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 Eight

The ride was painfully slow. Yvaine was still in a sour mood and the soldiers seemed to have a rule, written or not, that speaking with royalty required salutes and trumpet voices no matter how friendly said royal was trying to be. A casual request for their names brought on a long, dull recitation of statistics, hometowns and ancestry – none of which meant a thing to Tristan – and trying to talk about himself brought on the kind of bland replies given to a teacher of very boring subjects. After a half hour, he gave up.

Nudging his horse, Tristan moved ahead to join Yvaine. Her jaw was tight and she didn't greet him. Her irritation with the escort hadn't improved when they'd seen her rather embarrassing attempts to mount a horse. It couldn't have been more obvious that she'd never done so before. Stars didn't have any magical ability to deal with animals – the unicorn, being magical itself, was an exception, and it was intelligent enough to do everything but talk back. Leading an animal by reins wasn't hard either, but actually riding, with saddles and stirrups? Yvaine had managed to scare both her stallion and herself in the process, stumbling into a pile of (thankfully clean) hay. She'd tried, really she had, but these horses were trained to pull a carriage, not be ridden, and Yvaine simply couldn't learn to control the animal that quickly. Hatha's son Rugal, the stable hand, let her borrow a placid old mare instead. To make her feel better, Tristan borrowed one too.

The soldiers had said nothing, waiting patiently outside the stables, watching it all. Yvaine, red-faced, had marched right past them. Now it seemed her embarrassment had cooled, but not her temper.

For a while they rode side-by-side in silence, crossing the open plain between Market Town and the forest. Carefully, Tristan asked, "Are you angry with me, or just angry?"

She let out a quick, sharp sigh. "Just angry," she scowled. "It's hard to be mad at you when I know exactly why you did it." Almost absently, she added, "Moron."

He nodded and said nothing, not the least bit offended. They weren't having a particularly good day to start with, and the overly serious manner in which these soldiers took their duty was starting to grate. Glancing back, Tristan was annoyed to see them talking casually among themselves. He would have been much more comfortable if these men had just allowed him to be their friend, instead of... this. But, to be fair, if Primus and Septimus were at all typical of the Stormhold princes – my uncles, he had to remind himself – that sort of behaviour was probably expected of them. From what little he actually knew of English royalty, it was just the same over there. Tristan vaguely wondered if such people had any friends.

As they approached the woods, the soldiers came closer, tightening their circle so that two men rode ahead of their charges, the other two behind. This was a good thing, for when another rider suddenly appeared on the winding, narrow road, they were so close that had there been a threat, the men wouldn't have had time to catch up. But there was no danger, this time – the lone rider was Una.

"Mother?" said Tristan, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing." She rode up to them, side-saddle in deference to the same long blue dress she'd worn all week. Her eyes rested on the soldiers, all of whom dismounted to offer her a proper bow.

"We are honoured, Princess Una," said the captain. "May I be the first to officially welcome you back to Stormhold."

Una nodded politely. "Thank you, Captain...?"

"Oltran, Your Highness."

"Captain Oltran," she nodded. "I see you've met my son."

"Yes, Your Highness," said Oltran, and he bowed again. Una moved past him, dismissing him, and looked to Tristan, speaking a little more quietly.

"What happened? I thought you wanted to keep this a secret until you– ...made your decision." Her eyes lit up. "Tristan? Have you...?"

He nodded and, offering his bandaged hand, gave the briefest possible explanation. With each word she brightened, and it was clear that she couldn't have been more proud of him. Though still largely unhappy with it himself, Una's glee drew a small smile from him anyway.

She leaned out of the saddle to give him a one-armed hug, kissing his cheek. "I'm so glad. You'll be a fine king, Tristan," she said.

Biting back another I hope so, he just smiled and nodded back.

Una turned to Yvaine, who had been remarkably silent, and gave her a hug too, as though she'd been the one to accomplish something. "Congratulations. You're going to be a wonderful queen."

Yvaine, however, clearly wasn't feeling very lucky, and did not return the embrace. "Oh, yes, thank you," she said dryly. "We're already having a wonderful time. No one will stop bowing, we're followed everywhere, and they won't even talk to us like normal people! Definitely something to be thankful for. I can hardly wait."

