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 Thirteen

She hadn't meant to end up in tears.

It had started out calmly enough; leaving to take a bath had never been an excuse to vent her feelings in secret, and she had called for the innkeepers with no particular fuss or hurry. The bath had been filled and the dinner plates cleared before she dismissed the staff, climbing in to soak up its heat and enjoy a little time in which she didn't have to be responsible or all-knowing – didn't have to be a princess.

After all, royal daughters of Stormhold simply did not cry.

It was something she had been taught from childhood; she could still remember her mother's calm instruction on the matter, and her father's somewhat less patient lectures when she failed. Her brothers had tolerated it, though, when she was little – she could still remember, with perfect clarity, the gentle look on Primus' face when her new china doll had been thrown into a snow bank. "Shh... it's all right," he'd said, hugging her small, trembling shoulders. "Dolly's fine, dolly will be all right..."

But Primus was dead.

They were all dead. Una was the last Princess of Stormhold.

And she shouldn't be crying.

With a long sigh, she lifted a wrinkled hand from the lukewarm water and rubbed her aching, swollen eyes. She shouldn't be, but she was. She couldn't help it. In her mind's eye she kept seeing Tristan's face, over and over as he pulled away from her at the dinner table, stung with surprise and hurt and... and... something else. Something she wished she understood. She hadn't meant to push him so far into politics, or so far away from her. Caught up in her enthusiasm, she hadn't realised that her son simply might not see things the same way.

Fool, she scolded herself. Of course Tristan would think differently – he was a grown man, a friend to those pirates, and knew his own mind. Of course he didn't need his mother to lead him around by the hand.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Tristan didn't need her. Oh, certainly, he needed someone to teach him history and politics, but a tutor could do that. He didn't need a mother.

And she hadn't been much of a parent to him anyway. She'd given birth, sent him away, then returned to saddle him with a responsibility that he very clearly did not want. No wonder, really, that whenever Tristan was worried it was his father he turned to, not Una. Oh, he tried to be quiet about it, but she was observant – twenty years as Sal's slave made that a necessity – and she had seen those few quiet moments when the men talked alone, and Tristan had always returned a little bit happier, a little more at peace.

Being with his mother seemed to have the opposite effect.

It didn't help that there was almost no chance for her to be the sort of gentle, loving mother that she should have been; since he never came to her with his problems, all they ever had to talk about was the crown – his duties and her expectations. Cool, distant, and formal, it was like a glass wall between them, and no matter what she said, no matter how desperately she pounded on it, that wall simply would not crack.

A lump rose in her throat again, knotting and pulling at her chest until she sucked in a short, harsh breath. Her shoulders shook as she let it out, squeezing her eyes shut. This was no good. She couldn't fall apart again.

Reaching for the towel, Una distracted herself by doing what she always did best; work. She applied herself to the task of drying her body and hair with the same straightforward efficiency that soldiers used in battle. She wrapped herself in one cloth and used another to dry her hair, stepping carefully on parts of the floor with no carpet and using a third towel as a mat, standing on it while she dressed. She sat on the bed and stretched her toes toward the fire, drying out the water wrinkles while her nimble hands worked a comb through her dark hair. It wasn't an enchanted comb, of course, and her hair didn't lengthen with every stroke, but she planned to find one of those soon enough – they were fairly common among the nobility, long hair being a very old-fashioned sign of wealth, and as soon as they reached the palace–

The comb clattered to the floor as Una suddenly flung it down, choking up, feeling her eyes itch and water while she clenched her fists and pressed them to her forehead.

What was the point? What was the point of going back, of taking Tristan with her or teaching him anything if he did not want the job? The crown meant nothing to him, that much was clear. He was doing this out of necessity, out of obligation, not because he thought their blood was anything important. She was teaching him things he didn't really want to know, didn't care about, and might never use, because he still had the choice to leave, however difficult it might be to follow through. So why did she bother to recite history lessons word-perfect if he could still run away and never come back?

...Because all she wanted, all that really mattered, was to be his mother. This was the only way she knew how.

Her breathing was erratic, air dragged between gritted teeth while her shoulders shook with every stifled sob.

