Ben had been a young boy the first time someone had tried to poison him. He had been twelve, and his ears were too big for his head. They stuck out awkwardly, causing him to pull on them each time he looked at himself in the spyglass. He had moles, from the sun, and his hair, while black, was cropped in an awkward fashion too close to his skull. He had grown substantially in a short period of time, sending him shooting up to be almost two heads taller than his mother, who stood short and reedy next to her son. The clothing of a Prince never seemed to suit him. The doublets never felt as if they fit right, and he felt downright ridiculous in the frilly, lacy shirts others often chose for him. He was awkward, unaware of his body in a painfully aware way, causing him to sometimes knock things over or trip on himself. The daughters of the courtiers made fun of his ears, sometimes behind his back, and sometimes right to his face; pulling on their own and blowing out their cheeks like monkeys.

Ben never said a word, he knew what it meant to be the daughter of a courtier and bully the Prince.

Ben was also twelve when he made his first friend. He had wandered off from his sparring lessons - he was ages ahead of the other boys, and though he took private lessons as well, his mother saw the importance of forcing him to be in the presence of other boys his own age, even if they stood off and treated him as if he were glass. He was in the process of hacking down offending tall grass, and unaware of himself, he wandered far out onto the grounds. Beyond the gardens, there was wild forest - and of course, there were myths about it. Ben paid it no heed, and wandered into the canopied area frequently, sometimes just to lay on his back and stare at the sky through the bramble of high growing trees.

He was participating in one such activity when someone's head poked into his view. He was startled, he hadn't even heard anyone come up on him, no telltale crunch of the needles that had fallen from the trees, no snapping branches. Nothing. She was different from him in every way - her skin was a tanned brown, dotted here and there with freckles, her hair a fine shade of chestnut brown that caught the light with glimmering red. She looked at him with kindness, though when one of her braids fell into her face it contorted as she tried to blow it away from her mouth. He laughed, and so did she, after asking him what had been so funny.

They sat across each other and examined one another as the sun dipped lower into the sky. When Ben looked beyond her, he could see the dusting of pastel and stars, indicating the moons would be up soon. He examined her face, her sharp, dark eyes and her slender face. She was obviously not the daughter of a courtier, dressed in the plain cloth of a student, though he was sure he had never seen her before. She had a smudge of river mud on her face, which sparkled with Mica. There were wildflowers woven into her hair.

"What's your name?" She finally asked.

"Ben L-" He paused, realizing he was fearful of giving her his full name. So, he omitted. "Just Ben," He reached out, taking up a handful of cold dirt in his hands. "What's yours?"

"Call me Wildflower," She said, without hesitation. He didn't think it was her real name, but he didn't press her. She took one out of her hair and offered it to him. "I have to go home, Just Ben," She admitted, watching him slowly take the offering. "Want to meet here tomorrow?"

"Sure," He said, surprised at the invite. No one ever invited him to play.

"Bye, Just Ben," She said, and disappeared as silently as she had come, leaving him with only a flower.

They met like this in secret for the next few weeks. They did not speak to one another much, instead choosing to laugh, play, and generally exhaust one another. They had taken to fighting each other with sticks, though sometimes Ben was able to sneak away with a couple of the practice swords that they used when being trained. She bested him almost every time, and frustrated him when she didn't, as he often believed she lost on purpose. She was fast and agile where he was clumsy and unsure, and he knew that she had likely been receiving some sort of training. There were temples for girls like her, taught to fight or taught to steal, and Ben wondered if she was an orphan.

She didn't seem to know, or care who he was, and after their initial meeting they never really spoke of it again. She was not stupid though, and had to have noticed the finery that he wore, often darted through with glimmering red thread. Black and red, the colors of his court. He had been stripping down to his plainclothes until one of the old stable masters had found them in the brush and reported it to his mother - so that had not lasted, forcing him to show up dressed in whatever he had been dressed in for training. When they weren't play fighting, they were climbing trees or tossing heavy stones into the river. Oftentimes, Wildflower declared herself as 'King', and Ben didn't care to correct her. Instead, he found himself happy to play whatever role she stuck on him, even if it meant swabbing the deck. He would go home before sunset when Wildflower would inevitably disappear. He was always bruised, but always happy.