A little startled by her intensity, Una said nothing, and the guards shifted uncomfortably. Quietly, Tristan said, "Yvaine, if you don't want this... It's your life, too; your choice. I know you said you don't mind, but... Tell me if you still want this," he said. "Just tell me."

It was really unfair of him. Yvaine knew perfectly well that if she asked for it, Tristan would abandon the throne for her in a heartbeat. Now, after all she'd said to talk him into at least trying, after she'd comforted and praised him for his accomplishment, how could she possibly ask that? Maybe he was just trying to make clear how much he cared about her happiness, but Yvaine resented being put in such a position. Coldly, she replied, "I can handle it."

The tension between them could have been cut with a knife. Quite surprisingly, the one to break it wasn't Tristan, well-meant but a little clumsy, nor Una, who was only starting to see royal life from their point of view. It was one of the soldiers, the youngest, who on sight had become completely enamoured of Yvaine, and had stared shamelessly at her during the incident at the stables.

He stammered as he spoke, red-faced and enduring the glare of his captain. "M'lady?" he asked tentatively, looking up at her. "M'lady, I want to apologise if we've made you uncomfortable. Really, we– ...I. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

Yvaine softened a little. "What makes me uncomfortable is all this stupid formality. I don't like it, Tristan doesn't like it, and I can't imagine that you like having to bow all the time. So why do this to us?"

"...Protocol, ma'am."

She groaned, shaking her head. Then an idea struck and she straightened. "I'm going to be queen," she announced. "I'm changing the protocols."

Tristan raised both eyebrows and Una looked amused, but Oltran sputtered, "We can't just– ...oh." Suddenly remembering his place, he jerked into a stiff stance once again. "I'm sorry, m'lady, forgive me–"

"Shut up," Yvaine said lightly. "I'm ordering all of you to call me by name, and to talk to me as if I'm your friend. Or sister. Something like that. Understand?"

Oltran looked as though he'd just swallowed his tongue. "Yes, ma'a–" He caught himself. "Er... yes... Yes." He just couldn't seem to get her name out. Yvaine, however, seemed satisfied, and her bad mood faded. She grinned at Tristan, extremely pleased with herself, and he just shook his head, chuckling.

Una, too, was amused, but decided it would be wise to change the subject before they gave this old captain a heart attack or broke too many traditions. Tristan was going to have a hard enough time holding the throne simply for being so different, and coming in with all sorts of radical new policies might be the best way to brew disaster. "Tristan, why are you here?" she asked, gesturing around. "You said you'd be in town. I'm glad to see you, of course," she assured them. "Your timing is very convenient; I was just coming to find you."

"We were a bit worried," Tristan replied. "I thought you and Father would have arrived by now."

"Yes," Una winced. "Well, we had a... a little trouble getting here."

'A little' didn't exactly cover it.

Dunstan Thorn stood alone at the gap in the wall, arms folded, frowning as he examined the problem. Simply put, they were completely and utterly stuck.

It had taken far longer than expected to sort and pack everything he wanted to keep from that small house, even when he thought he was being discriminate. Sentiment had lost out to practicality, but a handful of family keepsakes were there, along with many pictures. Una had insisted that they take most of Tristan's childhood toys, and she'd asked detailed questions about each one, searching, he knew, for bits and pieces to fill the gap of memories she should have had of their son.

All that, along with what Dunstan had expected to pack, had built up to quite a large pile of luggage, all of which had to be moved at once. Finding a wagon hadn't been easy; there weren't many that size in Wall to begin with, and those that weren't needed by the owners had mostly been borrowed by Mr Robinson to lug the other formerly-Thorn-family belongings to nearby towns along with his usual wares. At last John Monday had offered them his old, flat platform wagon, but one wheel was cracked and had to be replaced. Then Dunstan had to buy a horse to pull it, and amidst all that Mr Comfrey came by to negotiate a price for the house.