It wasn't fair. She had wanted so desperately to raise him, to cuddle her baby boy and sing him to sleep every night – and she had; for one perfect week, she had. In a tiny room at The Slaughtered Prince, she had held him and fed him and memorised each of his small, perfect features. She had stroked his soft head and laughed in delight when all five of his little fingers wrapped around one of her own. She'd wanted nothing more than to stay there forever with the child she loved so much.

But fate had denied her that. Fate had sent Sal in to check on her, still infuriated by the entire affair, and Hatha's adamant claim that she hadn't yet recovered her strength was annulled by a simple spell Sal 'wasted' to examine her. A single week, seven days later, and Una found herself writing a letter that wouldn't be read for almost twenty years.

Now Tristan was grown up. He didn't need her.

That was how it happened; that was how Una, Princess of Stormhold, came to be curled up on a bed in The Laughing Dragon, a spare blanket pulled messily over her shoulders and wet hair leaving stains on the pillow. That was how Yvaine found her, innocently humming a broken tune as she walked in. She stopped abruptly, the door banging shut behind her.

"Una?"

The other woman didn't answer, merely lifted her head to look at the girl, then dropped it back to the pillow with an almost inaudible sigh. Yvaine's brow furrowed. Two long strides brought her to the bed and she sat down, her weight causing the mattress to sink a little. With her usual blithe lack of decorum she asked, "What's wrong?"

Una closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Calmly, she said, "It's nothing, Yvaine."

The girl snorted. "It can't be nothing; you didn't even cry when the witches were about to kill us. What happened?"

A moment's pause. "Nothing happened, everything's going very well," Una said in an empty voice. "Better than I could have hoped for."

Yvaine frowned, annoyed – so this was what Tristan had meant when he'd said his mother had been "tight-lipped". Recalling the details of that brief conversation, Yvaine narrowed her eyes and asked, "Is this about letting the Captain go?"

Una gave a sharp, half-strangled laugh. "No," she said. "One more pirate ship out there will make little difference."

"So what is it?"

But Una shook her head, rolling onto her back to offer the girl a tired smile. "Don't worry about me, Yvaine," she said, patting her hand. "I'm fine, I'm just... tired." Even she didn't seem to believe that weak excuse, and turned her face back to the fireplace.

The star frowned, tapping her fingers and watching for a minute. In the back of her mind, she knew the polite thing to do was leave – she obviously wasn't wanted, and Una could certainly take care of herself – but at the same time she remembered, with perfect clarity, sitting in the carriage during that horrible ride to Carnadine, when Una had stroked her hair and shushed her tears. No, she couldn't leave. She just wasn't sure what to do next.

Her eyes narrowed again as she took a minute to watch the princess lying still on the bed, trying to think this through. At last she announced; "I don't believe you."

Una blinked, her thoughts having long since wandered elsewhere. "What?"

"I don't believe you. You're not the type to cry over nothing, so something has to be wrong." She hesitated and asked, "Can't I help? Or... is it me? Did I do something?"

"No," Una said firmly, and she immediately pulled herself up to sit. Her half-dried hair flopped over her face and had to be pushed back, and she did so without ever taking her eyes from the star. Squeezing her hand, Una promised, "It's nothing to do with you."

Reassured, Yvaine nodded and asked, "Then should I go and get Tristan, or D–?"

"No."

Una caught herself and softened her voice. "No. Please... don't tell them about this. I don't want them to know. Promise me."

Yvaine watched her for a long moment, lips pressed together as she considered it. Slowly she nodded and said, "All right, I promise."

Una squeezed her hand again, letting out a breath. "Thank you."

"But I'm not leaving until you tell me," she declared. "You have to talk to someone – sitting here alone isn't going to fix anything."

The princess pulled her hand away, but otherwise remained calm. "There's nothing to 'fix'," she replied patiently. "There isn't any problem to be solved. This is just... life. It's the way things are."

"That doesn't mean you can't change it."

Una smiled indulgently and shook her head. "Can you change who your mother is?" she asked rhetorically. "You told us she doesn't want you to be here, that she's forbidden your sisters to talk to you, and I know you're angry about it. Can anything you do change the fact that you're still her daughter?"

