This is something I've written for the NT, to be submitted in a few months once my current series concludes, though... I'm honestly not sure if it'll get published given the subject matter, and the fact that it's kinda hard to follow if you don't already know the characters' canon stories. So, I'm posting it here (as well as on my Neoblog) for the time being, because why not.
Just playing around a bit with mixing the TDF canon and my (and a bit of my friends') headcanons about a certain Gelert assassin whom we all know and love. (This is honestly the most canonically correct thing I've ever written about this goob... hmm... but that's unimportant.)
Prepare for angst, my dudes.
Comments/criticism is greatly appreciated.
Hope y'all enjoy.
-Em
If Prince Tourin's smile were to grow any bigger, the expression might just become permanent.
The scene is as perfect as a painted portrait in Faerie Castle. The way the prince and his bride meet eyes as they say their I dos is radiant enough to rival the sun shining above. Still, they can't stand at the altar all evening — unfortunately for them. There's food to eat, and there's family to greet, and there's an entire party to attend now that the prince of Market Town has finally married his bride — Fyora bless the young heroes Tor and Roberta who helped make these lovers' dreams come true.
And so the cheering slowly silences as the band strikes up a tune, and the newlyweds tear their palms apart from each other's so that they may speak with friends and family before heading back to the castle for the feast.
Time passes quickly, and the laughter ebbs and flows, and by the time thirty-two minutes have passed, Tourin is just looking for something to distract himself with while Dona chats happily with her friends. So far, though, the only thing the Gelert prince has found that's worth focus is a few slices of bread and cheese and Dona's sparkling eyes as she smiles and giggles from across the garden.
He's completely transfixed on her.
He has no idea that he's being watched from the shadows.
Concealed beneath the branches of a great willow tree, Simeon, the notorious Gelert Assassin, studies the prince with scrutinising eyes — waiting. Secretly, hidden away, he's been waiting and watching this entire time. Patience is a key tool of his job, after all. Knowing exactly when to strike. Knowing exactly how to strike. Knowing exactly when nobody will see his target get taken down.
But… today is a little different.
Simeon, for once, doesn't have his sword and satchel of poisons at his hip. His eyes aren't concealed beneath the hood of his cloak. His silhouette isn't obscured by shadowy spells. Instead, he leans casually against the willow's trunk and toys anxiously with a few tendrils of dark magic — a simple, nervous habit of his. His golden eyes glinting under the setting sun's light, he simply takes in the courtyard and its contents' every tiny detail. Twenty-seven women. Thirty-two men. A fountain in the likeness of a Naalala. Seven patches of dead grass scattered throughout the living. Four beds of pink posies. One bed of white roses. Twelve pews, six picnic tables, one altar, one bride, one groom…
He's only trying to pass the time.
But, thankfully, he soon gets his chance to act. The three rich so-and-sos who sit at the picnic table beside where Tourin stands snacking eventually pack their things to leave, and the newlywed prince is left alone — unsuspecting.
Finally.
Simeon acts quickly before the opportunity is lost. He readjusts his stance, then begins to reshape the magic that his delicate fingers still conduct into something a little more useful.
From across the garden, Tourin is still lost in Dona's violet eyes.
Again.
He holds the food in his hands to his lips absentmindedly, staring and smiling and enjoying the soft commotion. A cool breeze blows in from the Brightvale coast, but… it carries with it another scent. Something oddly familiar. Hauntingly familiar. It smells like… blackberries, and copper, and the slightest twinge of smoke. Almost like…
No, no, it couldn't be.
Tourin scrunches his nose up at the uncomfortably nostalgic scent, then finally remembers that he was eating something. He pops the rest of the bread he holds into his mouth, then slowly begins to look around the garden, searching for signs of… whatever.
But he doesn't have much time to search before the source of the scent presents itself: a delicate, spectral-seeming dragonfly nymph.