Una had been a godsend. Perhaps it was just the lingering euphoria of her freedom, but nothing seemed to bother her. She made him laugh with her jokes, chatted pleasantly, cooking and cleaning diligently – and said she was just glad to be doing this for him instead of Sal. Her endless questions made him remember so many of those little happy stories about his life that tend to be forgotten from day to day. Still, it had been hard work, and while neither begrudged Tristan for going back to his Yvaine, it would have been nice to have the extra pair of hands.

But they'd managed, and at last the trunks had been loaded, the favoured bits of furniture lashed down, and off they'd gone...

...only to find that their wagon wouldn't go through the gap. Thus their current predicament.

The gap was just too narrow, even if the stones themselves hadn't been too high and uneven to drive over. After throwing around some ideas – asking the villagers to help lift it, trying to build a ramp – they decided to take down all the luggage, tilt the empty wagon on its side, carry it through, then reload on the other side. But there was a lot to move, and they'd needed help from Dunstan's friends to load it the first time, so Una had taken the horse into Market Town to fetch Tristan and borrow her friend Hatha's sons.

It wasn't hard to untie all the ropes that held down the loose furniture, which was now strewn across the grass, or to move the numerous bags, but the large, heavy chests were a different matter. Dunstan was just about to sit down and wait when Una emerged from the woods far sooner than expected, followed by Tristan, a lovely girl that had to be Yvaine, and four soldiers.

Dunstan frowned a little as he climbed down and walked towards them, but it seemed like nothing was wrong; Una looked fit to burst with delight. She smiled and waved merrily at him, then directed her soldiers to the gap. Tristan and Yvaine approached him, and Dunstan saw that his son looked rather glum. He waved without enthusiasm as they neared, dismounting and reaching up to help his young lady.

Then the girl said something that made Tristan's face split into a grin. He laughed and lifted her down.

That laugh alone endeared her to Dunstan. There had been times when he'd seen his son talk to Miss Forester, and she'd never once brought such genuine joy to Tristan. This Yvaine was pretty, yes, but it was clear that Tristan wasn't admiring her beauty. His eyes never left her, but there was no reverence in his gaze, just affection. Love.

They held hands and walked up. Tristan opened his mouth to make introductions, but Yvaine strode forth and said, "You're Tristan's father. I'm glad to meet you."

Well, she was certainly a bold one – no coy or delicate airs, no shyness or false modesty. She was bright and cheerful, and though she didn't look much like a star, Dunstan found himself smiling warmly, and reached for her outstretched hand. "And I you, Yvaine. Welcome to our family."

He'd meant to lift her hand and compliment the ring, perhaps offer a polite little bow, but before he had a chance Yvaine took hold of his hand and firmly shook it.

Tristan, beside them, laughed. "Yvaine," he said, "shaking hands is a gentlemen's greeting. Women don't do that."

"Oh," said Yvaine, completely unashamed. She shrugged. "Sorry."

Dunstan chuckled. "That's all right." He glanced at Tristan and raised his eyebrows. I see why you like her. There was a brief pause and then he asked, "Do you like the ring?"

Yvaine smiled brightly. "It's beautiful, I love it," she said. "Tristan said it was yours?"

"My mother's. It's a tradition in our family to pass them on."

"I like that," she said simply, gazing at it. "Thank you."

Dunstan was about to reply, to offer some trivia about the ring or his family, but stopped as he caught sight of the flower in her hair. The glass flower; Una's snowdrop. For a moment he blinked, surprised and faintly annoyed. For all that Yvaine was soon to be his daughter, that gift had been cherished by both father and son as their only link to a missing mother. It was too personal to give away, to anyone. But then he remembered Tristan's story, about how the flower saved his life, and suddenly it was no surprise at all. It was a very typical thing for Tristan to do.

He tuned back into the conversation and for a few minutes the four of them talked pleasantly about nothing in particular. Then a soft thump was heard, followed by muffled cursing, and Dunstan turned around. The soldiers he'd forgotten about were behind them, just through the gap, quietly and efficiently taking his trunks down from the wagon. From the way they were standing, only Una had been able to see all along. Dunstan asked her, "Why are they...?"

"I told them to."

Tristan seemed surprised as well; father and son exchanged glances. The intention had been to have help doing all the lifting, not assign it and stand by idly. Una seemed untroubled, but mystified by their expressions. "What is it?"