One day, when he went to meet her, he found her gone. She didn't show up at all, and after the sun had set, Ben knew it wasn't likely she would. This continued on for nearly a week, and he began to get hopeless that she would ever return. He wondered if he should have asked her more questions about where she came from, and where he could find her, but even he realized the silliness in that. If she was an orphan, how would he explain wanting to search for her to his mother? To anyone?

He was resolved to stop disappearing into the forest after the sixth day of her disappearance; resolved until she showed up with a basket in hand. She dropped it down in front of him. He looked, finding it was full of food and drink. He wanted to be angry with her, but perhaps his confusion at it overrode his hurt. He wanted to ask her where she had been, but she silenced him before he even got a chance to ask, explaining quickly that 'she hadn't been able to get away'.

They didn't have as much time as they normally might have, but she began by pulling out a blanket and spreading it out for them to sit on. Ben found he wasn't hungry, but watched as Wildflower began to dole out food. It was obvious she was, and she had a sort of feral way of eating, as if she was afraid that someone might take the food right from her hand. Ben ate a few pieces of fruit, finding it was unusual that he didn't recognize some of it. She pulled out the bottle of liquid once she had finished eating, and handed it over to him after plucking the cork out of it. It smelled like alcohol, causing Ben to wrinkle his nose and shake his head.

"Go on, it's muckberry wine," She admitted. "It's actually very sweet once you mull it down," She gave him a smile. A genuine, glimmering smile.

He was unsure, but he took a swig of it after a few moments of thinking and a few more prods from Wildflower. It burned, all the way down, and had the sort of sweet, cloying after taste that reminded him vaguely of rotting fruit. He coughed a little, his lips stained a dark purple. It didn't take long, his vision became blurry and his throat started to burn. It was painful, but he struggled to keep consciousness and could not keep himself awake to even focus on the pain. He didn't realize he was dying.

Of course, anyone with a basic knowledge of toxic plants would have known that muckberry was poisonous. Especially poisonous when mulled into a drink. The berries were a bright, uncouth pink normally, and only obtained their deep purple color when they'd been boiled down and fermented. Ben hadn't been an expert toxicologist. He would have known that the berries are nearly inedible, good only for a stomach ache and only for the casketbirds who ate them and left behind bright pink bird shit in their wake. He would have known those things, but he didn't. He was just accepting a drink from a friend.

If he hadn't left his practice sword on the edge of the grounds out of thoughtlessness, the old stable-hand might not have gone looking for him. His mother had warned all of the staff to keep an eye out for him, as she had suddenly become suspicious of where her son was spending all of his time. He wouldn't have found Ben, convulsing in the forest, purple froth bubbling up from his mouth. He would not have carried Ben all the way home, screaming for a temple Monk or the resident physician to help him, as it was an emergency. Most likely, Wildflower would have hit her mark, and Ben would have died.

He spent many weeks in the infirmary with his mother by his side. If it hadn't been for her knowledge of herbs and medicine he might have been in a coma until he stopped breathing, but she was largely credited for bringing him out of it. She sat by him all day and all night, only disrupted when his father took her place and told her to try and sleep.

When he finally woke up, he had a fever. Every part of his body ached. He wasn't sure he had ever felt such pain, and would ever feel such pain again. His mother sat with him, and they played cards silently when he wasn't in too much pain to do so. Eventually, little by little, he began to be allowed walks, though his mother was always glued to his side, as if he might slip away if she let him go. They got back to routine, as best they could, but Ben was not allowed to go anywhere without a guard. His lessons became cloistered, only him, and his father hired Ser Snoke, an old battle scarred mercenary who had been paid a kings' ransom to agree to take the job.