The petpetpet's wings are an iridescent violet, and it looks soft and delicate as a fog mote. Its antennae are long, feathered, and leave a trail of light in its wake. It makes the most pleasant sparkling sounds with each beat of its delicate wings. It's a familiar sight that Tourin remembers from his childhood, but… it's been years… it couldn't be…
The dragonfly nymph lands delicately on the Gelert prince's nose, then quickly poofs into a cloud of black spellsmoke. Tourin knows that the trail of luminescence the phantom petpetpet has left from its flight will surely lead to its caster, but… it can't be…
From the shadows, Simeon watches silently — albeit incredibly anxiously — as Tourin, seeming in disbelief, turns to look towards the willow whose shade the assassin currently calls sanctuary.
After a few sluggish seconds, he and the prince meet eyes.
And the prince's jaw drops in shock.
And Simeon cringes at the sight. Oh no… Please, for the love of Fyora, Tourin, don't make too much nois—
"Fair cousin!"
Simeon recoils at Tourin's shout, then desperately scans the courtyard to make sure that the sound didn't attract any unwanted attention. He may be in disguise, but he's had some… business experience… with several of the families here, and being seen would definitely not be a good idea…
By the time Simeon confirms that the coast is clear, then turns his attention back to where Tourin stood mere heartbeats ago, he's too late to avoid being tackled. Tourin had practically sprinted across the courtyard in the few seconds Simeon had spent searching the wedding guests' faces, and now flings himself into the grey Gelert's arms, aggressively enough to feel like a vicious attack, hugging him tighter than either of them really thought he could.
Simeon breathes in sharply from the impact as Tourin begins blabbering pretentious nonsense. "My dearest cousin! Oh, Fyora above, how many years have passed since last I saw your shadow escape into the midnight's moonmist?"
Simeon struggles to fight back his laughter as he raises his arms to hug the prince back. "You've, er… always had a way with words, Tori," he mumbles through Tourin's crushing embrace.
The sound of Simeon's soothing tenor sends a wave of warmth through Tourin's chest. It's a wonderfully familiar sound. It wasn't too many years ago that Simeon was still a nobleman living in the castle of Market Town, after all; well-off and with all the world within his reach. He could have done anything he wanted, Tourin thinks as he breathes blissfully deep against Simeon's chest. He could have been anything he wanted. He was wealthy, and wise, and an incredibly skilled sorcerer; he had a home, and friends, and a wife, and…
Oh.
Right.
That's where everything went wrong.
Tourin finally pulls away from his ecstatic embrace to look the assassin up and down, holding tightly to the grey Gelert's shoulders. When last he'd seen Simeon — or what Simeon had begun becoming — he didn't look quite as familiar as he does in this moment. That winter night, Simeon was wearing the mottled brown garments that have come to mean death for so many in this realm, and his face was concealed beneath the hood of his cloak, and the only semblance of light about him was the glistening of his ruby and ivory broach. He had come to apologise to Tourin that night — apologise for leaving, and for what he had done. Tourin remembers it too, too well — remembers how much it hurt to watch his closest friend disappear to continue his… hunt…
But on this evening, it's almost like nothing had ever gone wrong. Simeon's got his dorky, snaggletoothed smile on his face, and his golden eyes are bright in the setting sun's light — crestfallen, sure, but still sparkling. He's dressed in fine clothes, the royal colours of his outfit strikingly contrasted by the dull grey of his fur, and his long, nearly white hair is tied back neatly with a red ribbon — unconcealed. He looks… normal, almost, in this moment. Just as Tourin remembers him from before.
Almost.
The prince's smile is brighter than all the sunlight in the sky as he looks up to meet Simeon's eyes. "You know, you are the one who taught me my vocabulary," he says cheekily. "It's your fault."
Simeon's smile turns snide. "Ah, but you take advantage of it, Tori," he says sarcastically. "You simply can't use so much poetic garbage in a single sentence, lest it ruin the beauty of the real world."
Tourin laughs brightly. "Are my words truly so stunning?" he asks, his tone a perfect reflection of Simeon's acerbity.
Simeon makes a face, then lifts one hand to make a teetering motion. "Meh."
Tourin bats his hand out of the air. Then they both laugh.
They've only been in each other's company for a few minutes now, but already, so many questions have flooded Tourin's mind, and there's not much time left to ask them. The sun has already begun its steady descent, after all, and people will be getting antsy for dinner soon. "Well… what brings you here this evening?" the prince eventually asks, his smile now seeming halfhearted — or, perhaps, worried.
