NOTES: Ahhh! I'm afraid I haven't posted anything or been here in a while (more on ao3) but I thought this might a good one to include! Human / Fantasy AU more than a little inspired by Diana Wynne Jones. It's a magical made-up fantasy mish-mash of Europe so please don't expect the names to hold together linguistically!
This is looking to be my longest fic but should be all finished~
At that time, there lived an eldest brother with his parents, and he worked in their theatre in the Royal City. His name was Toris and he knew he should be more than contented with his lot.
The kingdom was prosperous and peaceful at present, which it might not have been, considering the tragedy that had befallen the royal household fifteen years ago. It was the law of that country that one could not officially be king or queen before reaching the age of majority. So after the old Queen and King had died, leaving their two children mere babes, the throne stood empty. The old King had never been strong and it had been a surprise he had hung on for the few years he had after the Queen's death before succumbing to either hereditary infirmity or a broken heart. But he had in this time set his affairs quite in order, and while the young Prince and Princess grew up the country had been governed capably by a regency council, led by the royal couple's old friend, General Zima.
Toris was not very interested in royal goings on. The country, certainly the Royal City where he'd lived all his life, seemed to him to operate perfectly well without their interference. The city was full of commerce, and art, and a day's journey away was the prestigious magic college attended by his brothers,and at least two of the most famous magicians on the continent still lived nearby, and none of that had anything to do with royalty. In fact, Toris was sure the plays performed in his parents' theatre had far more influence over the lives and opinions of ordinary people than any proclamation from the palace.
But there was a lot of royal talk about just then, because in three months' time, the Prince Ignatius would reach the age of majority and officially accede to kingship. The royal siblings were thus to present themselves in public a number of times prior to this great occasion, in order to give the common people a chance to get to know and love them. And in just a few days, they would be attending a performance at the Fortune Playhouse.
Naturally people were excitable.
"And we must prepare fully an hour of music in case the royal procession is delayed!" the starched chief musician lamented to the young woman who organised the tumbling and stage-fighting, as everyone hurried into morning rehearsal.
The chief musician had been telling everyone this for the last two weeks and was really very pleased at the opportunity to show off.
The organiser of the stage-fights however was not at all pleased, because the royal visit had meant several of her more spectacular routines had been cut out or amended in the interests of safety ("ridiculous!") or propriety ("the prince and princess aren't cowards!")
"Toris, can't you do something?" she asked him for the fourth time that week, "Have a word with your parents, please; it just won't be the same. If you don't, we just might have to do some rehearsed improvisation, if you know what I mean."
"Don't," said Toris, "if you go off-script Natasha will have kittens."
"That's true," she sighed, still looking mutinous.
"Look, Bet," said Toris, once the chief musician had strode away importantly, waving his baton at no one in particular, "I can't promise anything, you know it's not up to me. But I'll talk to Justyna again about the ballet, alright?"
"The sword ballet."
"I can't promise anything," Toris repeated, deciding he would tell her that afternoon about the concession involving the sword ballet he had already arranged with his mother.
"Thanks tons, Toris," Bet said, "you're a jewel."
She sprang away, in some sort of forthright dance step that Toris could certainly believe might involve swords.
Once the cast and crew were all present and correct, Toris locked up the front door and went off to fill Natasha in on the intended revisions to the script. Natasha was the Book-Holder, whose role it was to keep track of props and also to sit in the box by the front of the stage and prompt the actors if necessary. This particular play, being for the royal audience, would be rehearsed to within an inch of its life and woe betide the performer who missed a single line, but in usual times the house company might run two plays in repertory with frequent cast changes and understudies.
He found her where he expected to, up in the rafters, reading a book. Toris tried to keep from her the name the company and even some of the patrons had started playfully attaching to her: the theatre ghost. She was there most of the time, shrouded in from throat to ankle to fingertip in old fashioned dresses with high necks and full skirts and white gloves even in high summer, long pale hair hanging loose in front of her face. And she hardly ever spoke. Most people had heard her say more lines from plays than words of her own. She made no move as Toris poked his head up into the attic.
"Natasha?"
He would never dream of tapping her on the shoulder: that would be to risk getting punched in the face.
"We're restoring the original choreography in act 3 scene 2—Lisabet's sword ballet thing, remember?"
"Does Justyna say?"
Justyna was Toris' mother and co owner and manager of the Fortune. She was one of the only people to whom Natasha afforded deep respect.
"I've cleared it with her, don't worry," Toris said.
Natasha finished pencilling a note in her script and nodded. "Fine."
That was all the conversation he was likely to get out of her, so Toris headed back down the ladder.
He liked Natasha, but it seemed hopeless; she certainly didn't like him. Or maybe he didn't like anyone, except his mother. And her own elder brother. Toris felt an anxious gloom settle over him as he thought of Natasha's brother, Ivan.