His first lesson with Snoke had been watched by his mother (who could not see the value in hiring a mercenary to teach her son), and each time she protested each new bruise and the 'wind being knocked out of him' disarming, Snoke only laughed. Finally, Snoke bent down to offer his hand, which Ben took. However, Snoke only pushed him back into the dirt, causing him to inhale a good deal of it and cough it all up.

"Stop this," His mother commanded. Snoke only looked at her.

"Why? The boy should learn the value of never trusting anyone, ever again,"

It was a declaration he was sure had come from his Father.

Snoke's lessons were relentless, daily affairs that often included a verbal lashing. Once Ben had gotten well enough (and skilled enough) to hold his own, Snoke had taken to finding more brutal ways to teach him his only value. No trust, not ever. Ben began to do better at the risk of his own hide, but Snoke was crafty in ways that many people might not ever expect. He never took it easy on Ben, and when Ben was distracted or tired, he paid the price for it. Ben hated him, but had come to have a begrudging respect for him.

His lessons in toxicology (and other things), fell to his uncle Luke. Luke was far kinder than Snoke, though even less accepting of mistakes. Ben learned how to speak multiple languages, he learned math and art, but he took the most interest in plants - especially poisonous ones. Luke and Ben began the painful process of building resistance, something that he himself insisted on. It had almost killed him again, but Luke had managed to keep it from his mother - as his uncle had been partially responsible for the second poisoning, even if it was less drastic than the first. However, word got around the Kingdom without anyone trying to spread it, and Ben Leith Organa picked up his new nickname: The Poisoned Prince.

He grew into his limbs, becoming broad of shoulder and long of arm. It made him dangerous on the field, and intimidating off of it. His ears were covered by hair that had grown out, curling into ravens' wing curls. He was still odd looking, but he had come to be comfortable in his body. As he grew, the sparring matches' audience also grew, full of young girls that often came out purely to watch him. He had become hardened and lean by the time he was fully grown, and even had a scar or two, but he seemed to have a sort of 'Dark Prince' appeal to all those that had teased him when he was young. Of course, it didn't hurt that he now moved with a leonine like grace, and was as beautiful and insouciant as a dark, glittering star.

He thought of Wildflower often, but her image began to fade from memory as the years passed. It didn't mean she wasn't always there in some way, but he had stopped thinking of her as often. He had stopped asking himself questions - he had vowed to pay her back. One day, if he ever found her, he would pay her back. However, the sweet, open faced boy he'd once been had turned into something different - he was as sharp as a blade, and almost as unkind. One day, he began to wear cruelty like a mask, until he was just cruel. It disappointed his mother, his father withdrew, and Luke did his best to try and rouse the boy he'd once been. Less obsessive, and less unkind. Ben was dedicated to his new image, however. If he was to be a poison Prince, he would fill the role.

He avoided the forest where they once met. He avoided wine, purely because after that day, there would be no stomaching it, even if it wasn't poisonous. He was always hyper aware of his surroundings, and despite his mothers protestations, he had taken on tasters in an attempt to avoid any further forays into death.

It wouldn't have been surprising, the place had become a restless tangle of favor currying, and Ben knew there were those out there who would try to kill him again when the time came. A shadowy offshoot of Uncle Luke's family, of which were never spoken of, were often blamed for any attempts on anyone's lives. Ben never asked, the most interest he had in it was that someone wanted the throne.

He had taken on a guard, and a strategist. He called his guard The Order, full of black clad mercenaries who were almost as friendly as he was. The head of his guard, Finn - came from the Isles and was dark of skin. He spoke with an accent, and he did not like Ben, but he had enough respect for Leia to take the position anyway. He was in much the same situation with his strategist, where the only respect to be had was in bloodshed and winning battles. Ben was not afraid to kill, and he often did so to protect the borders of his lands from oncoming onslaught. While his land holdings grew, so did his arrogance - but also so did the violence. His mother was still Queen, but in some ways she had become Queen in only name. Ben was responsible for all the conquering, after all.

That evening, there was to be a party.