Eyes narrowed to slits with suspicion, Yvaine said, "This is about Tristan, isn't it? It's about you and Tristan."

There could be no doubt that she was right. First Una winced, then she stiffened a little, shoulders tightening as she clenched the blanket, then she dropped her gaze and bit her lip, toying with the ribbon on her nightgown. Yvaine waited, patient yet uncomfortable, until Una was ready to look up. Her dark eyes met Yvaine's blue ones and she confessed, "I don't know my son, Yvaine. I always thought that if we met, it would be as though we'd always lived together. It's not. I don't understand him. I want him to be happy, but I don't think I can do that. You make him happy – you, and his father." She hesitated. "I need you to do something for me."

The star slowly nodded. "All right. What?"

"Be honest," said Una. "I need to know if Tristan... likes me."

Yvaine blinked. "What?" she asked, nearly laughing. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because he clearly doesn't want me to be here," replied Una, her voice rising for the first time. "I'm not the mother he wanted. I'm a princess, and I've made him a prince. I've turned his life upside-down and it's only going to get worse." She shook her head and said, "He might have been happier if we'd never met."

"Oh, don't be stupid!" snapped Yvaine, rising to her feet. "Tristan doesn't resent you for being royalty."

"But he would prefer it if I'd turned out to be someone else."

Yvaine stopped cold, and there was a painful silence. Una smiled – a tight, pained, resigned smile.

"Look," Yvaine said, stammering a little, "it's – it's not that he doesn't like you. There's a difference between you and the job that you're bringing him."

"What difference, Yvaine?" she asked sadly. "His mother is a princess. I can't be one without being the other."

"Which is why we're here," she argued, grasping one piece of logic that could help. "Tristan likes you – loves you – enough to come all this way and do the job just to be with you."

"No," corrected Una. "He's come to Stormhold to be with you. He said it himself, the day we went to Wall. He left Wall early to meet you; he didn't stay to be with me."

Yvaine threw up her hands. "You're not even trying to fix this!"

"There's nothing to fix," Una snapped, her tears welling up again. "I am not the mother he wanted!"

"Neither is mine!" Yvaine retorted, her temper flaring. "My mother's an ancient, narrow-minded goddess with thousands of daughters she barely talks to. I still love her. Tristan loves you – why can't you believe that?"

"Because I don't deserve it!"

Again, Yvaine blinked, mouth slightly open as she shook her head in confusion. Una was serious, though; misery was written all over her pale, blotched face. Yvaine softened, sinking back down to sit on the foot of the bed, but her voice still held a hard edge. "What could possibly make you think that?"

"I gave him up – yes, I know," she said, raising a hand to forestall protest. "I know – I had no choice, Sal would have killed him. That doesn't mean I was a good mother, or that I deserve him; I still wasn't there. I don't deserve to have him. Dunstan managed just fine anyway," she finished bitterly.

Yvaine shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"He didn't need me either. Tristan turned out wonderfully with only his father's guidance. Even if I had been there, I couldn't have done any better than Dunstan."

"...You do know Tristan was very different when I met him?" Yvaine asked with a small, dry smile. "He changed a lot that week. It wasn't all Dunstan's doing."

"So I was told. But Dunstan was the one who nurtured and encouraged him. I couldn't have done that. I might even have ruined all his work."

Yvaine snorted. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"

Una paused, which, as Yvaine was starting to learn, was a very bad thing. With absolute seriousness she looked the other girl in the eye and said, "I come from a horrible family. We were raised to be ruthless leaders and cold murderers, and no one can escape that sort of thing. I'm not as nice as you might think, Yvaine; I abandoned my brother to his death in Carnadine. I didn't do anything to stop the others trying to kill each other before I ran away, and I've used people as means to an end all of my life. If I had raised Tristan..." she suddenly deflated, her energy spent. "I'm afraid he would have turned out like me."

Wrapped deep in the blanket's folds, Una shuddered. Yvaine, quiet and thinking, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "That didn't happen," she said. "If what you say is true – and I don't think it is – then what we have now is the best possible option. Just accept that. You can't go on feeling guilty for what might have been."

