Title: Crowning Tristan
Author: Sedri
Rating: PG-13 / T
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own Stardust in any way. This is just for fun.

Chapter Seven

The next few days passed in the same sort of happy haze as their time on the Caspartine. Yvaine and Tristan spent hours in the market or helping Hatha, or just sitting around and talking. The stars and moon were still coldly silent, so Tristan quietly made sure that by nightfall they were inside, having dinner and talking about anything but family. Yvaine was still hurt and sad, but after a while she began to sparkle again. Early risers at the inn would blink and rub their eyes when Yvaine and Tristan cheerfully emerged from their room – then smirk, thinking they knew exactly why the two were so happy. They were usually right.

In the evening of Tristan's third day back in Market Town, he and Yvaine decided, on a whim, to have their dinner downstairs. Around the large common room of Hatha's pub were a number of tables, and they sat together in a corner, wondering if the change of scenery was worth the noisy company of the town drinkers. It wasn't; after a while Yvaine wrinkled her nose and said, "Let's not do this again."

As a glass shattered nearby and Hetham began shouting demands for payment, Tristan agreed. "I did think they'd be here by now," he said, getting back to their earlier conversation. "Father said it'd be a few days. Maybe something's gone wrong."

"Are you worried?"

He thought a moment, but shook his head. "No. No, they'll be fine. I guess they had trouble selling all our furniture. It was pretty short notice."

Yvaine had never owned any such things to sell. She just shrugged and took another bite.

Somewhere near the centre of the room, a voice cried, "Oi, barkeep! Where're all the pretty girls?"

Hetham frowned and ignored him, turning back to fill drinks. The bellowing drunk repeated his question, supported by his friends, all young men, and they were loud enough to ruin any real attempt at conversation. After trying to make out Tristan's words twice, Yvaine turned sideways and shouted, "Would you please be quiet?"

The four turned and grinned, despite her scowl, pointing at her, chuckling and nudging each other. Neither Tristan nor Yvaine much cared for that, but remained cautiously in their seats while one – clearly the leader – sauntered over. He couldn't have been much older than Tristan, but by his behaviour it was easy to think of him as a boy, not a man, in comparison. Like all his friends he was well dressed – a little too well, in fact. They wore vests and coats made of much richer material than anything the other patrons had, and Tristan was distinctly reminded of Humphrey, showing off his wealth, but without any of the dignity that went with the Englishman's lofty attitude.

"You're good enough," the boy said, looking her over. "Bit skinny, though, and you talk too much." He grinned at his leering friends while Yvaine snarled. "I like challenges," he declared. "You'll come home with me tonight."

"She most certainly will not."

Hatha was marching over, taking control before Tristan could even rise from his seat. She put her hands on her hips and glared at the boy. "I am not running a brothel," she continued flatly. "You know where Malva's girls are; go and play with one of them. Leave my guests alone."

The boys laughed. "I know all of Malva's girls – they bore me," the leader boasted, taking a swig of his drink. "You should have more barmaids."

"I don't have any, Arden, and for just this reason. I told you that last time. Take your friends and get out of my inn."

Arden's good humour instantly vanished. "You peasant! You can't order me around!" He swayed a little with the vehemence of his gestures, and Tristan moved to stand in front of Yvaine. Arden ignored them both, rounding on Hatha with a sharply pointed finger. "She's trying to throw me out! Me!"

Arden's friends were backing him with mostly wordless jeers, standing behind him and lifting their tankards and fists. Nothing intimidated Hatha. "Then do advise your mother that I'll be along to see her tomorrow," she told Arden. "It's been a while since she and I had a good, long chat."

There was a flash of total fury on Arden's face, but before he could retort Hetham and his sons were suddenly there, hauling all four boys away by their collars. There was much shouting and complaining, but as soon as her door was closed, Hatha relaxed and turned back to her guests.

