There will be a bit more action in this chapter. And I so enjoy writing Gascon and Marcassin's relationship. It's nice when siblings get along.
Chapter 4: The Two Sides of Hamelin
Their training began five months ago with inanimate objects. Lighting candles had, naturally, led to entire chandeliers. Once he had mastered this ability, Marcassin's next test involved cooking various items Gascon had "liberated" from the palace kitchens, including a raw apple pie whose edges were rather singed once the child was through with it. It tasted just fine, otherwise.
After a time, however, it became rather difficult to explain the strange occurrences that resulted from their practice sessions, such as how they had become so wet when neither were anywhere near a bathtub or the courtyard fountain. It was just fortunate no one had heard the thunder.
And so, out of necessity, and to ensure Marcassin was provided the proper level of challenge, they had taken their training outside the city, where they could practice far from the prying eyes of soldiers and maids alike, the latter of which posed a double threat thanks to their habit of asking far more questions than was good for them.
Today, he had dubbed his younger brother ready to take on moving targets, namely the decrepit old automata that continued to roam the barren plains since ages past. He had learned quite quickly that he had spoken too soon, however, when he was lifted into the air by one leg, courtesy of a rather large robot that had managed, despite all its creaking, to sneak up on him. Fortunately, Marcassin had freed him with a well-aimed lightning bolt, though his head still ached where he had landed on it.
They had returned to Hamelin dusty and bruised, though Gascon had somehow managed to incur most of the machines' wrath, even when he was certain they had no way of knowing that he, and not his magic-wielding brother, was the true instigator of their mistreatment. At least their ragged appearance only served to enhance their disguises. Before leaving the palace, the elder prince had dressed in the usual simple clothing he always wore during his outings into the city, and he had insisted his younger brother wear the spare set he had managed to conjure up from his earlier days as a part-time commoner. They were still just a tad too large, but he believed this discrepancy would only add to that certain impoverished look he was going for.
When questioned on why he preferred they wore such threadbare clothing when they had "perfectly good stuff" back home, Gascon had attempted to explain that this was the only way they could be treated like normal people by the folks that rushed about in endless hurry about them. He had even less luck making the child grasp exactly how this treatment was any different from what it would be otherwise or why they weren't normal. (Such a rough appearance also made it easier to come and go through the black market, but Marcassin didn't need to know that part of it.)
The pair hadn't wandered very far into the bustling streets of the city of steel and smoke when Marcassin grasped the end of his brother's coat sleeve. "Gascon, I was wondering—"
Gascon stopped in his tracks and turned to face him without delay. "Not so loud. People will hear you."
The child's mouth remained open to make way for words he had yet to utter, and then he tried again in hushed tones, "Gascon—"
"That's not how I meant it! You can talk in a normal voice. Just don't use our names, okay? Why do you think we're dressed like this," the elder prince indicated his less than princely attire with a downward sweep of his arms, "if you're just going to announce who we are to the whole city?"
Marcassin considered this. "I'm sorry, Ga-ah, I-I didn't think anyone was listening."
Gascon shook his head with an exasperated sigh to make it quite clear just how impossible his younger brother was being. "That's the problem, you don't think anyone's eavesdropping, but would you really know if they were?"
The child turned to eye the crowd in suspicion. "No?"
The elder brother gave a sagely nod. "Exactly. I've been exploring this city since you were still a baby. You learn a thing or two about a thing or two."
When Marcassin turned back to him, his words flowed with renewed determination, "That's what I wanted to ask to you about. Could you show me around the city? I bet you know all about it."
Gascon brought a hand to his chin. "That is true," he said with a growing smirk. "All right," he continued with a nod, as if just now reaching a decision he had put a great deal of thought into. "I'll give you a tour. I'll show you places in Hamelin you never even dreamed existed."
Marcassin nearly leapt into the air at this news. "Hooray! Thanks, Ga- I almost did it again…"
"You better be careful, or else everyone's going to feel awfully silly they haven't been heaping praises on us. That's why we have to lay low like this. Frankly, it would all be too much trouble otherwise."
The younger prince stared up at him. "They wouldn't really do that, would they?"
Gascon couldn't prevent the escape of a single snort of laughter. "No, but no more silly questions. Come on," he added with a sweep of one arm, and with that, he turned away and began to head down the nearest street, pausing once to spare a single glance backwards. "And stay close. I mean it."