Miraculously, Una smiled – a real, honest smile, however small and brief it was. She watched the girl, tilting her head a little. "You're very wise, Yvaine," she said.

"I'm a star," the girl replied dryly. "I've had a lot of time to watch people make mistakes."

It was the wrong thing to say. Una's face fell, and she shied out from under Yvaine's arm. "I'm sure you've seen the things my ancestors did," she said distantly.

Yvaine admitted, "Some."

"And you really want to be part of this family?" Una scoffed. "Our heritage is written in blood – blue and red. We have a history of stone hearts and fanaticism. Did you know," she asked with mock-brightness, "that every time my brothers and uncles visited a brothel they would force their women to drink sterility potions, just to make sure there wouldn't be extra contenders for the throne?" Without waiting for an answer she went on, scathingly, "Did you know that if their mistresses were caught trying to hide a pregnancy, they could legally be killed on the spot?" Yvaine flinched and looked away. "Did you know that I – and all my aunts – were forced by law to drink those potions every month on pain of death?" She fixed her haunted eyes on the star. "If anyone had found me, or Tristan, we would have been executed for treason. We are a horrible family!"

"Were."

Una blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Were. Not 'are' – were. Only you and Tristan are left, and you're not like that. I'm not like that, and neither is Dunstan. History can't change who we are now."

"The past still matters, Yvaine," said Una. "Our heritage matters – why would anyone want to be part of my family?"

With a gentle innocence that shouldn't be possible for someone so old, Yvaine replied, "Because they love you."

Una turned away.

"Tristan loves you," she pressed on. "He doesn't care where you come from, or what your family did, or if you might have been a bad mother–"

"What if I still am?" Una argued sadly, smearing away the tear that spilled from her eye. "I have no idea what to do; I don't know what he wants, or needs – if he needs anything. When he was a baby I was his whole world, and he was mine, but now I don't know what to do. I can tutor him in politics, but that's not being a mother." She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "What am I supposed to do?"

Yvaine shrugged. "Be his friend," she said. "Talk to him, trust him; just bethere for him. He wants to get to know you – he'll come when he's ready. You've only known each other for a week. Be patient. It'll be fine."

"What if I make a mistake?"

"You fix it. He'll understand."

Una hesitated. "...And if I disappoint him?"

The star wrapped her arm back around Una's shoulders. "All he wants you to do is love him."

"I do love him."

Yvaine smiled. "Then nothing can really go wrong."

Night passed slowly, brightening and turning to dawn. Una slept, swollen eyes buried deep in her soft pillow, and Yvaine gazed out the window to the cold, white moon.

Morning at The Laughing Dragon was a bustle of activity. Besides the usual clamour and fuss of any inn, Captains Lorne and Oltran were striding around the place, assigning men to guard every second window and furiously debating over who was to continue escorting Their Royal Highnesses to Mount Huon. Oltran won, and managed to keep a full half of his own men in the party before Lorne sneakily sent some Hop soldiers ahead to prepare supplies and guard the younger princess. Yvaine, up early for reasons no one was quite sure of, informed them that she wasn't actually a princess and would they kindly stop calling her that? Corvin, her doe-eyed admirer, then took it upon himself to scold anyone who made that mistake again, deeply offending some of the Hop folk and earning a glare from the lady in question. The inn staff scrambled back and forth to prepare an 'adequate' breakfast for the family, fretting and begging to know what was wrong when Yvaine offered to help, and then, to top it all off, more of Stormhold's endless supply of gawping townsfolk found reason to visit the Dragon, crowding the place and causing an excess of stubbed toes and spilled drinks.

And all that was before the royals arrived.

A corner table by one window had been reserved, laden with serving dishes and the inn's best china, protected from the eager crowd by three standing guards who almost stopped Dunstan before Sergeant Rollon recognised him. "My apologies, sir," he said, bowing. "They did not know your face."

Dunstan, who had found himself largely unnoticed whether he liked it or not, gave an awkward smile and took his seat.

Una, looking tired but impeccably groomed, diligently smiled and greeted everyone as she walked in, taking four times longer to reach the table than Tristan, who was merely stared at, or Yvaine, who waltzed past them with a cool, forced attempt at her normal cheer. There was far too much food for them to actually eat, but the variety was welcomed.