"Sorry about that, dear," she said tiredly, patting Yvaine's shoulder. "Those boys come waltzing in every so often, drunk as lords, and this was one of their worse days." She sighed and shrugged elaborately, apologising. "I'd love to ban them entirely, but... Well, just keep away from them."

Tristan, who had taken his seat again, gestured for the innkeeper to join them and asked, "Why can't you? Ban them, I mean. I saw you turn men away before."

Accepting the seat, Hatha said, "Oh, I wish. But Arden just happens to be the son of our mayor, and they're noblemen – in their own minds, at least. They think they're above courtesy. Mind you, the mother's a fine lass and doesn't fuss about punishing her boys when they need it – and I'm happy to tell her when that is – but Arden is definitely his father's son. There's only so much a good spank will do when your boy's fully grown and fancies himself as royalty."

"So you can't keep him out no matter what he does?" Yvaine asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Last time I tried, our 'kind and generous' mayor suddenly started forgetting to sign off our delivery shipments; closed us down for two weeks."

Tristan frowned. "That's wrong."

"That's life," said Hatha. "But it doesn't matter much. The lad doesn't usually cause any real trouble." Another crash was heard, this one wooden, and Hatha looked up. "Unlike some," she grumbled, standing. "This is not my day. Enjoy the beef."

For the rest of their meal, Tristan only picked at it.

By morning the incident was forgotten, and by noon Yvaine was making her fiancé laugh aloud as she played at the hat seller's stall, trying on everything from a dull brown bowler hat to an enormous feathered contraption that clashed horribly with her green dress. Playfully, she then dropped the thing on Tristan's head and made him stand still while she arranged it, tickling his face with one long feather.

He sneezed. The seller, fed up, asked them to leave.

"That was cruel," complained Tristan, but his heart wasn't in it and Yvaine just grinned, taking a bite of yet another chocolate chip cookie. She'd fallen completely in love with the sweets and bought at least one a day, forcing herself to eat slowly so to relish every bite.

They wandered around a bit more, working their way through the thick crowd and buying some little things that they'd kept seeing and wanting. Tristan's newest bag was getting rather heavy on his shoulder when they once again ran into Arden.

Literally.

"You clumsy–!"

"Sorry!" Tristan said quickly, polite habits speaking before he realised just who this was. Arden, appeased by what he saw as submission, had already turned away.

The boy was alone this time, sober but no less haughty as he examined a collection of very well-crafted ornaments. The stall belonged to one of the wealthiest sellers in the market; his brooches, bracelets, purses, knives, cufflinks and other trinkets were inlaid with silver and small gems, and some even had gold. He was nonetheless a small, rather unimpressive man, and Arden, who was heavily built, seemed to ignore him entirely as he examined the merchandise.

He didn't recognise Yvaine, either, but unlike Tristan, she had no intention of giving Arden wide berth – in fact, she made a point of examining the items as well, very nearly pushing him aside, though they both knew none were interesting enough to be worth the price.

Nothing came of her prodding, though, and Arden continued to lift the goods – mostly the small daggers – without paying the slightest bit of attention to other customers whose way he blocked. Yvaine scowled again. Tristan quietly took her hand and they were walking away when Arden loudly announced, "This one is faulty!"

"What?" the seller exclaimed. "That's not true – no, no, ridiculous!" he assured other customers, smiling warmly. "I always check my work; I'd never make any money if word got out that I sold flawed products," he said reasonably.

"Unless you thought you could cheat us," the boy replied. "I'm confiscating this as evidence."

"N-Now wait just a minute!" the seller cried, starting to become frantic as everyone nearby turned to see the commotion. "I'm no cheat, young man – show me what you think is wrong. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding–"

"I will do no such thing!" Arden kept his hands closed around the jewelled dagger. "I will be speaking with my father, and rest assured that you will never be allowed to trade in Market Town again!"

"You'll ruin me!" the man cried. "You know I'm innocent; the mayor's notoriously unfair–"

In a flash, Arden unsheathed the dagger and held it straight at the true owner's throat. "Are you insulting my father?"

