For Clar the Pirate.
She walked. Bare feet on loose dirt. It didn't hurt anymore, not in this ground her toes could sink into – but she didn't have time to stop and enjoy it. She was walking.
She'd come down the mountain, through the valley, into the foothills. Marched through a forest, across a prairie, back into a forest, into more hills. The dirt was soft here. That was something.
She was glad to be down from the mountain. Everything was hard there. Stone and wind and people who didn't smile, and truths were hardest of all when rocks came sliding, villages buried, and she alone standing.
She didn't think of them – Kira and Lorn and the rubble remaining of the cottage; when she stood alone on a mountaintop she looked at the sky into the celestial heavens and thought of one thing only: wish on a star. Her voice whispered into the night, and when she saw it slip from its place with its comrades, she started walking. And she didn't stop.
The mountain was rough. Her shoes wore away. She didn't care. Kept walking. Clutched a compass Lorn gave her a long time ago. He said it was attracted to magical things. Well, if there was anything magical in the world, it was her star, and she was going to find it and claim her wish.
In the villages, they shut their doors when she passed. Drew their children inside. She heard their whispers. They called her a ghost, or a witch. It was the way she passed at odd hours. Didn't speak to anyone. Just stumbled through.
She was getting thin. There wasn't much to eat. If she found herself lying amid berries, she'd eat them. If she found herself lying in someone's garden, she'd do the same. Otherwise, it didn't matter. She walked. No one beside her, alone.
So when the wagon stopped next to her, she didn't quite remember to stop as well. She walked right past until the wagon had to move forward again to catch up to her and then the man cleared his throat awkwardly before talking. "Miss, uh, could you use a ride somewhere?"
When she stopped walking, she thought she might fall over. It felt like the world ending. For more than three months – more than six – no, eight – twelve? Months, she'd been walking. No one spoke to her. She stopped for nothing.
"Miss?" The man was speaking to her. "We can get you at least to Eschen. It's the next town big enough to have a market. Not far from the capital. Are you going that far?"
She looked at him. She looked at the boy sitting next to him. She didn't speak. She clutched her compass tighter.
"You can ride in the back of the wagon. We won't bother you none."
Finally, she nodded, went to the back, hoisted herself up. She felt her arms might break with the effort. Then they were moving. This she was familiar with. Trees hurrying past in clouds of leaves and shadow. She watched the dappled effect of light on her feet, on the road growing longer behind her. Leaned her head against the side of the wagon, breathed.
"I'd go to the capital," the old farmer said – whether to her or to his son, she couldn't tell. "We'd get better prices there, but I don't trust it. Strange things have been happening there."
"Strange things have been happening everywhere," said the boy.
"That may be," said the old farmer, "but I won't be purposely taking us into the midst of it. The palace is cracking. They say the tallest tower's leaning off to the side now. It might topple any moment."
"I'm sure it wouldn't be any worse than the rock slides in the mountains. Or all those trees in the forest falling down. The creaking sound they made was the worst of it."
She moved a little then. She'd heard a creaking when she left the forest – both times. It was a strange, high-pitched sound, like someone letting out a dying moan. Then the sound of a million sticks snapping in half. She never looked back to see what it was.
"They call these natural disasters, but I say there's nothing natural about it. Some folks've been sprinkling their houses with fairy dust, to ward off ghosts and witches."
There was a pause, and then she heard the boy whisper, "Da, I think she's the one they've been talking about."
"Well, if she is, we're giving her a ride. That's the way to stay out of trouble: be polite to folks. Remember that, Jonas. Be polite to folks, and no one'll have any cause to come after you."
She felt, more than saw, the boy look back at her. She just repositioned her head against the wagon, didn't look at either of them.
"Yes," the farmer went on after a moment, "there's something very unnatural going on in our kingdom, but the best thing to do is to stay out of it and mind your own business. That's what I always say."
She looked at her feet swinging below her. Bare feet, tough as the mountains. Watched the shadows of the trees on the road. Watched them grow longer. Clutched her compass until her fingers turned white as she watched all the trees bend toward her as the wagon passed by.
Gideon clenched his fists and glanced into the sky, then at Thomas walking beside him, and back into the sky. The sun was lowering itself into the horizon at an alarming pace. And there were only two more streets to cross until they reached his house. And streets were more like alleyways in this part of the city. Narrow as sticks. It was a short, short walk. Too short.
"Gideon, for heaven's sake, stop jerking your head about like that," Thomas finally said, giving him an exasperated glance. "Do you want to go to a pub or something?"