Simeon is only frustrated that Tourin hasn't let go of his shoulders yet. He brushes the smaller Gelert's left hand from his arm as he responds. "Well, I couldn't miss my favourite cousin's wedding, now, could I?"
Tourin's smile turns genuine again. "Truly?"
He sounds honestly doubtful. It's actually a little insulting. Simeon brushes Tourin's other hand away, then takes a slight step back — out of reach. "Come now, Tori, I do still care about you," he says, though it sounds like he struggles to speak the words — simply a learned habit, perhaps. Or, hopefully, rather. "I couldn't miss what you so often insisted would be the happiest day of your life." Simeon pauses. Then, "…And is it?"
A loud, inner part of Tourin knows that this is a touchy subject for the grey Gelert, to say the least — and, truly, Simeon's expression seems uncomfortably hollow — but his tone is still that of the purest affection; and, well… Tourin can never resist the opportunity to blabber about his bride. "Oh, my dear cousin, of course it is!" he says theatrically, clasping his hands together and holding his knuckles to his cheek. "Fyora has truly smiled upon me! Oh, what a beautiful evening it was when first I laid eyes upon my darling Dona; and lo, how the fires have burned bright even through the tempests of our hardships!" Tourin sighs loudly — melodramatically — then angles his head over his shoulder to look across the courtyard to where Dona now stands, still chatting with her girlfriends. His smile turns purer than the ocean's breezes. "Isn't she the most radiant beauty you have ever seen in all the realm?" he says with all the breathlessness of a swoon.
When Simeon doesn't respond, Tourin's expression immediately falls. Whoops. He probably shouldn't have said that. His cheeks are painted a touch rosier when he finally turns back around, then blush pure pink as he meets Simeon's eyes. For a half second, Tourin looks down at the assassin's now-crossed arms — at the dull silver band around his ring finger — then laughs nervously as he looks back up. "Um…" He coughs into his fist. "The… second most…?" he attempts to remedy.
Simeon gives him a nasty glance, but eventually finds that he can't hold back his smile. He's too happy for Tourin to let this affect him. "Not in your eyes," he says, though he sounds incredibly pained.
Tourin's smile returns at the sound of Simeon's reassuring words, though it's halfhearted. Then a silence settles between them as they leave the topic to die.
Of course, Tourin is the first to speak again. "I, ah…" He fights to find words. "I… can't express how truly happy I am to see you again," he says, his tone soft and earnest. "I must confess, for quite some time I worried that perhaps you had… forgotten about me, when, um…"
Simeon cuts him off before he can establish what the "when" is. "Please," he says, "I could never forget you, Tori." He then pauses for some semblance of comedic effect. "Unfortunately," he adds snidely.
A few more snickers are exchanged, but then it grows silent again.
It's actually a bit painful, come to think of it.
They used to have so much to talk about…
Tourin doesn't really have anything to say, but still, "I'm… so glad to see you again," he echoes.
Simeon cocks an eyebrow. "You've said that already."
Tourin gives a gentle half-shrug, shifting his focus to the ground. "Well, simply speaking it once isn't enough to express its gravity." He raises his eyes once more. "I've… missed you a lot," he admits softly. "We used to have such adventures as children."
Simeon's expression is slowly darkening. The cold glimmer in his honeycomb eyes is something that many in this realm have come to associate with death itself, but Tourin knows him too well for that. He knows that it's rooted in something else. Something more forlorn. He continues. "I, ah…" He laughs awkwardly — uncomfortably. "I still find it hard to believe the rumours to be true. Of… of what you do."
Simeon feels his words' sting, but he doesn't let it show. "Sorry," he says, giving a sneer, "but I've truly become a monster."
Tourin knows it's meant to be a dark joke, and he does chuckle genuinely at the words, but… it still leaves his heart aching. He remembers times before this. He remembers when they were children. He remembers how Simeon was so much older and smarter than him, yet still took the time to play silly kids' games with him when nobody else was around to keep him company. He remembers a younger, happier Simeon reading him bedtime stories and checking under his bed for ghoulies. He remembers watching Simeon study spellbooks for hours, trying to perfect far-too-complicated curses, and the way he would show off when he'd figured something out. He remembers when Simeon first started turning grey — when the colours of his once-spotted fur began blending into bleakness. He remembers the night he left, sobbing into the palms of his hands…
Tourin sniffles a bit at the memories. Simeon just tries to ignore it. "No, no, you could never be a monster," the prince mumbles, though the space between Simeon's "joke" and Tourin's response is too wide to sound at all reassuring. In fact, it sounds like he's saying it for his own sake and nobody else's. Still, Tourin continues. "I know you had a good heart." Pause. "Have."