Marcassin did stay close, too much so at times, as he was granted his own personal tour of the city even those of royal blood were scarcely afforded. They never strayed from the main thoroughfares with their Father, and even then, their view was from ten feet off the street, and they were surrounded by enough soldiers that it was impossible to feel like any more than a distant observer of what went on below. To say the Royal Family lived in Hamelin was a blatant lie. Their world was the palace, the city outside a wilderness they remained wholly separate from.
Gascon had seen things during his outings that had shocked him years ago, that continued to horrify him to this day. He had begun these excursions back when he was but eight and the call of what lay beyond the palace walls had grown too inviting to ignore. Still young and largely innocent, despite what his nursemaid would say, it had been no small feat for the young prince to wrap his head around the newly discovered reality that the city he gazed out at every day, which seemed to gleam back at him with untold splendor, was so much darker and stained once he got up close to it. His Father had never told him how great the differences between themselves and the people they ruled were. He had never given his eldest son any reason to question the pedestal on which they rested, had he known at the time one existed.
But he knew now. He now understood more fully a world that was not so simple, so black and white, as what his young mind had once believed. And yet, even now, after years spent marauding about those very streets he had once dreamed of visiting, he understood that he was still, and always would be, an observer and nothing more. He didn't have to like it, but the order of things was what it was, and he knew he must never touch it. It was dangerous for one who hailed from such a foreign existence to try and influence this one. Leave that to those who were born to it.
The ice cream cones they had purchased had already undergone a great deal of change since they had first come into their possessions. In fact, Gascon's was gone entirely, while his younger brother had managed somehow to prevent his ice cream from lapsing beyond a sad pile of mush that just barely rose above the rim of the nibbled cone. If Marcassin was using some kind of ice spell to prevent his treat from being reduced to an outright puddle, when it had no right being anything but by now, he had no way of knowing. His suspicions were only assuaged when he recalled his brother's ability to make lollipops and bubble gum last for hours on end, as well. Or perhaps, on second thought, it had always been magic.
By now, their stroll had taken them into one of Hamelin's many back alleys. Gascon found they allowed for far easier passage than the busy streets, even if they also possessed a unique disadvantage that made their use a risky endeavor.
Marcassin fumbled with his ice cream cone in a hurried effort to switch it to his other hand and only succeeded in dropping it as he clutched at his brother's sleeve with fingers sticky with sugar.
"Gascon, look there!" the child said under his breath, his words coming out in a pitch uncommon even for one of his size.
Such blatant instructions had never been necessary, however, for just before Marcassin had uttered them, Gascon's ears had picked up on a sound too hurried for the normally slow and forgotten alleys of Hamelin. It was only when people remembered these passages that one ran into trouble. His breath caught in his throat when his attention fell on a wiry man and a young woman struggling over a small handbag in the shadowy corner where the alley made a sharp turn.
He clutched his younger brother by the shoulders and attempted to push him back the way they had come, whether or not he was facing it. "Let's get out of here. Move!"
"No, we gotta do something! We gotta help her!" The child struggled in his brother's grip until, with a renewed burst of energy, he broke free and began a shambling run towards the pair.
Gascon attempted to pursue him, but his reflexes proved too slow, and he froze once it settled within him like a rock that he would be unable to stop him before the child could attract their notice. Marcassin jerked to a stop a short distance before them, as if he had lost the nerve to draw any closer, and his small frame stiffened when the man turned a cold gaze his way.
"Need somethin', kid?" the thief said in a low growl, his eyes squinting in a manner that suggested he was in dire need of eyeglasses. Based on the color of his teeth and the sheen of his dark hair, it seemed he was in even greater need of a number of other things, as well.
Marcassin drew in a shuddering breath. "L-leave her alone," he said and attempted to draw himself up to his full, if minor, height. It made no noticeable difference.
The thief made a slow turn in the boy's direction with a complete lack of anything that could be mistaken for urgency, while the woman withdrew into the corner as if she expected to hide within the shadows, her handbag clutched to her chest with such an intense grip, this whole matter could have surely been avoided, if only she had possessed it earlier. "Unless you got a bloody good reason," the man said in a slow drawl, "I suggest you scram!"
Marcassin lifted his chin high and tightened the fists at his sides. "You won't g-get away with this because…because I'm Prince Marcassin, and my Father will put you in jail!" Gascon would have slapped a hand to his forehead if the situation had been any less dire.