"What is this?" Dunstan asked casually, using his fork to spear some diced meat with a strange consistency. "I've never seen it before."

With barely a glance, too busy scooping porridge, Una replied, "Crocodile."

Tristan nearly choked, then glanced at his eggs dearly hoping that they came from a chicken. He met his father's reproving gaze, then continued to chew, trying to taste without squirming – and found that it was, in fact, fairly good meat. He swallowed. "So, uh, Mother?" he asked. "What are we doing today?"

"I should think that's up to you, Tristan," she replied softly, carefully. "We could continue our journey immediately, or delay here in Hop for a few hours."

"And make sure everyone has seen us?" he asked with a knowing smile. Una, feeling immensely relieved and scolding herself for it, smiled back and shrugged.

"It wouldn't hurt," she admitted, "and there's a lot I want to show you. I don't know the families of this town anymore, but the market is quite good and I thought you might like to have some more good clothes. Other than your English fashions, I mean," she added quickly, glancing at Dunstan.

Dunstan said nothing and Tristan shrugged, his smile fixed. He was about as interested in clothes as most other young men would be, but tried hard to seem enthusiastic. "If you think I need it," he said lightly.

Una's smile shrank a little. "What you have is fine, Tristan. I just thought you might like it."

There was a brief pause. Then Tristan said, "I really don't know, I've never been shopping like that. It sounds like fun."

If Dunstan was at all embarrassed by this admission, he didn't show it; his parents never had the money for extra garments when he was a boy, either. "Perhaps you could show us around?" he asked.

Una smiled. "I'd like that."

They set off quickly, thanking the flustered staff and paying them handsomely, despite protests. A small crowd of onlookers followed a few paces behind all day, restrained by soldiers, but once the family learned to ignore them they had quite a nice time.

Tristan really wasn't interested in buying clothes and Una made no fuss about it. She led them around the market, quietly answering any questions they had about the many enchanted tools and products. Though Market Town had been full of magical wares, Tristan was amazed to learn just how many ordinary-looking things weren't ordinary at all; for one, the plain woven baskets he had ignored after a single glance turned out to be almost bottomless, able to hold far more than their outward size implied. Dunstan was fascinated, examining one hard, hand-sized wicker box for nearly ten minutes, putting everything from his watch to his arm inside it, trying to determine its limits – for, he insisted, even magic had to have some logical rules.

"There is a way to calculate it," Una said quietly as they walked back outside, "but it depends a lot on the warlock who cast the original spell and the magical density of the plant it was made from."

Dunstan just shook his head in almost childish awe, a grin in the corner of his mouth and his new basket tucked protectively under one arm. Una walked beside him and smiled.

Despite the vast selection and their heavy coin purse, the four of them actually bought very little; Una found an enchanted comb to lengthen her hair and bought a map of the country with which to teach Tristan, as well as some little items that were minor necessities – soaps and such. Dunstan was content with his basket and kept opening it to see all their new possessions somehow fitting into the tiny space while Yvaine looked around happily, the thought of actually owning any of these things meaning little to her compared to the experience of seeing and touching them.

There was one shop, though, that took her in completely. It was one of those quiet places, with walls draped in heavy green fabric and everything dusted to give a feel of age and respectful elegance – not, Tristan thought, that it needed much help. The entire room was filled with delicate crystal trinkets, many of them wind chimes and many more chiming anyway. Small, scattered tables were covered with the fragile objects, and Yvaine's eye was caught by the tiny statue of a sleeping cat.

She might have passed it by, even missed it entirely, if the little white creature hadn't chosen that very moment to wake up and stretch, blinking at the star with huge green eyes before lifting a small paw to tap her finger.

Yvaine melted, delightfully picking up the cat and lifting it to her face, running a careful finger over its back of clear crystal beads. It sat in her palm, tail wrapped neatly around its paws, and looked up pleadingly, a little tongue of pink stone flicking out to brush Yvaine's nose.

It was the lick that did it. The people watching her – Tristan, Dunstan, Una and an ecstatic shopkeeper – knew the moment she looked up that the little cat was hers. The price, while steep, was insignificant.

