Title: To Match Thy Goodness

Characters: The King, Kit aka Prince Charming, talk of Cinderella

Rating: K+

Wordcount: 1035
Warnings/Spoilers: Basic Cinderella spoilers and speculation. Also, disinclination to follow new re-imaginings of Cinderella and dysfunctional backstories; please be warned, here there be folklore and historical research.
Summary: (AU) The magic didn't stop that night at the ball; or, marrying Kit gave Ella a crown, a husband, and a father. The tale of how Ella and Kit gave the King, Edmund, a family.

A/N: So, I saw Cinderella (2015), and while for the most part, it was entertaining, I kept thinking to myself, but why didn't they do that? or why did they do that? Therefore, I wrestled out my copies of The Lord of the Rings and King Lear, and off we went on a wild adventure. The title of this fic and the chapter is taken from Act IV, Scene VII of King Lear, and the germ of the idea comes from Lear: "You have some cause to hate;" Cordelia: "No cause, no cause." I'm hoping to post for this story every one or two days, short chapters I suspect.(This remains unbeta-ed and barely edited. I welcome any and all feedback.)

Feel This Pin Prick?

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity,
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: let's see;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition!

...Lear, King Lear, Act IV, Scene VII

The boy slumped down the settee, and played with his wine glass, watching the dark red liquid roll and cast reflections through the sharp cuts of the crystal goblet. Staring into the fire, the gold light playing across his face, with the heaviness of past months weighing on his brow and under his eyes, he looked old in the firelight. Part of that gravity was due to the ball, only three nights hence and a tangled skein of duty and pleasure.

It had been a long time, Edmund King thought, since his son had come to sit and drink wine before the fire with him. They had done this often, many years ago, particularly when the wind was cold and the night was full over the palace. The red velvet settee, so near to the fire, was the site of so many happy memories. He, his wife, and his son, all sitting there before the fire, perfectly content in each other's company. Now, of course, his son sat there by himself, and his father at the small writing desk in the corner under the window, with the gulf of cold floor between them.

The boy looked old, even as Edmund himself began to feel his own age. The worrying illness will not get better, and that is a cause for future grief. But Kit also looked young, younger than he has looked these past years since the death of his mother, with the hint of hope in his eyes, and the determined set to his mouth. The hope of happiness has been reawakened in him. The king is supposed to be writing a letter, but all he can do at this unguarded moment is to watch his son and the slow play of wonder across his face.

"She was like a dream" he said, taking a sip from his glass, ostensibly talking to himself, but really talking to his father.

"Beautiful, was she, this forest girl?" Edmund murmured fondly, teasingly, under his breath. He has not written a word for nearly ten minutes, and the ink on his pen is all but dry but Kit is so lost in remembering that he does not notice the pretense.

"She was beautiful." He agreed, absentmindedly, "but that was not all, for she rode like the wind and there was such music to her voice that I could not help but tarry." Even as Kit slipped into the cloth of his memories, comfortable and pleasant as an old cloak, Edmund could not help but remember with grief his own wife, Adelaide the Queen, whose own voice had sounded like the ringing of little bells on the holy days.

Even her silence, he thought sadly, was as music, just waiting to be born in laughter and joy. She had had the beauty of the stars at night, with hair so black it shone blue, and eyes so blue they looked violet. Her son, Kit, was so like her, in looks and in spirit.

"She did not know me for the prince, but scolded me for chasing the stag at hunt" Kit said, shaking his head in disbelief, his glass near empty. And then, he sat bolt upright, and turned to his father and said,

"Do you know what she said to me, father? I could not help but agree with her. She said the stag was too beautiful a thing, too magnificent, to waste for one night's good supper." He paused, and his face went quite still, "For that moment, when she spoke, I knew her to be true. The stag was too beautiful to kill."

"They laughed at you, no doubt." Edmund said drily, abandoning his letter, and turning to look at his son. Had he ever seen that look of fiery determination before on his face? Perhaps as a child, for his first horse or fencing lesson, but not since. "Thought you a fool."

"But I was not a fool." Kit erupted, eyes snapping with temper. "The stag was too beautiful to kill; only, I had not seen it before, how magnificent it was. She showed me that." He said, and there was a look to his face, ageless, that Edmund did not dare to name.

The room was so charged with such feeling that neither Kit nor Edmund dared to speak for several long minutes. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the wind blowing against the window panes. Ashamed, Edmund looked at his letter sorrowfully; he could not meet his son's eyes with such righteousness in them.

"You cannot love her, my son." Edmund said gently. "You must do your duty as the Prince."

"And what is my duty," Kit snapped, "but to marry well?"

"For the Kingdom."

"But not for myself."

"The Kingdom must come first." Edmund admonished him, eyes rising from the window to meet his son. "Our people must come first."

"But what if it is the same?" Kit wanted to know, "Would the people not love their own? And would not my happiness settle the Kingdom?"

"Your mother…" Edmund said, quietly, playing with the pen between his fingers, and could not continue. Even after all this time, there was an deep ache inside him, something like the way his bones ached in winter, but deeper, fuller and more essential.

"My mother had the love of the people," Kit murmured softly, "and she had the love of the King. Why should I not have the same?"

Edmund, who knew all the arguments, did not know how to answer him. The Grand Duke, Ian, would have an answer, of course, but Edmund did not think the question could truly be answered. Why should one have happiness and not the other? Finding no answer, Kit arose stiffly, and bowed, walking to the door.

To his shame, it was only after the door had already shut behind him that Edmund was able to say, in an unsteady voice, "I do not know. I do not know, my son." Adelaide would have known how to put this right, but Edmund did not.

There were no good-nights that evening, not for Kit, the Prince, not for Edmund, the King, or not even for Ella, asleep in her cinders.