There was a long pause, and at last the craftsman deflated. "No," he said. Arden tilted his head and smiled coldly.

"Good."

Tristan had seen enough. He looked around and found a uniformed soldier, one of the handful that roamed Market Town. He was apparently off-duty and intently focused on the many types of rope being sold nearby. Followed closely by Yvaine, Tristan moved through the crowd and tapped the man's shoulder. "Have you seen what's happening?" he asked, pointing.

The soldier, a man about his father's age, looked pained. "...Yes," he said. "Yes, I have."

Tristan waited. "And? What are you going to do? This must be illegal."

"Well, yes. Technically. But he's the mayor's son, and the mayor represents the king in this town. I can't just arrest him."

"But look at that," Yvaine argued, pointing to where Arden was smugly lecturing the humiliated vendor on the importance of proper respect. "There's nothing wrong with that dagger and you know it."

The soldier shook his head. "I wish I could help, miss, but unless that boy actually kills someone even my captain won't stand a chance at taking him down. We're far from the king's law and the mayor is blind and deaf when he wants to be. And he's the man in charge of actually enforcing law, so..." he shrugged. "I can't no more than you."

Yvaine turned to Tristan, the obvious solution on her lips, but bit her tongue just in time.

Tristan's brow was furrowed and he frowned in Arden's direction. He was thinking the same thing. He knew that if Una was there, she would be talking about how this was an example of noblemen getting above their station and how this could worsen until they would actually challenge the throne and upset the system of power in Stormhold... But really, Tristan wasn't concerned with any long-reaching political implications. All he saw here was an honest man driven to despair as a bratty little boy wheedled his way out of paying for something he could easily afford. Arden offended him in a way Tristan had never felt before. His jaw clenched, he thought, This has to stop...

And, quite suddenly, he found that he'd made his decision.

Giving Yvaine their bag, Tristan motioned for her to stay back, and walked towards them. Arden only saw him when Tristan blocked his view of the merchant. He frowned, trying to place the memory, and Tristan said, "That doesn't belong to you. Give it back."

There was a long pause as Arden stared, trying to work out if this was a joke; he rocked back on his heels and folded his arms. "No," he said lightly. "This is evidence that he's trying to cheat the honest people of my town."

"If it really is faulty, there's no harm in letting him see it. Give it back."

Arden laughed. "And give him the chance to swap it for a good one? You think I'm an idiot?" he chortled.

"No, I think you're a liar."

Folded arms turned to fists and Arden stiffened. "How DARE you?" he cried dramatically, startling everyone nearby. "How dare you say that to me? ME! Don't you know who I AM?" He carelessly waved the knife around, deliberately attracting an audience. "This is outrageous – I'll have you both beheaded! You for trying to swindle me and you for...! For...!"

Lost for even an excuse, Arden drew the short sword from his belt, holding the dagger in his other fist.

As the soldier rushed forth to stop the brawl, Yvaine at his heels, Tristan stood perfectly still. Though sweat trickled down his neck and the steel was so very close to his nose, he made no move for his own sword. He knew better than to think he could win this fight even if he were willing to kill Arden. The boy was obviously skilled with his weapon, and it wouldn't solve the original problem.

"I won't fight you," said Tristan. "You're going to put that down, and give the knife back." As Arden gaped, fuming, Tristan readied himself for the next step. "That's an order."

Arden – young, foolish, childish Arden – was utterly bewildered. No one, even that horrible woman at the inn, had ever dared to challenge him this way. "You can't do that... You... peasant..."

At that moment, it might have been possible to lie, to solve this problem without committing himself, but Tristan didn't slink away, or wait for the truth the be forced from him. He stood there, free to choose, and announced to the crowd, "My name is Tristan Thorn. My mother is Princess Una of Stormhold, and I promise you, I can do this."

That was it. For better or worse, the decision was made.

