Work Text:
Brendon was in trouble again.
He didn't mean to be. He had been trying, he really had. Even though it was summer and the oppressive heat was making him long to play his pipes in the cool shade by the river, he'd agreed to work as a clerk for his father. Everyone in town may have dismissed him as the youngest of his too-large family, but he could be just as respectable as the rest of them. It was just that, as he'd been copying out contracts in his very neatest copperplate hand that morning, his mind had drifted to the birdsong wafting in the window on a teasingly cool breeze and he'd been struck with inspiration. He hadn't meant to write out the notation on the deed of sale for Mr. White's farm, hadn't even known he was writing it down at all.
"Brendon. Brendon! Are you even listening to me?"
Brendon quickly glanced up at his father. "Yes, father," he said.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself? Brendon, you promised you'd try to focus and work hard if I gave you the clerk's position, but today you ruined hours of work with your daydreaming!" his father said.
Brendon couldn't meet his father's eyes, and his stomach ached with the weight of his disappointment. He hated this. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again," he said. His father just sighed, a giant, heaving sigh full of all the admonishments left undelivered. He didn't need to say them--Brendon knew them all by heart. He always seemed to let his family down.
There would be no inheritance waiting for when Brendon reached his majority. It had all been parceled out to his elder brothers before he was born, with some set aside for his sisters' dowries. But Brendon didn't care that he'd need to make his own way in the world; all he wanted was the opportunity to learn and perform music, whether it was the symphonies he read about in the newspaper and longed to hear or the bawdy songs the minstrels brought to town. He figured he could do that even if he didn't have any land or money from his parents, although money would certainly have made it easier. All he wanted from his parents was their blessing.
When Brendon was younger, his father hadn't seemed to care that he would run off to see the minstrels as soon as he caught a glimpse of their motley colors. But lately--ever since he'd made the mistake of saying he'd like to travel with one of the troupes some day--Brendon had been forbidden to go see them; and his father scowled whenever he saw Brendon piping a tune or humming anything that didn't appear in one of the church's two meager hymnals. His father wanted him to learn a respectable trade, get married young, and settle nearby. He'd never allow Brendon to become a musician.
That night, he stared at his darkened ceiling and waited to fall asleep. It wasn't the weather keeping him up. The days had been stifling, but the nights were still cool and breezy. He just couldn't stop thinking; about a song he'd written the other day, about a review of the Royal Orchestra he'd read in the paper, about the tasks he needed to complete the next day. But his thoughts always circled back to his future. He wanted to be a musician; his parents would never allow him to do so. He kept trying to come up with some sort of compromise, a way to make his family proud and still stay true to himself. He couldn't see a way through the tangles. Brendon shifted restlessly, disgusted with himself. He let his eyes drop shut and eventually drifted off to sleep some hazy time after the watchman called the twelfth hour.
He dreamt.
He was in the middle of a forest, under the grandest oak tree he'd ever seen. Its boughs snarled and wove, bending so low that they almost touched the ground. The leaves moved, but he couldn't feel any wind. It was silent--no squirrels chattering away, no mysterious rustling in the brush, no birds singing. Only stillness, and Brendon's breath to break it.
At first, it was so quiet he didn't hear it. It wound together with the movement of the leaves and the dappling of the sun through the tree branches. But then it was everywhere, overwhelming: the most beautiful song he'd ever heard. Brendon spun in a circle, trying to spot the source.
"Hey!" someone called from behind his back, and Brendon almost tripped, he turned around so fast. There was a man sitting on the lowest bough of the nearest tree.
He hadn't been there earlier. Brendon would have noticed.
The stranger was wearing trousers that were shamefully tight and looked to be cloth-of-gold with a vest made entirely of flowers. He wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Brendon tried not to stare, but his arms were so long, and skinny, and pale. He'd never before seen their like. And then there were the scarves, which were so numerous they almost made up for the lack of a shirt. He wore at least four, all in fabrics too fine for Brendon to name. His fingers itched to touch them, to see if they were as soft and smooth as they looked, but he didn't dare.