Gideon considered the idea of a pub. Somewhere he could sit in a well-lit, comfortable room, and drink a nice pint. Two pints. Maybe three. Drink until he forgot the whole lot of.
"Well?" Thomas inquired, and Gideon looked at him.
He wanted to say yes. He sighed. Rubbed his temple. Shook his head. "You know, I've never been that fond of drinking," he said, continuing to walk forward.
Thomas snorted. "Last Saturday, I came to your house, and you were blubbering drunk at high noon. Not fond of drinking, eh?"
Gideon frowned. He had only a vague memory of the day. It had been a particularly bad night. Or a bad morning, anyway. "That was a rare occasion," he said, waving it off. "But it's true. When I was a young man, I really hardly liked drinking at all."
Thomas glanced at him. "You're still a young man."
He waved off this notion as well, although it was quite true. Twenty-five was hardly old. But...he felt old. "Anyway, I'd sit in the pub with you all, just sipping, until the lot of you got rip roaring drunk, and I could sneak away to do more important errands."
"Important errands. That's what got you into this mess, isn't it?"
"It's not a mess," Gideon said, straightening his shoulders. "It's a star." He said this last in only a whisper, though there was no one around to hear.
"I don't see why you don't just get rid of the thing," Thomas said. "You don't like it."
"It's not that I don't like it," Gideon said, "its just that – well, you wouldn't understand." He could see his door now and strode to it with a sudden eagerness.
"Just like your conspiracies. You still want to save the kingdom?"
Gideon turned back to Thomas. "Thomas, I'm not insane. Listen to me. I caught a star. It fell out of the sky. Do you ever hear of stars just falling out of the sky? And the cracks in the palace, half the trees in the Fayne Forest just falling down? Our kingdom is splintering. I have to find out why."
Thomas gave him his look – like he couldn't decide if Gideon had a point or was just crackers. "Well – I don't know how much more of this you can take, Gideon. It's been nearly a year. There are three hundred sixty five days in a year. That's a lot of lifetimes, Gideon."
"Yes, I know. You don't have to tell me, Thomas. I know. It's my problem. Not yours."
Thomas sighed. "All right. Well, yours it is then." He indicated the door with one hand.
Gideon stared at him for a moment, then opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it fast behind him.
The room was dark and dusty. It was more of a shack than a house, and he wasn't the best with upkeep. But it didn't matter. The only thing worth looking at was on the table, inside a brass lantern.
It was glowing already, though it wasn't yet nightfall. He supposed it might as well have been, in his house. He glanced around a little, thought of lighting a candle. But what was the use?
He felt a sort of smile on his mouth as he moved toward the table, drew out a chair and fell into it, leaning toward the light. "Well, here we are again," he said to it, reaching one hand out like he might push his fingers through the holes and touch it. But he couldn't touch it, of course.
It seemed to glow brighter at the sound of his voice, but maybe that was just his imagination. "What will it be tonight?" he asked it, thinking of the other nights – the other lives.
As the sun sunk over the horizon, it happened. Light shot out in each direction, blinding him – and that was the end.
–
The vines attacked him. He slashed with the sword he'd carried from a far away land just for this purpose, but it was little use. They rose up like beasts, moving of their own accord. They wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, torso and then throat. He started choking, and then felt the thorns, wondering if he'd die choking on his own blood.
The lighting started to seem off then, like it was blinking in his eyes, and he was tired – so tired. Then there were strange shapes in front of him, and he knew the battle was over. This was surrender; he'd be just another pile of bones like the ones he'd seen behind him.
Then, a voice. It said I wish...I wish... and then the vines let go, parted in front of him. He tramped through the rest of the way, into the castle. He went up a staircase flooded with leaves, then a hallway, observing the cracks in the floor, like the whole thing was ready to fall apart.
She was on a bed with pale hair spread out around her – and thorns. Around her like they'd been around him, maybe tighter. She was pale as a sheet. For a moment, he thought he'd failed his quest.
But he yanked his dagger from its sheath at his waist – the last weapon he had left and cut all the thorns that bound her like a rope. He watched for her breathing but didn't see it. He thought he might cry. Which was ridiculous. He didn't know her. He knew nothing about her. But he'd come so far.
He fell to the floor at her side and leaned his head against the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes, trying to come up with an idea of what to do next – and then he heard a breath of air, in and out. He got to his knees and watched her chest, gripping the edge of her mattress and when he saw her faint, shallow breath, he laughed and out of sheer joy got to his feet, leaned down, and kissed her.