Yvaine was literally beaming. Everyone else was stunned. A few faces lit up in awe and delight, but then somebody sniggered, the silence broke, and others began to laugh. "Yeah, sure!" one jeered.

"Hey, I'm royalty, too!"

"Yeah, we all are, aren't we, boys?"

"I order you to give me the knife!"

"And everything else!"

The laughter went on, and Yvaine scowled as even those who seemed to believe shook their heads and chuckled, too. "He is Una's son," she declared, walking forward. "And he will be the next King of Stormhold." Her glare swept across them all, including the baffled soldier, while Tristan kept his eyes fixed on Arden.

The boy was wary now, thrown off balance and clearly afraid of the possibility. Yet he kept his wits about him, and had enough sense to say, "Prove it."

Tristan faltered. He'd focused so much on making his choice that he'd never thought about proving it. Una had mentioned that there was a way to do so even if no one recognised her, but she'd never said what it was. Then Tristan remembered something, and took the ruby from his inner pocket. "This belonged to th–" the king "–my grandfather. He sent all his sons to find it, and it was clear until I touched it."

Arden paused, but only briefly. "That's all?" he sneered. "I have jewels that big – bigger! Can you prove it's the royal ruby?"

The answer was no, of course not. Yvaine had held it a few times since the necklace broke and it had never changed again. Tristan had no idea what to say.

A miracle came in the form of the soldier, who stepped between them. He seemed almost disappointed by Tristan, and obviously didn't believe a word of his claim. "Gentlemen, I think I can settle this," he said. "There is one foolproof test, if you would agree to it?"

He was looking at Tristan, who simply nodded. In a blur of motion, the soldier produced a dagger and sliced his palm.

The blood that spilled from it was a cold, vivid blue.

In an instant, Arden dropped to his knees, closely followed by the stunned soldier and everyone else in sight. Tristan didn't see and did not, for a moment, care. He stared at his hand, scarcely breathing, as blue blood swallowed the ruby. He was in shock. Always before, his blood had been as red as the next man's, and to see this... Blue, blue blood...

Cool, gentle hands pressed a cloth into his palm. Yvaine stood before him, holding down a handkerchief and staunching the flow. She snatched up the slick gemstone and closed his fingers to keep the cloth in place. Her hands lingered around his, squeezing them, supporting him. Tristan looked up and saw her smile, and he let out his breath. Of course. If she could be turned to rock and powder just by crossing the wall, then why couldn't this magical land change the colour of his blood? Yes, that had to be it. Had to be.

Yvaine stepped back, and then Tristan could see everyone around them, kneeling, hushed and waiting. Some, those who had jeered him, were stark white and obviously terrified. Tristan couldn't handle it. "Please get up," he said. "Please, everyone..."

They did so slowly, stumbling here and there, and Tristan turned to the sheet-white Arden, whose hands clenched the jewelled dagger like a lifeline. "That doesn't belong to you," he said again. "Give it back."

Arden instantly thrust it at the merchant.

Everyone kept staring, straight at him. Tristan tried to smile, to make everything okay, to make them just go away. Part of him wanted to take it all back, to deny the title and responsibility and just run, run far from this place... But he couldn't, not now. The choice was made.

He turned to the soldier, whose bloodied knife was held in trembling hands. "Thank you," he said softly.

The man briefly slumped, relieved, then stood ramrod straight gave a sharp salute. "Of course, Your Highness," he said. "I am at your command." He spoke as though reciting a speech, not casually the way they'd talked before. It didn't help.

Then he turned to Yvaine, who smiled at him and shrugged just as she always had. The knot in his chest loosened. He hesitated, then said, "Let's go."

They were followed, of course, by people eager to know more about their new prince, but Tristan couldn't face that just now, so Yvaine took charge, bulling their way through the market and back to Hatha's empty inn. By the time they walked inside, only the soldier – a lieutenant named Eldon, as they would later learn – was still there. He seemed confused by it all, but kept pace with them as though his life depended on it.