"You know, in most societies it's considered rude to stare. Were you raised by wolves? That might explain it--no, wait, wolves stare as a means of asserting dominance. So you must have been dropped on your head as a child, then," the man said.
Brendon stared at him, shocked silent by the blatant rudeness.
"Um," he managed to reply, and immediately felt the blush rise to his cheeks as he berated himself for sounding like the yokel the stranger thought he was. He tried again. "You're in my dream."
"Am I? I hadn't noticed," the man drawled. "You must be Brendon Urie."
"I am," Brendon said. "Who are you?"
"I," he said, jumping down from his perch and inclining his head in the barest hint of a bow, "am Ryan Ross."
"Pleased to meet you," Brendon said automatically. "But, um. Why are you here? My dreams are never like this."
Ryan smiled. It made him look like a little boy who had been given an unexpected sweet. "Go to the city, and there you shall marry a prince," he said, and disappeared.
Brendon stared at the place he'd been standing. The leaves were undisturbed.
"But I don't want to marry a prince," he said plaintively. There was no one there to hear him.
Breakfast in the Urie household was not an informal affair. Brendon had always been taught that sloth was a sin, and sleeping past sunrise was not tolerated. The entire family was expected to meet downstairs for breakfast groomed and prepared for the day. The night after Brendon dreamed about Ryan Ross was no exception.
He would never have brought the dream up if it hadn't been so silent. Brendon couldn't abide by silence, especially not the stiff, awkward kind that so often occurred at home. It drove him crazy--or, in this case, to say silly, frivolous things which would only get him scolded.
"I had a very strange dream last night," he started. His mother looked up from her plate.
"Oh? What was it about?" she asked.
"Well, I was in a forest, and this weirdly dressed man appeared out of nowhere. At first he was rude, but then he got all cryptic and said that if I went to the city I'd marry the prince. And then he just disappeared," Brendon said.
His father and mother exchanged a glance. "Brendon, I wish you wouldn't come up with tales like that," his mother said.
"Mom, it was just a weird dream," Brendon protested, "I don't think I'm destined to marry some rich guy or anything. I'm ready to work hard for what I want. In fact, I saw an advertisement asking for someone to play at a wedding at the market the other day, and I thought I'd apply."
"Music is not an acceptable career, Brendon. We've been over this," his father said. "Now finish your breakfast so we can start today's work."
On Thursday Brendon was sent to the market to buy a ham for dinner. The market was bustling with noontime traffic, but even taking that into account there was an abnormally large crowd around the fountain. Instead of heading straight to the butcher, Brendon stopped where he was and craned his head to try and see what was going on. Then he heard the opening bars of a song, and the first rolling chords of guitar reeled him in until he'd edged far enough through the crowd to see a brightly-painted wagon. The minstrels were back.
He'd need to get closer if he wanted to learn the song. He kept pushing forward until he was at the front of the crowd and could see how the guitarist fingered the chords. He'd need to write it out when he got home so he wouldn't forget before he had a chance to try it out.
He stayed for the rest of the set and almost forgot about the ham.
Dinner that night was painful. His father had obviously heard something about the market--and just how, Brendon would love to know. His jaw hardly unclenched enough to eat, and he wouldn't look at Brendon. His mother tried to make up for it, sending strained smiles all around the table as she chattered about the county's recent marriages and births. Brendon's head ached. He stared at his plate, watching the little blue people his eldest sister had painted on the stoneware appear and disappear as he pushed his food around with the back of his fork. He wished she was there--Mary had always tolerated him, even when he got too excited about chords and arrangements--but she'd married Peter Randall last spring and moved into his family's home in Baron's Glen.
"Brendon. Go wait in the parlor if you're done with your dinner. We need to speak," his father said gruffly, interrupting Brendon's daydreaming.
Brendon looked at his plate for a moment as he considered his headache. He wasn't very hungry. "Yes, sir," he said. He hoped his father would finish soon. All of the chairs in the parlor were uncomfortable.