The men looked uncomfortable, perhaps more with her question than the original problem. At last Dunstan asked, "Why are there soldiers here?"

Tristan answered, without pride or reluctance, "They know, Father. They know I'm going to be king."

He was fingering a new bandage on his hand, and though Dunstan didn't know what it meant, he asked, "They found out?"

"No. I told them."

Slowly, Dunstan nodded, and a proud smile spread across his face. He clapped Tristan's shoulder; his son really had grown up.

Tristan unwound the bandage. "They wanted proof. I had no idea this was what he meant."

Though the question was directed at Una, Tristan kept his eyes on his father. "Why is my blood blue, Mother?"

He showed them both the wounded palm; Dunstan blanched. Una laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I don't know, Tristan – no one knows. It's a trait that's lasted for at least eighty generations of the royal family." She smiled wryly. "My father liked to think it was a sign that we were the rightful rulers of the entire world."

"You have it too?" asked Dunstan, finding this logical explanation oddly comforting. She nodded.

"I can show you, if you need that, but yes, I do. My father, grandfather, and all my brothers did." To Tristan she said, "All your children will."

Very deliberately not looking at Yvaine, Tristan said, "In England we have a saying about blue blood, and it does mean that someone has noble or royal ancestors, but it's not literal."

"Really?" asked Una, intrigued. "You must have picked that up from us, somehow. Someone who crossed the wall, I suppose."

By this point Dunstan had gotten over the shock and was looking at Tristan's palm with curiosity. "Will it turn red again on the other side?"

"Probably."

He nodded and glanced back at the gap, and again saw the soldiers. They had taken down all the trunks and were carefully turning the wagon onto its side, preparing to lift it through. He paused, frowned, and suddenly announced, "I'm going to help them. Excuse me."

And, rolling up his sleeves, off he went. After a moment, Tristan followed.

There was no way to know what the men thought of Dunstan, for he appeared to be nothing more than a country villager from that strange place called 'England'. If he hadn't been introduced as the prince's father, Oltran's men might have looked down their noses at him. As it was, they accepted his help without fuss, nodding thanks and directing him to the most helpful position.

When Tristan came, however, Oltran nearly dropped his corner while habitually snapping into a salute. Tristan frowned and pulled off his coat, leaning down and shouldering the front wheel. He was accepted without a word, but only out of bewilderment.

Standing well clear of the gap, Yvaine looked at Una. The former slave girl was frowning and shaking her head. "What's wrong?" the star asked. "They only want to help. They feel bad about it."

"I know, Yvaine, but it's not proper, especially not for Tristan. We're royalty; we're supposed to keep up an image. Demanding to be called by name is one thing, but this... is going a bit too far."

Yvaine shrugged. "I think they appreciate it. It makes them like him."

"Yes, it does," said Una, "and it's always a good thing to be liked by the people. But if you have to give difficult orders, it's much harder when they're your friends. Do you really think Tristan could send these men to war after he's come to know them personally?"

It wasn't a question Yvaine had ever considered. "I don't think it matters if they're his friends," she said at last. "Tristan wouldn't send anyone to their death."

"Someday he may have to."

A while later, with the horse hitched up and the wagon loaded, Tristan's entire family finally made their way into Stormhold. A single soldier was left behind; Tristan had insisted that his promise to the village be kept even if they couldn't arrange for an official Wall Guard just yet. For part of the ride Tristan talked to Captain Oltran, explaining what he wanted while the Captain told him what could reasonably be done. "I don't have that many men, Sire, and we have duties in Market Town already. We'll be stretched to the limit by sending away your escort. One man at a time is all I can spare."

Tristan frowned but accepted this. "Well, we could send more men from the garrison in the next town, couldn't we?"

"That would be most welcome, Your High–" He caught Tristan's warning, half-amused expression. "Sir. Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome."

Yvaine and Una spent most of the ride talking, just as they had on their last trip to Market Town. They were sitting on the back of the wagon – Una elegantly, with her legs folded, Yvaine casually swinging her feet off the edge – and when Tristan rode past them, his mother was asking about the green dress. Yvaine described Danja's stall, but only shrugged at the other questions. "I never asked what it's made of," she said. "I don't care."