"So what does it do?" asked Tristan as they returned to the sunny street, Yvaine still cuddling her pet.

"Nothing," said Una with a slight, fond shake of her head. "Nothing useful, anyway. These sorts of things are just ornaments, entertainment for the wealthy." Yvaine, quite literally beaming, didn't seem to care. Una just smiled and gave her the practical details. "It will stay within a handspan of anywhere you put it, whether that's a table or in a box. Usually they 'sleep' when no one is around – not real sleep, though; it just mimics life."

"That's all right," Yvaine said cheerfully, and her glowing hands made the little cat sparkle. "I'm not sure a real animal would like me very much; Selena said that at first she scared them, because we don't smell like real Earth creatures."

Una nodded absently, having heard that part of the legend long ago. Her attention was fixed on her son, who was peeking at Yvaine's cupped hands with a wide smile. "You had a cat once, didn't you, Tristan?"

He looked up with some surprise and nodded; she seemed very proud to know about it. "When I was little," he confirmed, smiling. "Her name was Spot."

"Spot?"

Tristan shrugged, slightly embarrassed by Yvaine's tone. "She was all grey except for a white spot on her ear. I was eight," he defended, "it made sense."

The star laughed kindly and Dunstan chuckled, patting his son's shoulder. He looked at Una, who was ridiculously delighted by this conversation and asked, "Did you ever have a pet?"

"Not cats or dogs, no," she replied. "Septimus had a kitten, when he was very small–" she broke off, remembering her father's firm decree that Princes of Stormhold did not own anything cute or fluffy, no matter how sharp its claws were. Septimus, true to form, had been trying to train it as an assassin. Shaking her head and pushing the thought aside she explained, "We had different sorts of pets; some types of animals are considered more appropriate for the nobility."

"Like what?" asked Tristan.

Una opened her mouth to answer, then paused and smiled. She pointed ahead to a jumble of pens and cages, where people in somewhat worn farming clothes spoke enthusiastically to anyone who stopped to listen. Funny trumpeting sounds came from inside the pens, and as they approached, Una's family found themselves facing an assortment of miniature elephants.

Tristan gaped, turning to his father with a delighted, incredulous stare. Dunstan, who'd had a brief glimpse of such creatures once before, now bent over to see them properly, awed as he took in the little gold spheres that tipped their tusks and the detail of the embroidered red cloth covering their backs. He looked up at Una with wide-eyed fascination.

She smiled. "I take it you like them?"

"This is amazing."

Una laughed freely, sharing a glance with Yvaine and pleased to no end by their reactions. "We call them oliaphs; they're bred almost exclusively to be pets for noblemen." She shrugged. "It's fashion."

Tristan, his face bright with enthusiasm, nearly pounced on her to ask, "But where do they come from?"

She kept smiling widely, squeezing his hand and delighting in the contact. "I'm not sure. They've been in Stormhold for centuries, but we've bred them for so long that no one is sure where they lived naturally. Is there something similar in England?"

"Not England itself," said Tristan, crouching in front of the pens to watch the little creatures. "There are much bigger ones in other parts of the world, though."

He was grinning widely, reaching out to a gap in the fence where one oliaph was watching him with clever dark eyes. It poked its trunk through the gap to touch Tristan's hand in greeting. Both his parents had to cover or suppress potentially embarrassing fond smiles. "Would you like to have one?" his mother asked, half serious. Tristan shook his head.

"No," he said lightly, letting the affectionate creature wrap its trunk around his wrist. "No, this is enough."

At last Oltran approached, politely noting that Her Majesty had said they would depart at noon, which had passed quite some time ago. They accepted this easily and returned to the town gate, Yvaine still blissfully cuddling her cat, but this time the four of them climbed into their carriage with no sense of routine or reluctance – they were talking and laughing, making for such a pleasant sight that the townsfolk felt free to wave and call greetings, which were returned with dignified cheer.

Prince Tristan left a good impression on the people of Hop.

Author's notes: The name "oliaph" is a play on "oliphant" – it was actually just a filler name I used while writing, but it stuck. I didn't realise that the little elephants in the movie had two heads until after I wrote this. Oops.