsing vibrantly, it's dark sort of excitement pushing his lithe limbs to the very limit. Mostly, it is want that drives the streaked noirette, clouding his mind of the painful shocks at his shins and the stabbing at his calves and ribs as stoops, inns, residences and fences pass in peripheral obscurity.
Oh how he yearns to enter that court with his expertise in ancient runes, smoothly drawing them out mid-air as his word breathes life into things that only exist in that daft king's wildest dreams. Yes, he would show him... All of them. And soon, they will be on their knees bowing to King Cedric the Great! Out of breath, he manages to laugh, clutching his beloved book ever-close.
His lungs are cold, they feel so dry it's like they itch and he can't scratch the blasted torturous area. He hacks, coughing with both too much and not enough vigor, multiplying the spasms in bodily dissatisfaction. A hand leaves the leather-bound heirloom to grip his knee as the man doubles over, letting the whoops run their course.
"What now?" Minutely panicked, Slugswamp lands to watch his human's struggle. The other bird just sighs in response, landing to rest his wings.
"You okay, Mister?" Ears deaf to the rapid footfalls of this person as he runs up, Cedric waves him back a bit. The tavern-keep doesn't heed Cedric's motions, already at the pitiful sorcerer's side with a palm whacking his back and a metal cup of water being shoved in his face. He settles down after a few moments, sipping the liquid gingerly as his lungs try to seize some more until they stop and he can breathe freely once more.
"Uh... Erm...Yes, yes. Many thanks." Antsy to get going, he mumbles his appreciation to the apron-clad, older gentleman before returning the dented mug with a shove, scuttling off in the direction of the dazzling cerulean horizon.
"Yeah," bushy achromic brows knitting in skepticism, the man grumbles, flapping an age-flushed, meaty hand in dismissal, "..sure, kid." A plume of dust accompanies the sudden flight of the two inky birds as they hurry to follow Cedric into his journey's inception. The proprietor flinches at the noisy hassle and he whirls to send the trio a glare before ducking back into his empty establishment.
This is going to be a very long walk, ambition be damned, it can't really help with atrophied muscles aside from random spurts of adrenaline that numb the limbs. All of this becomes incredibly apparent as woods turn to plains and back to forestry again, the day dwindling down to a gradient golden-orange being engulfed by night fall; Even more so when the exhausted sorcerer makes his camp out of rocks and twigs, enchanting the brush around to weave delicately into a tent and sheet as a simple flame spell sparks the prepared tinder.
Attempting to close weary amber pools, images of his rule race in film behind heavy lids, inviting his brain to make it's own additions and the ardor thoroughly ruins any chance at slumber the silver-streaked noirette would get. But at the very least, his screaming extremities are enjoying such lack of movement. Cedric won't complain, he can't. This and it's successive moments are what he has been waiting for: A glorious return to the kingdom that cast him out as a shameful joke, marching through that village and draw bridge with his defined features held high, to watch that smug look on King Roland II's face fall to amazement and then to horror as a simple word brings that princess near with her hands outstretched, a delicate platter for the delicious, elusive Amulet of Avalor.
He snorts in a hush fit of chuckles, mind dwelling on the most demeaning of scenarios he could use to humble the soon-to-be former king, right along with Baileywick the old, infuriating snoot... If he's still alive, of course.