Ben had no interest in parties, but his uncle prodded him into going, and it would be unforgivable to miss the anniversary of his mother's birth. Luke had some new apprentice, some new hanger on that he wanted to parade out in front of the Prince and the Queen in an attempt to find her a position of favor in the court. Ben had tried, multiple times to get out of it. He'd even been stabbed in one of the skirmishes with one of the outlying groups that still haunted the borders, but his mother hadn't been convinced that he still needed bed rest. She had seen him work through much worse, and when she clenched her jawline and gave him that motherly look, he realized it was an argument he didn't want to have again. It seemed like she had given up on marrying him, even though his father still occasionally brought it up. Perhaps it was that she couldn't imagine who would want to marry her brutish son.

Ben had not grown up inexperienced, there were plenty of attendants who were willing to let him underneath their skirts as he grew older and more curious. Some of them seemed to view it as a part of their job, but Ben had been lucky in never accidentally getting any of them with child. There were some he liked more than others, but he found it hard to draw a real connection to anyone. He had become cold, and while many of his counterparts were out whoring and drinking, Ben had gotten wholly tired of it. There were certainly times when an itch needed to be scratched, but Ben never stuck around until sunrise.

He had spent the morning in another session with Snoke, who he had landed more than one hit on. Snoke still insisted on calling him a worthless boy, and pointing out the fact that even though he had grown tall, he would never be worthy enough to really rule anything but the stubborn mare out back, and even she would buck him. Ben had learned to take the insults in stride, and the bruises, and when Snoke went for his knife wound, digging his fingers deep until the stitches broke, he did his best not to flinch. Snoke had never been cognizant to his mothers' arguments - and she had yet to win the argument that Snoke ought to be fired with his father. Han was not unkind, but he was the type of man who perhaps saw too much value in a mercenary.

They had given up practice weapons a long time ago, but Ben managed to avoid any further cuts. By the end of the session, he tossed the sword in the dust in front of Snoke, who was smirking at him like a deviant teenager. The dust motes were obvious in the fading sunlight.

"Foolish boy," He said. "When will you ever learn how to properly defend yourself?"

Ben said nothing in reply. There were certain things even he wouldn't stoop to.

He found his way back to his chambers, which had been dusted and tidied in his absence, despite multiple requests to leave his room be. He supposed it was probably his mother, who did not like the idea of him rotting away in a dusty chamber. The room was darkly decorated, with a good deal of shimmering black fabric that turned colors once it was shifted it any direction. Ben tended to prefer grays and blacks, and when he was feeling festive, one might see splashes of crimson here and there. The curtains were drawn open, leaving the room rather brighter than he liked it.

He pulled off his quilted leather training doublet and un-tucked his linen shirt from his leather breeches, finding that it was stained red from Snoke's prodding. He gave an irritated sigh and peeled the bandage away. It would need to be seen to, but Ben didn't have time for it now. He did his best to fix it up so that it wouldn't bleed too much for the next few hours, and promised himself not to do much moving. It would be easy enough, considering he was only expected to sit in his chair and have his boots licked by whatever fanatic came by. Bathing was a chore, but he managed it quickly.

He dressed stiffly, refusing to ask for assistance. He had given up the lace and frills of his boyhood, taking on a look that resembled a general rather than a Prince. He did his best to please his mother, but he often ended up looking austere. He chose a pair of fitted black breeches, which he tucked into shined leather boots that went all the way up to his knee. He slid on a black shirt stitched through with red thread, tucking it in and pulling on a black jacket that was structured and almost looked like armor. It was also threaded through with red, though it was so faint one would have to be close to him to see it. A red lined, black cape was thrown artfully over his shoulder and pinned with shining, obsidian jeweled clasps, so black they hardly sparkled. Lastly, he pulled on a pair of black, leather gloves - more to hide the bruising on his knuckles than anything. His hair, often left to it's own devices, was seen to by an insistent attendant who saw him leave his chamber.