He had been sitting in the parlor for almost an hour by the time his father came in. He had heard his parents arguing after he left, but hadn't been able to make out exactly what they were fighting over.
His father looked...strange. It was normally easy for Brendon to read his mood, but his face was blank and closed off now. Brendon rubbed at his temples. This wasn't going to go well.
"Brendon," his father started. "Your mother and I have been talking, and. Well, Brendon, we just don't know what to do anymore." Brendon stared at the floorboards. The one by his right foot was cracked, and the crack looked like a fairy's smile. Crooked but big. If he could just focus on the smile the scolding would pass faster.
"I've tried to give you chances, I really have. If you just applied yourself more, Brendon, I'm sure Thomas would hire you. If you would just concentrate. But all you seem to care about is that music of yours."
"I try, father, I really do. It's just that--" Brendon started. His father just talked over him.
"And that wedding advertisement! Brendon, music isn't a career fit for someone of your station. You'd be much better off if you just settled down. But we're too lax with you, we always have been. We never should have let you hang around those minstrels. They've clearly been a bad influence," his father continued. "We're sending you to the Bishop at Middleden to become a vicar. Maybe then you'll finally drag your head your head out of the clouds and do this family credit."
Brendon sat in shock. They were sending him away? He struggled to maintain his composure--his father hated emotional scenes, and the last thing Brendon wanted to do was make this worse. "Who will serve as your clerk?" he asked, grasping for something to let him stay.
"That is really the least of my worries," his father said dryly. "The Bishop said he'd send someone to pick you up next Thursday. You have until then to say goodbye to your friends and pack your things."
Brendon didn't have any friends in Summerlin--he'd thought his father knew that. "What about my instruments? May I take those?" he asked.
"You won't need them. The Bishop has plenty of hymnals, and that's the only music you'll need to worry about," his father said.
Only hymns. No more minstrels, no more bawdy songs sung by the blacksmith as he worked. No more piping by the river. Brendon's chest felt strange, pulled tight and hollow like a drum head.
"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"
"Yes. Brendon--" his father paused. "You know we only want what's best for you."
"I do, father. I think...I'm going to go pack now."
His father watched him go in silence.
Brendon decided he would leave that night as he stood by his window staring out into the dark. He would never be able to just sit and play again if he went into the clergy. He couldn't live like that. He'd go to the city and seek his fortune there. If he could just get a job and save up for a guitar...with a proper instrument he'd be able to perform and make a name for himself. And maybe he could find a teacher there, learn new songs and techniques. As he drifted into sleep his mind raced with plans for the next morning. How could he possibly explain to his parents?
He dreamt of the oak clearing again. This time, Ryan Ross was seated at the base of the trunk, legs folded beneath him. He appeared to be sleeping.
Brendon approached cautiously. No one who wore vests made of flowers could be entirely safe.
"I hope you aren't trying to sneak up on me," Ryan said without opening his eyes. If Brendon had been, he's certainly failed now. He's sure his shout of surprise would have cleared the area of birds, had there been any birds to begin with.
"I wasn't. Why am I dreaming of you again?"
"I told you. Go to the city, and there you shall marry a prince," Ryan replied.
"Yes, I know. But you left before I could tell you--I don't really want to marry a prince. Marrying a prince would mean papers and politics. I've had enough of papers, and I don't have the slightest clue about politics. I just want to play music," he said.
Ryan sighed and opened his eyes. "And what makes you think those things are mutually exclusive?" he asked.
"What makes you think I can attract a prince?" Brendon said, "or even that I would want to?" Ryan just looked at him. "Or, fine, OK, say I go to the city. How am I supposed to even meet the prince? I think you're crazy. And a figment of my imagination. This is just a weird dream, that's all."
Ryan scoffed. "Sure, OK. Just stay here forever and watch all your dreams turn to ash with time. Never see the orchestra, or a court ball, never learn how to play anything other than hymns and country songs. Never fall in love. Suit yourself, but I wash my hands of you." He shook his head in disgust. "You just can't help some people," he muttered, and turned away.