Then, another sigh.
Then, he crosses his arms.
Then, "You could…"
But Tourin's voice trails off.
Simeon refuses to bite. He doesn't want to know what he "could."
But Fyora knows Tourin can't keep his mouth shut. His ears perk up as he leans forward slightly. "You could come back, you know," he says, sounding suddenly hopeful. He quickly grasps Simeon's hand, forcing him to unfold his arms, and forcing a scowl to find its way to his lips. "You could leave this… path you've chosen," Tourin continues, and Simeon somehow manages to not say, I never wanted to choose it. "I-I mean… Ah, my bride and I have just wed, and a villa for us the outskirts of town is already under construction!" He gestures towards the horizon as he says this. "Oh, the land is so beautiful, and the ocean is so close — ah, and I know you do so love the ocean, yes?" Simeon forces himself to not say, Used to. "You could join us on the countryside," Tourin once again continues. "We could be neighbours once more! You and your Gallion both — Katydid, the little darling, she is still in your care, right?" The fact that Simeon's expression doesn't change is enough of a "yes" for Tourin. His smile brightens. "It could be like old times again! We could… we could finally travel to Shenkuu, as you'd said so often as a child that you'd wanted to! All of those dreams — surely you must remember them, yes? We could… we could…" He stutters. He struggles to find words. He lets out an exhausted huff. "Just… please, Jenner, we cou—"
"That's not my name anymore."
The words are curt.
Simeon couldn't hold his tongue this time.
Tourin immediately recoils at the harshness of his words.
And then there is silence, if only for a second.
Tourin's eyes turn downcast as he releases Simeon's hand. He laces his fingers once more, holding his fists to his heart. "That's… the name I remember, though…" he mutters, sounding mournful.
Simeon snorts. It's a cold, cruel sound. "That name is dead," he says darkly. Then, after a brief pause, "…It died with everything else."
Tourin finds himself sniffling once more.
Neither of them want to start speaking again as the lingering overtones of Simeon's words haze the sky. Honestly, Simeon knew that a conversation like this would happen if he came to speak to Tourin on this day, but it was something he was prepared for. Or, at least, thought he was prepared for. He's quickly learning, though, that it is much harder to hear the pain in Tourin's voice in person than it was in his thoughts. And the worst part is, he knows Tourin is right…
The prince's sudden, gentle laughter knocks Simeon out of what was quickly becoming a dark daymare. "Do you, ah…" Tourin laughs again. "Do you remember when… Fyora, I must have been but eight years old… You were trying to figure out how to, ah… perform that peculiar teleportation spell, yes? The one with the smoke. You, ah…" Another chuckle. "You must have tried two dozen times before you pulled it off. And I was so happy for you that I remember I—"
"You shouted," Simeon picks up, "and your mother came running."
And Tourin finishes. "And when she saw all the smoke, she thought I was shouting that there was a fire and insisted on ushering us to the fountain in the garden."
"As if that would keep the castle from burning down…" Simeon adds, snickering.
Finally, the smiles are turning genuine again.
Simeon looks off towards the coast pensively as the pleasant memories begin taking the place of the cold ones. "And… and that night, I, ah… miscalculated the spell's trajectory, and—"
"Oh goodness…"
"—and somehow landed myself in the kitchen."
"No, no, it was inside the pantry."
Simeon snorts out another laugh. "Oh goodness… right, right."
Tourin matches the laugh. "You panicked because you didn't know where you were—"
"Oh, Fyora…"
"—and the look on the cook's face when he found you where all the potatoes should be!"
Simeon shakes his head at his younger self's foolishness. "I got dragged back to my room by my ears for that," he says, snickering again.
Tourin, too, just can't stop giggling. "Fyora, do I remember." Pause. "But it never stopped you from doing it again," he adds, his tone turning snide.