Curled away from his brow and shining now that the dust had been cleaned from it, she placed his geometric and somewhat thorny crown atop the dark wave of his hair. He looked at himself without emotion, but the older woman leaned in with her hands on her shoulders and whispered kindly in his ear: "Very handsome, m'lord,"

Ben choked back a scoff.

"Thank you, Nettle," They all had strange names, but hers he remembered. She had been around since he was a young boy.

He stood up, his cape swinging out behind him. He straightened his jacket and wished that he could take the stupid crown off, but it would have to remain for the evening. He moved out into the hallway on his own. The back of the Palace was empty - all of the revelers would be kept to the front. It was, after all, his mother's birthday. He found his way to the large, grandiose room that would host the party, decorated in much the same fashion as his bedroom. His mother preferred more color, but the dance floor shined like cloudy gray mirror glass, and in it, you could see the low yellow light of the flickering candles.

He stood straight, and once he made an appearance, he was introduced to the room as if they didn't all know who he was. He arrived before his mother, who in her later years had gotten longer at preparing for these events. She was perhaps comforted when he made an entrance first. The crowd parted for him, like the Red Sea, and he made his way down it without really looking at anyone, used to the crowing and the bowing. He swung his cape out when he turned, gathering it up and taking his seat next to his mothers more decorated "throne".

He was already bored.

There were those who came up and gave their favor, those he could barely glance at and often dismissed with an abrupt and impatient word. Some he just waved away without speaking to at all. Once, a giggling girl was pushed out of the crowd, falling in front of him in a way that forced her to cling to his boot. He unhooked his leg from the crossed position it was in and used it to push her away, forcing her to fall back into the arms of the crowd. She looked perplexed, her cheeks reddening as she disappeared again.

His mother had seen it, as she'd crept in without being announced, as she often did.

"You ought to be kinder," She scolded in her wizened tones, taking her seat beside him. There was a hush that went across the room when they all realized she was there, but she merely gave a diplomatic wave of her glittering hand and the dancing continued on eventually.

"I am not here to be kind to them," He said, his tones authoritative and clipped.

"You may regret feeling that way some day," She said, leveling her gaze at her son who was now much, much taller than she was. She still had the power to make him feel like a scolded boy, but instead of rolling his eyes and ignoring her, he took her hand and brushed his lips atop her chilly knuckles.

"Happy birthday, mother,"

"Thank you, Ben," She said, lowering her head in a slow nod. Her silver hair was swept up into braids, and her face was ever the placid mask of the beloved queen. Her had not seen her get truly angry in many years.

He was distracted from examining his mother, who left her hand rested within his. He was distracted by the announcement of his uncle, who always liked to make a good entrance. He kept a beard these days, hiding what was once a boyish face. He had gone gray, just like his mother. He wore dark robes, a slate blue in color. Ben's attention, however, was not drawn by the choice of his uncles garb. No, it was drawn by the girl who walked a few paces behind him, her delicate hands held in front of her politely.

Her brown eyes were lined with a dark, shimmering coal, expertly applied and giving her a sort of dangerous look. Her hair, cropped somewhat short for what was currently in fashion, shined under the yellow of the lights, and was pulled back in a half tail, braided intricately. On her lips, was the color of dark, crushed berries. Ben found himself wondering if they were really the result of berries, and what they might taste like - but quickly pushed the thought from his head. Her garb was structured, like his -

a red leather corset strapped around her slender middle, showing off bare shoulders - glittering gauntlets placed at her wrists. She wore leather pants, hidden underneath a skirt that had been cut many ways and revealed her legs and boots. He leaned forward, visibly - so much so that it caused the room to pause to get a look at him. He schooled his face and resumed his lazy position. He was sure he had never seen her before. He did not know her.

And yet, something about her was so familiar.

(AU AU AU ALERT! Hope you enjoyed this, it was inspired by a particularly cool edit I saw on tumblr. I took some liberties with names/characters, but it's AU so you'll forgive me, right? right? heh

Feedback/comments are always appreciated. Share if you like!)