"What are you doing?" Yvaine asked irritably, turning around as they reached their room. "Why are you following us?"

"I thought it prudent, ma'am, until your escort returns."

"We don't have an escort."

Eldon was startled. "You... you have no security at all?"

Yvaine was ready to make a snarky comment about just when protective soldiers might have been useful, but Tristan shook his head tiredly and said, "We're fine, thank you. We're just waiting for my parents to arrive."

He relaxed. "Then the princess has an armed guard?"

"Oh, yes, of course," drawled Yvaine. "She's been missing for twenty years and no one knows she's still alive. Of course there are soldiers with her."

The soldier frowned, annoyed by this young woman's cheek, before realising she was probably the Prince's lady and likely to be the next queen. He bowed and backed away, mumbling something about informing his commanding officer. "Yes, yes, just go," grumbled Yvaine, and she shut the door.

Tristan sank onto the bed, surprised to find himself shaking. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, clenching both hands. Yvaine kissed his forehead and sat down, brushing away stray locks of hair. She, too, looked at his hands.

He opened the left one, letting the blue-soaked cloth fall away from his wound. It was a shallow cut and the blood had mostly dried, and darker flakes were crumbling away from his palm, which itself was stained in every line and crease. He ran his fingers over the slice, feeling a sting as the flesh protested, and shook his head. "I should have realised," he said. "Septimus had blue blood. So did Primus. I saw it. I thought I was crazy, but I saw it. I never asked why. I guess I just didn't want to think about it."

Yvaine was nodding as he spoke. "It's always been red before?"

"Always. But I never hurt myself on this side of the wall." Looking up, he managed a small smile. "Stars don't have silver blood or something, do they?"

She smiled back. "I don't actually know." There was a pause then, as Tristan's eyes slid back to his palm, and Yvaine knew he wasn't thinking about the colour. "You did the right thing, you know," she told him.

"I hope so," said Tristan. "I really, really hope so."

Yvaine shook her head, touching his shoulder in assurance. "I'm sure of it," she replied. "You can be a good king; you were so confidant out there."

He almost laughed. "No, I wasn't – I just imitated Mother. I was terrified."

"Trust me, Tristan, no one could tell."

Comforted, he relaxed enough to give a genuine smile. "I guess I don't have to practice then, do I?" he teased, and Yvaine smiled. Tristan straightened a bit, shaking his head. "It's funny. Thinking about it now, I didn't have to do anything. I could have told Mother and I'm sure she would've taken care of that merchant. Then she'd go off to the city and we could have found a small village to live in, somewhere..."

"But?" Yvaine prompted.

"But what if something like this happened again?" he asked. "I am a prince of Stormhold. I can't change that. I have this authority, and I'm always going to have it. If we lived out in the country and this happened again, I wouldn't be able to not help. Not if the only thing stopping me was keeping our secret." He shrugged. "That'd be selfish. So I have to be king."

For a long moment, Yvaine watched him, her smile and her skin brightening until he had to blink. "Tristan," she said at last, "now I remember exactly why I'm in love with you."

Touched, he smiled cheekily. "How could you forget?"

She grinned and pounced, knocking him off balance as she kissed him. Tristan laughed, barely keeping them upright–

And then Hatha, who really did have awful timing, knocked on the door. "Cleaning!" she called habitually, not expecting anyone to actually be inside. Tristan sat straight and shoved his left hand into a pocket.

Hatha came in and her idle humming stopped abruptly. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were going to the market to– ...day..."

She stopped dead, sharp eyes finding the blue stains on their fingers, and her gaze dropped to the bloodied cloth that had fallen, forgotten, to the floor.

"Oh," said Tristan.

For a long moment, Hatha was actually speechless. She looked up, and Tristan willingly exposed his torn palm.

With one clack of her boots Hatha reached them, and she cradled his hand in her own, just staring at it. "...Well," she said at last. "I think I'll be having a word with your mother, too."