Mostly, Tristan talked to his father, who was driving the wagon. Oltran and his men kept to their places ahead of or behind the family, and the women were out of earshot, so they had some semblance of privacy. Tristan felt like he needed to explain his decision better, but Dunstan said, "You don't have to justify yourself to me, son. You don't need my permission."

He smiled, and after a moment replied, "I'd like to have it anyway."

Dunstan smiled. "Well, you do. You have my blessing. I do think you did the right thing, but I have to say, I wouldn't have done it myself."

"No?"

"No. All this, what you're about to do... it scares me, Tristan," he said frankly. "That kind of responsibility is too much for me. But then," he added in a teasing tone, "I don't have blue blood. Maybe that makes a difference."

Tristan laughed.

When the moment sobered, Dunstan glanced back at the ladies talking beyond the large pile of luggage. Quietly, he added, "If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask me anyway, all right? Your mother can be a bit... Well, I think she's expecting more than you're ready for."

His son smiled, nodding at the truth of it. "Thank you, Father."

As they left the woods, Tristan directed their party to the side of the town walls where they'd left Primus' carriage several days before. While riding out earlier, a number of people had already seemed to recognise him, and he would be happy to leave them behind as soon as possible. No one questioned or argued with him, but Tristan politely explained their goal to the soldiers and his father.

Dunstan was intrigued by such a casual, practical use of magic, and watched in fascination as Una approached one specific, very empty spot. Holding out the glass rose she'd worn on her collar, Una ran her hands up and down around a huge shape, even stepping up onto thin air as she dragged her charm around. As she walked around the 'back', a dark, blurry haze blocked their view of her, and as she completed the circle, it solidified into a grand, elegant black carriage.

He had to touch it before he believed it was real.

Glancing back, he saw that Tristan wore a similar silly grin, which faded abruptly as his mother opened the doors. Dunstan knew what was in there.

Yvaine held her nose. Preserved or not, the blankets were stained with old blood, and she was not going to breathe that air.

Una instructed the soldiers to carefully lift the body out, and unwrapped the fabric with a stony expression. The face within resembled her, Dunstan thought. They had the same nose and brow, unlike Tristan, who shared his mother's eyes and mouth. This man's mouth turned down, giving him a perpetually solemn look. It wasn't hard to believe what Tristan said he'd done.

Una had talked very little of her family, despite his many questions in these past few days. She'd been happy to share funny stories of childish mischief in the palace – she'd even described this brother, Septimus, teaching her to ride a horse – but then her eyes would drop, her voice would soften, and she'd abruptly end the tale.

She looked at the soldiers. "Has word been spread that Primus is also dead?"

"Yes, Your Highness. His body was returned by one of Prince Septimus' men. All your brothers are accounted for."

Her nod was short, businesslike, and she stood up stiffly.

From behind them Tristan said, "We should find him a proper coffin. There's an undertaker in town, right?"

Una nodded and addressed one of Oltran's men. "Have him ready his best oak coffin, and make sure they paint my brother's number on it. We'll remove the preservation charm once we reach the city."

The man bowed deeply, turned, and walked away.

Whether out of respect or disgust, the rest of them made arrangements quickly. Oltran and one of his remaining men would escort the family into town to tie off loose ends while the last was left to guard the carriage, wagon, and the cold, dead body. Dunstan felt sorry for him

As was usual for this hour, Hatha was buried in paperwork. Her husband and sons had no head for numbers, or so they claimed, and on most afternoons the Slaughtered Prince was largely empty, so it was the perfect time to do the finances. Today, however, she'd had to turn away six people who came with poorly-veiled hopes of seeing proof of the rumoured new prince.

As the door opened a seventh time, she bit back a snappish remark. Looking up, however, she was greeted by a face that was familiar and, smiling, Hatha put down her pen. She deliberately stayed seated as the missing princess of Stormhold walked up to her desk.

"Shall I bow?" she asked lightly, tilting her head sideways. Una laughed.

"No," she said, and reached out to hug her friend. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I think I should have."