Simeon shakes his head again. "And I only trapped myself in the basement twice."
"Three times."
Pause. "Actually… I think it was four."
Then they both laugh again.
The sun is setting faster and faster the more comfortable the two grow in each other's company. The guests are slowly leaving the courtyard for the castle. The skies have begun to blush a bright pink. It feels like every time things begin to look up, the sun begins to go down. It's… annoying…
But Tourin can be persistent when he wants. "Jenner, would you at least stay for the banquet?" he asks, his words rushed so that he can't be interrupted by glares again.
And, predictably, Simeon's irritation is clearly visible in his amber eyes, but… he knows Tourin has the best intentions at heart. He always does. The prince is driven by his heart, honestly. That's something the two of them have in common.
…Had in common, he supposes.
Simeon lets out a frustrated sigh when he sees that his glowering isn't going to work this time. He gives up on trying to escape the question. He huffs, then looks back towards the seashore — uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again. "You know I can't, Tori," he says, sounding honestly sombre rather than frustrated this time. "I have… enemies here."
Tourin knows it's true, and he cringes a bit at the thought, but… "Just for a short while, then," he insists, taking another step closer. "I would love to… catch up, or something."
Simeon chuckles darkly. "You don't want to know what I've been up to," he mutters, his tone that of the coldest ice.
And, again, Tourin knows it's true, but… "Jenn, if it meant that we could talk like old times again, then… I'd deal with it," he says.
And Simeon looks over to meet his eyes.
And there's a strange sort of understanding in the way that their gazes meet; though it's an understanding that things will never be the same again.
Simeon breathes deep, then makes up his mind. He raises his eyes to look across the courtyard for what he has decided will be the last time this evening. "I did come here to say one more thing," Simeon says, suddenly shifting topic as he finds Princess Dona among the ever-thinning crowd.
The silence that follows his statement seems misplaced.
So Tourin prods; curious. "Yes…?"
When Simeon turns to look Tourin in the face once more, his eyes seem flooded. "Take care of her," he says seriously, his voice's colour that of the warmest, most earnest hope. "Keep her happy, and keep her safe. Keep her…"
His voice trails off, and Tourin purses his lips.
Simeon lowers his eyes, then raises them again.
All signs of smiles have left his cheeks.
Then, "Just… do what I couldn't," Simeon softly concludes.
The quiet that follows is a crushing weight.
But eventually, Tourin clears his thoughts and answers with a short nod. "I'll… do my best," he says.
And another breeze blows in from the Brightvale coast.
As the smell of the seawinds fills the garden, Simeon finds that he can't stand to be here any longer. He suddenly stands straight and stretches his arms, groaning theatrically as he takes a few steps to the side. "Well, thank you for the invitation, but I will have to politely decline," he says, more loudly now, feigning comfort — poorly.
Tourin knows him well enough to see that he's still hurting, but… maybe that's a good thing. That just means the seeds of his words have taken root. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not…
Tourin gives a half-honest smile. "Well… stop by for leftovers, then, perhaps?" he says, only half-jokingly.
Simeon snickers lightly, shaking his head. He pauses long. Then, "Maybe," he mumbles.
And his tone is genuine.
And Tourin finds himself smiling.
One last time, there is silence.
Then Simeon pulls Tourin into an embrace first. "It was nice to see you again, Tourin," he says over the younger Gelert's shoulder.
And Tourin is too at home to be surprised. He hugs him back without hesitation. "You too, Jenner."
Simeon doesn't complain at the sound of his dead name this time, because, the truth is… he misses that name. He misses this place. He misses Tourin. He misses who he used to be…
But, well, he can whine about that later.
Right now, he has work to do.
Unfortunately.
Rushing now, wanting to escape his desires to stay, Simeon releases his tight embrace, then gives the prince a humble bow. "Farewell for now," he says. "I'll, ah… I'll try to keep in touch."
And as the smoke from Simeon's teleportation spell disperses around Tourin's feet, Dona calls across the courtyard that dinner is about to be served.
What incredibly perfect timing.
Tourin sighs into the nothingness before him. Then, "Farewell, Jenner," he mumbles.
And the stars above begin to shine.