"I'm sorry," said Tristan, "we should have told you..." but Hatha just shook her head and waved it off, most decidedly not bowing to him.

"Oh, it's quite all right, I understand. Really, I should have guessed. There was always something odd about Una's manners and– oh, and her name is Una. Of course. Of course." She laughed at herself, then clapped her hands. "Anyway," she said briskly, "you'll need something to clean that, and a proper bandage, too. Just wait there, I'll be back."

"Hatha!" he called quickly, and she paused and turned. "Thank you."

She smiled, nodded, and left.

After a moment Yvaine declared, "I like her."

Tristan agreed, and hoped that most of the people they'd meet would be like her, able to see that he didn't want lots of formality. But deep inside he knew that was foolishly optimistic, as was confirmed when Hatha returned, frowning, with a tray of cloths and two soldiers. "These gentlemen insisted on seeing you," she said.

One was the lieutenant they'd already met, Eldon. The other was an older, stiffer man with an elaborate uniform slightly skewed by hurried dressing. His face was drawn in long, drooping lines that gave him a look of morbid resignation. His salute was perfect and his eyes fixed straight ahead. Yvaine immediately disliked him, and Tristan was uncomfortable as he said, "Hello."

"Your Highness, I beg leave to introduce myself! I am Captain Oltran of the Royal Guard!"

His voice was like a trumpet. Tristan gestured for him to keep it down and said, "I suppose you already know who I am."

"Yes, sir! We are pleased to meet you, sir! We are at your service, sir!"

Hatha quietly snorted as she opened a bottle. Yvaine, behind both soldiers, was silently mimicking and exaggerating the captain's formal exclamations. Tristan had a hard time keeping his face straight. "Please, not so loud. We don't want everyone to know about this."

"Sorry, sir!"

Tristan rolled his eyes, then winced as Hatha wiped his palm with a cloth soaked in alcohol. "Why have you come, Captain?" he asked. "And don't shout."

Oltran obediently lowered his voice. "Your Highness, I am here to inform you that my men and I are at your disposal. Our lives are dedicated to the service of your family. I will personally lead your private escort until such time as you and your lady mother are safe at home in the Royal Palace."

A constant guard. Perfect. Yvaine shot him a pleading glance, but Tristan, pausing, wasn't thinking of their privacy. He was remembering witches with knives and men who sought immortality. He remembered his own words: I can't risk people seeing you. I don't trust anyone. Then he looked at the captain and said, "I'm not worried about myself." Tristan gestured to his fiancée. "Protect Yvaine; she's in more danger."

Oltran turned to see a young woman glaring daggers at the prince. "...As you wish, Sire. I will send for more men–"

"No," snapped Yvaine. "This is ridiculous. I'm safe, remember?" and she tapped the glass snowdrop that was braided into her hair.

"From spells," said Tristan, "not swords. Please, Yvaine."

She folded her arms, but after a moment she sighed, relented, and grumbled, "Well there's no need for more soldiers. I'm going to be with you all the time anyway."

Tristan relaxed, glad she wasn't going to be stubborn. Hatha finished wrapping the bandage and patted his hand. "There you are," she said.

"Thank you," replied Tristan, and he looked back at the captain. "My mother's in Wall; she's safe there. After they get here we'll start to travel to the city."

"When will Her Highness arrive?"

"I'm not sure," he replied. "My father said–"

"Let's find out," Yvaine snapped, still irritated. "It's not like we can go to the market anymore, can we? I'm not staying here all day."

Both because he agreed and just out of gratitude that she was accepting protection, Tristan nodded. She would have to stay on this side of the wall, of course, but at least they would be doing something. "We can take Primus' horses," he suggested.

"I'll have Rugal saddle them for you," offered Hatha, shuffling out.

Captain Oltran asked, "Will a four man escort suffice, Your Highness, or would you prefer all twelve?"

Tristan bit back a groan. "Four. Four is more than enough."

"As you wish, sir."