Hatha, standing up, raised both eyebrows and looked at Tristan, who'd said almost exactly the same thing. "Aye, he's your son all right." Now seeing more clearly the people who had followed her, Hatha addressed the man she'd never met before. "You must be Dunstan Thorn."

"I am, yes. Pleased to you meet you."

She returned the greeting and turned to Tristan. "I should warn you, there's been quite a few snoopers wanting the truth behind all these rumours," she said. He grimaced.

"Does everyone know?"

"Not everyone, no, but those who do will change that soon enough." She shrugged apologetically. "I take it you're leaving town now?"

Una nodded. "I just need to change first," she said, slightly lifting an expensive-looking, dark red dress that she'd just bought from among Danja's finest (if second-hand) garments. "Tristan will settle the bill. And Tristan, don't forget–"

"Mother," he said patiently, "I know."

Una smiled at him and followed Yvaine and Dunstan upstairs as Tristan took out his coin purse. The other two came back minutes later with the bags Tristan had brought from Wall and the things they'd bought in the market. The first thing they heard was Hatha's adamant, "No!"

They rounded the stair to find Hatha's arms folded tight against her chest, the coins to pay for their room on her desk, and Tristan's outstretched hand offering her something.

"No, I couldn't," she protested; "they're so expensive. You were wonderful guests, it was my pleasure–"

"Take it," Tristan gently insisted, putting a glass flower on the table. "It's a gift."

Hatha let out a sharp, irritable breath. Then she shook her head and smiled fondly. "All right," she said, picking up the charmed lily. "One should never refuse a gift, only return it. Thank you, Tristan. Wait right there."

A few minutes later she returned from the kitchen with a large basket of travelling food: bread, cold ham, pastries, wine, apples, berries of some sort and, to Yvaine's delight, the same chocolate cookies she'd so enjoyed before. "And don't you even think of saying no," Hatha commanded.

Wisely, Tristan took the basket. Yvaine and Dunstan chuckled.

To the regret of all – save perhaps Captain Oltran, who was muttering worriedly about travel time to the next town – their goodbyes were forced to be short. Una was back no more than a few minutes when faces started to appear in the windows, and some bold character came in for a drink, watching them sideways the whole time. Their anonymity was obviously over.

As they stepped outside, it became clear why: eight of Oltran's men, the rest of the escort, had arrived and stood in stiff, straight rows. As Tristan came out he was formally saluted. Everyone watching then knew, beyond any doubt, that this was their new prince.

Formality had its advantages; the borrowed mares had been returned to Hatha's wide-eyed son and the black stallions were already gone, taken ahead to the carriage. A junior soldier – Yvaine's young admirer – scurried to take the heavy basket from her, and another carried Tristan's bags for him and Dunstan. As they began to walk, the men kept their path clear, preventing delays.

But as they went, Tristan felt every eye on him. People crowded the cobblestone street, just staring at him. A hush was in the air; it felt absurdly like a funeral. Several people bowed, and every time they did everyone else would hurry to copy it. They whispered to each other, pointing. To his relief, no one laughed and said, "This little BOY thinks he can be our king!" Some small children were cheering and one little lad wore a crown of rope. To him, Tristan smiled.

At first, Dunstan walked with him, offering his silent support while trying not to be distracted by the magical wares he'd only seen once, so long ago. Then Una gently nudged her son's back, urging him to walk ahead, and followed just one step behind herself. She smiled gently at the people who stared, nodding politely, at ease and happy.

They reached the gates. In all that time, no one spoke. The carriage stood just outside, horses harnessed to it. Just behind it was the wagon of luggage, and another with a handsome coffin strapped on top.

Twelve soldiers flanked them. Their uniforms were straight and neat, their swords polished and shining in the sun. One held open the carriage door; it had already been aired out. Another stood on the driver's platform. The army horses were ready, stable boys were holding the reins. All waited for the command. His command.

Tristan hesitated, turning and looking around. He saw the crowd, watching intently, and he was humbled, overwhelmed.

Captain Oltran cleared his throat. "Your Highness?"

His family were sitting inside. Everyone was ready. Everyone waited for the new Prince of Stormhold.

Tristan climbed in. The whip snapped, and they were off.