He wasn't expecting her eyes to open at that moment, so of course he understood when she sat up and quickly pulled herself toward her pillow and away from him.
"I – I'm sorry," he said quickly, holding out his hands in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner. "I didn't meant to – to frighten you. I'm not the type of person to just go around kissing sleeping strangers, but..." he trailed off, looking to the floor. "I'm just so glad you're alive."
He couldn't tell from the sound she made or the expression on her face whether she was amused or disgusted. She glanced around the room – at the thorns, the leaves, the broken, strewn objects. Finally she looked back at him and spoke, "Well, I guess that wasn't the only unpleasant surprise I had to wake up to," she said as she swung her legs off the bed and stood up.
She walked around the room and then out, down the hallway, and he followed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Unpleasant surprise," he breathed to himself, frowning. Was he really that bad at kissing?
He watched her eyes as she walked the palace, taking in every crack, every overturned chair, opening doors to rooms he didn't realize were there, and looking at all of them with a growing look of despair.
It had to have been an hour before she turned back to him. "You're... the prince who was supposed to wake me after a hundred years?"
He nodded at her. "Yes. I mean, I guess so. That's what I was trying to do. That's what I did, I suppose, but if you think I'm not the right – "
She cut into his stammering with a tight voice, "Then why isn't my kingdom coming back together? Isn't everyone supposed to be here? Aren't they supposed to wake up with me? Tell me what's gone wrong!"
He had nothing to say to her, of course. He just bit his lip, and when she started to cry, he stepped forward and put his hand on her arm. She collapsed into his chest.
When they finally left the castle, he noticed a shadow – thought he heard a strange, gasping sort of breath behind him. When he turned, there was nothing there.
–
They went down into the villages. They told the people that their princess had awakened, after so many years. The people loved her. At every village they came out to see her, clapped their hands, kissed hers. It was easy to love her.
Her hair was so pale it might have been white, and her eyes were blue as the sky, but it wasn't just that. It was the way she carried herself – like a princess, he supposed. But she was personable too. She talked to people. Asked them about their land, their farms, their life. She genuinely cared for them.
They wanted to love him, too. She didn't quite let them. She kept him an arm's length away, and when people talked to him, she immediately gave him an errand to run. He found himself following her around like a dog at her heels and obeying every order like a servant.
Even when she told him to build her a castle and he stared at her as if she'd gone mad, when she turned away with her nose in the air, he went to the closest stone mason, asked him what it would cost.
"Too much!" he cried at the price. "It's for the princess. Don't you think you could make an exception for the princess?"
"A man's got to make a living," the man said.
He sighed.
The mason looked at him. "Listen," he said. "You do the labor yourself; I'll give you everything you need. Deal?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
It was backbreaking work, building a castle. She spent far too much of the time standing there watching him.
"You know," he said one day, "you could help me. One man is not very many to build a castle. I don't think it's really going to turn out like a castle. Maybe a mansion. Are you all right with that?"
She stood there, looking at him.
He kept working.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally.
He stopped swinging his hammer a moment and looked at her. "Because you ordered me to."
"So?" she said. "I'm not a princess. Not really. I don't have any more power than you do. Everyone's gone. The nobles, advisors, my family. The kingdom governs itself now."
"The people love you," he said. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're still a princess. Kingdom or no."
"Will you marry me?" she asked, and he stared at her. "I mean it," she said. "I need – I want – will you just answer me already?"
Still in disbelief, he nodded. Then he kissed her for the second time, and when they pulled away she was smiling at him.
He gave her a half smile back. "Was it a bit less unpleasant this time?"
She laughed.
–
The problems of the world did not solve when they got married. There was a coronation after the wedding. They were king and queen, though they didn't much feel like it. They called their house a castle, though it was little more than a stone cabin in the end.
They made laws and decrees occasionally, but the kingdom didn't need them. They had children who ran in the forests and meadows along with the village children. Little princes and princesses who were taught that royalty meant service to the people, and they spent their days gardening and cleaning houses of those who couldn't do it on their own. They never had servants.
On his fortieth birthday, Gideon's wife made him a cake with chocolate frosting. It was a grand, if small celebration. Everyone sang. Lit the candles, ate until they were stuffed.
After the children went to bed, they did the dishes together, and he asked her, "Are you happy with this?"
She glanced at him. "With what?"
"With the way everything turned out. You and me and... our castle," he said, glancing around the clearly lived-in room.