The two of them were actually part of some decayed noble family, related to General Zima. Toris thought that connection was largely why his parents accepted the siblings at the theatre; not that they were in thrall to nobility, but you didn't want to upset such people, did you? Natasha was no problem, she worked hard and was useful, in her little niche, but Ivan... Ivan was difficult. Toris just hoped rehearsal would keep them all extremely busy with no free time today.
The day wore on. Actors and musicians warmed up, blocking was gone over, lights were checked and aligned, costumes were adjusted and set detail painted. Toris sent prentices out to pick up lunch from the nearby cafe and went himself to the hardware store to try to negotiate a good price for all the sundry last minute items they seemed to need. He returned in time to grab a quick lunch himself, and arbitrate a dispute between at least four fractious, tearful members of the children's chorus.
The performance was in three days, and looking at it now you would never believe it would be ready in time. Things seemed to be unravelling rapidly rather than the other way about. (This always happened and Toris knew it, but it didn't make him feel any better.)
Darius shooed Toris out of the theatre at seven o' clock. "We'll finish up here, lad," he said, wiping painty hands on his apron and looking distractedly up into the rafters, "you've been here every day this week."
"I'll cook," Toris offered, as he always did.
A sheepish grin spread across his father's broad face. "What would we do without you?" he said.
"It's alright," Toris said, "I like cooking."
This was true. It was calming, and he genuinely liked being alone with his thoughts while he prepared food; alone with his thoughts and with the ingredients.
But what did it say, he wondered, that the highlight of his day was going home alone to cook a hearty casserole? Oh, the theatre was good work, and clearly brought such joy to his parents and to the hundreds of patrons who passed through its doors. But...
Well he was the eldest son, with two much more talented younger brothers. Eduard had a fantastic voice and a scholarship to the magic college. He proclaimed his ambition to be the best spell-singer in the world, and it seemed quite possible that he would be. And Raivis, though he got nervous and flubbed exams, was so, so intelligent and interested in everything. He had in fact written the play they were currently rehearsing, though it had been edited since of course, when he was just 14. That had been only a summer's distraction for him. He was studying at the magic college too and would probably go on to invent some fantastic new spell that would revolutionise lives and make all their fortunes.
They would follow their dreams...
Lost in thought, Toris almost walked straight into the path of an oncoming horse and cart. He should have been paying attention of course, but part of the reason was the cat.
It was sitting in the middle of the road, a small black cat like a patch of darkness, washing itself and looking pathetic. It looked up at him with a flash of bright yellow-green eyes. Subconsciously Toris must have thought it was safe to cross, because no cat would be so stupid as to sit washing itself there, deaf to the noise of wheels on cobbles.
Everything happened in a moment: Toris, halfway across the road suddenly aware of the thunderous sound five feet from him, the carter yelling, the horse rearing, and then he had snatched up the cat from under its hooves and half-jumped half-fallen backwards onto the kerb, tripped over his feet and landed on his rear with the cat clutched to his chest.
The carter yelled something about idiotic young people and carried on down the road.
"Ow..." Toris put the cat down and got unsteadily to his feet.
The cat stood there stiff and didn't move.
"You alright there? That was pretty frightening." Toris sighed. "I'd ask what on earth you were doing sitting in the middle of road but I can't exactly judge now, can I?" He crouched and tentatively patted its silky head. The cat was shivering. Toris began to wonder if it was hurt, although he couldn't see anything wrong with it.
After a moment's hesitation and looking around, Toris picked the cat up. The cat, apparently in shock, hardly moved, and didn't unstiffen his limbs. Toris felt rather silly as he walked back carrying what might as well have been a prop cat in his arms.
Toris put the cat down on an armchair when he got home and set to cooking.
He poured out a saucer of milk and cut a sliver off the fish they had on ice. The cat drank the milk but turned his nose at the fish.
"Maybe you're tired, cat," Toris sighed, thinking it was a terrible waste.
His parents still had not returned by the time the casserole was out of the oven, and Toris knew if could be hours yet, so he sat down to eat. The cat, who was not settling at all, now took up position next to his chair and mewled.
Toris looked dubiously at his plate. "This doesn't even have meat in," he objected, "besides, it's hot."
The cat sprang up on to his lap and put its paws up on the table.
"H-hey!" Toris pushed his plate back. "Alright, but you won't like it."
He waved the cat out of his way, put a forkful of leeks and potatoes onto a saucer and put the saucer on the floor. To his surprise, the cat sniffed, gave the food one dainty lick and then set to with a will.
"Mrow!" it said happily, and stretched up on Toris' legs again.
"You are a very strange cat," Toris told it as he went to the pot to scoop a second, larger portion. "But it's nice to have someone so enthusiastic about my cooking."