The man barked out a rough laugh, displaying several missing teeth, though such amusement failed to soften his expression. With her opening spotted, the woman bolted past him with only a fleeting glance spared their way. So much for gratitude, Gascon thought, and he rushed forward to join his brother.
A nervous laugh slipped free as he tugged Marcassin behind him, grateful he was met with no resistance this time. "E-excuse my kid brother. He daydreams too much for his own good. He's no more a prince than I'm the Dark Djinn." Gascon laughed again just as a twisted smirk began to snake its way over the man's thin lips.
The prince shuffled backwards as the thief advanced towards them in slow footfalls. "Get ready to run," he told his brother under bated breath, but before they had an opportunity to do just that, he was held fast when the child threw his arms about his torso in an embrace that prevented any such movement. A quick glance backwards was all the explanation he needed, and he gasped as he caught sight of another pair of men emerging from the shadows to block them in.
Marcassin whimpered into his stomach, and Gascon turned back to the leader, a fierce glint flashing in his eyes, if only to hide what he didn't wish to be seen. "What do you blighters want? I've already bloody told you—"
The thief shook a bony finger at him, his smile only growing in strength. "Such coarse language for a prince. Oh, my apologies," the man pressed a hand to his chest, his spidery fingers splayed, "I nearly forgot. I should call you both 'your 'ighness', shouldn't I?" He bowed low to a dissonant chorus of sniggers, and Marcassin squeezed his brother ever more tightly in his arms. Gascon hugged him back.
When the man rose again, he stood tall, drinking in the amusement of his comrades like a performer on a stage before he returned to studying the pair before him, his glassy eyes gleaming with a twinkle of an idea they hadn't possessed before. He rubbed the tips of a thumb and forefinger together as he continued, "Ya know, I wonder 'ow many guilders our mighty emperor would be willing to part with to see these two again."
"I wouldn' pay for 'em," came a throaty voice from behind the boys in question.
The leader shrugged. "Well, it can't 'urt to try." He chuckled. "Nothin' tried, nothin' gained, am I right?"
As if on some unspoken cue, Marcassin squealed as he was yanked from his brother's grip. "Gascon! Gascon, help!" the child said, and he kicked and squirmed as he was lifted bodily by two arms around his stomach.
Gascon lunged for him, but his path was barred as a man twice his size stepped in front of him. "Fight back, Marcassin!" he said. "You remember what I taught you! Fight back!"
The elder prince jerked backwards with a yelp as the man blocking his path grabbed him by the arm, and he just managed to worm his way out of his coat before the man could get a better grip on him. His freedom was short-lived, however, and it lasted just long enough for him to be bashed over the head a moment later with something hard from behind. The world spun, and Gascon fell bodily to the ground as an empty bottle landed with a clatter beside him. He groaned and tried to lift himself to his feet as his brother called his name, but such movement only caused the ground to lurch beneath his dazed senses all the more.
Time felt as if it had slowed to a crawl, and his thoughts and movements with it. All he could do was kneel there, with his hands upon the cold, rough ground for support, blinking as he willed the spots in his vision to depart from him. It was almost as if his very breath, his heart, his life, as well, had ceased to flow in those long moments. Until everything began to rush forward again with so little warning, it took his mind several moments to comprehend the fact that another noise had arrived to join the din, a metallic clattering that flooded his heart with overpowering relief before he even recalled where he had heard it before.
Commanding voices replaced his brother's cries and made short work of quenching the gruff protests that rose up in return as Gascon was hauled to his feet by two hands under his arms. He pressed his eyes shut once more, and when he opened them again, his blurred vision cleared just in time to catch a retreating figure rounding the corner many yards down the alley with a head start and an unnatural speed few would have success eclipsing. Mind reeling, all he could acknowledge was that the other two had not been so lucky, only this detail and nothing more.
Marcassin approached his older brother on shaky legs and hugged him tight without warning, in silent gratitude for being able to do so. Neither spoke as the soldiers escorted them back to the palace, and when they exchanged brief glances, it was clear one more trial would have to be faced before the day could come to an end.
I kind of felt bad writing this chapter, you know, since it put our two main characters in such a frightening ordeal. I could just see Marcassin being far too naïve for his own good. That's why it's better to be cynical like Gascon.
Please review, my dears!