She glanced with him and then smiled. "Yes," she said. "I'm happy. Aren't you?" He dried the plate in his hands and put it away. When he didn't give an answer, she looked at him with a raised brow. "Well?"
"Of course I'm happy," he said. "I just wonder sometimes. Why the kingdom didn't go back to how it was. Wasn't that what was supposed to happen? Or did I miss something when I came, all those years ago? Something I should have done that would have broken the curse?"
She dropped the soapy dishes and grabbed his hand. "Gideon my love," she said, "it doesn't matter. What matters is that we're here now. And we're happy."
For a moment, he thought of when they left the castle. He thought about shadows just out of sight. What had he missed? He had the desperate feeling that he'd missed it more than once. He had the strange feeling that he'd been a king before in some other circumstance, and – and he always missed something.
When he looked back into her eyes, he saw that she was right. It didn't matter. They were here, with their children, with their home, with their simple lives. And they were happy.
–
She died when he was seventy. He cried until he felt there was nothing left inside of him, that he'd cried it all out. They buried her in the forest, close to the old castle, though little of it remained. "It's where she came from," he told his children and grandchildren. "It's where she ought to be."
They held a simple service for her. There were more people there than he expected. All of the villagers who'd loved her and all of their children and grandchildren whom they had told of the lovely princess who slept for a hundred years came to pay their respects. He was grateful, and he told them so in the first real speech he'd had to give. He felt like a king, maybe for the first time ever. An old, sad king.
He stayed on another five years or so. He liked his grandchildren best of all. He took them to the castle often where they played in the many crumbling rooms. His grandsons pretended to be himself, battling through living thorns. His granddaughters were princesses, keeping lookouts for their heroes. He told them so many stories.
And then one day, he knew it was the end. The sun was out, and he sat in his garden. He felt content – and so tired. He watched the wind blow through his flowers and vegetables, rocking them back and forth. And he watched the sky for evening. It gave him a feeling – he wasn't sure what – like a memory of being antsy at evening, eager and dreading it all at once.
But mainly he watched the sun. And as it warmed him and dripped into the tree line, he slipped away.
–
Gideon blinked. It was dawn. There was pale light coming through his window. The lantern was dim.
He stood up and walked to the window, pressed his face against the glass. It was over. His life was over, but he wasn't. He moved back to his chair and sat down again, letting his head fall to the table.
After a while, he heard a knock on the door, but he didn't get up for it. Let them knock. He was through.
"Gideon, it's Thomas," he heard a voice call to him eventually.
He blinked a few more times. Thomas. Thomas. He had a friend named Thomas...once. Down at the river, fishing when they were boys. Getting into all sorts of trouble when they were young men. He looked down at his hands, the unwrinkled skin. When they were young men. Now. He rubbed his temples. "Yes, come in," he said finally.
The door opened, and Thomas strode in and came to stand next to him. "Took you long enough to answer. How was your night?"
He rubbed his temples again. He still felt dazed. "I'm tired of princesses," he said finally. "I'm always in love with them. They always die."
"Ah. Well. That happens," said Thomas, pulling another chair to the table. "Was she pretty?"
He nodded. "We had children. And grandchildren."
"Oh, a long one then," Thomas said, sitting down. "You were king then? Saved the world?"
He sighed. "I was king. Didn't save the world. Or the kingdom, really. I saved her, and then...nothing went back to how it should have been. We just lived.
Thomas pulled out another chair and sat down. He pulled the brass lantern and peered into it. "Funny," he said. "How many scenarios do you think are inside of this thing? How many lives are you going to live?"
Gideon said nothing for a long moment. Then, "Thomas," he said in a voice so deep and heavy that his friend stopped looking at the star and turned to him. "I'm tired of living. I'm tired of dreams that are never quite right. I'm tired of everything."
Thomas reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "You still have the kingdom to save, remember, old boy? The real one. Word on the street is more cracks in the palace. Big, gaping ones. Apparently, they can hardly walk down the hallway for fear of falling through. I heard someone blame it on the princess, though I fail to see what she has to do with anything. In any case, perhaps you'd let me have a crack at her, since you're so tired of them."
"You can have her. You can have all of it. I don't want to save anyone."
Thomas sighed. "Yesterday you were talking about scaling the palace walls? What happened to that? Come on, we're at least going out today." He stood up and then pulled Gideon out of his chair, pushing him to the doorway.
Gideon reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled outside. All he could think of was that he couldn't remember her name. He wasn't sure he could remember any of their names. He grew so old among dreams.