His words stung, and Brendon wanted to prove him wrong, prove that he wasn't hopeless. "Wait!" he called. "Just--wait. I'm leaving, tomorrow. Going to the city. I just...I don't want to marry someone just because they're rich, or important, or because some crazy person in a dream tells me to. I'm leaving, but not for that. For music. But I am leaving."
Ryan turned back around and smiled. "I guess that's good enough for now. Safe journey."
Brendon blinked, and Ryan was gone.
Brendon woke with a start the next morning. The sun was shining on his face, which meant he'd missed breakfast. He dressed in a rush and grabbed his bag. He needed to catch his father before he left for work. He couldn't stay, and he knew he'd always be a disappointment to them, but he wanted to at least say goodbye.
He made it just in time. His father was standing by the door talking to his mother as he rushed down the stairs.
"Brendon, don't run down the stairs! I swear, some day you'll trip and kill yourself," his mother said.
"Sorry, mother," he said automatically, reaching the bottom of the staircase. "Um. I need to talk to you both."
"Brendon, if this is about Middleden, our decision is final," his father said.
"Well, yes, it is about Middleden. I don't want to be a vicar. I would be a horrible vicar, father, and you know it. I just want to play music. It's all I've ever wanted," he said.
"Brendon, we've been over this. The Bishop has been very kind to consider you--you're much younger than the students he usually takes," his father said.
"Father," Brendon said. "I'm not going. I can't, father. So I'm going to the city," he said, and ignored his mother's gasp. "I'm going to become a musician, and you won't have to worry about what everyone thinks. I love you," he said, "and I'll write. Goodbye."
He turned to his mother and hugged her. She stayed stiff in his embrace, and after a moment he reluctantly let go. Brendon nodded at his father. "Goodbye, father," he said. His father didn't return the gesture. Brendon took a deep breath and stepped past them and out the door.
The sun was too bright. He found himself blinking back tears in its glare as he walked toward the city.
Life there would be amazing, he told himself. He would be able to perform whenever he wanted, whatever he wanted. He clung to that as he walked out of Summerlin proper, and out through the fields. Soon enough he was farther from home than he'd ever been. He kept walking.
It wasn't a beautiful day, but it was fine enough for his journey. The sun was hidden behind the clouds more often than not, but he wasn't cold, and it wasn't raining. Brendon decided to count his blessings and enjoy the trip. He passed farmers and families, people old and young. A merchant let him ride part of the way in his cart, and Brendon repaid him by singing to pass the time. When they parted ways the merchant said he'd do well in the city if he always sang like that. Brendon thanked him and waved before continuing on his way.
As he drew closer to the city, the road grew both wider and more crowded. Soon Brendon was just one person in a steady stream of people. No one here knew him or anything about his life in Summerlin. He could have a fresh start. The pall that had been hanging over his mood since he'd left that morning started to lift.
Brendon heard music moments after he passed through the city gates, which seemed like a good omen. It was a fast, jaunty tune, the sort meant for dancing. The sort he had never have been able to play back home. His feet did a little jig entirely without his permission--dancing! in public!--and after that it seemed a small thing to follow the tune to its source. He found himself outside of a drinking establishment with a sign proclaiming it the Harp and Horn and hesitated. His father had once threatened to beat him if he ever heard that Brendon had been in the pub at home, and his father was not a violent man. Brendon just wanted to hear the music, though, and surely music couldn't do him any harm. He just needed to stay away from the drink and bad influences, and everything would be fine.
When Brendon opened the door of the pub he was confronted with a veritable wall of noise. There was the music, yes, but also the clamor of dancing, and people talking loudly and shouting at each other. The room seemed filled to overflowing with people. Brendon scanned the crowd for the musician and found him set up in front of the hearth, near the area cleared for dancing. He spotted an open spot at a bench near the guitarist, where he could probably see well enough to learn the song, and hurried toward it. Maybe he could talk to the guitarist between songs, ask if there was any place an aspiring musician could go for work.
Brendon sat and reveled in the music. He was so engrossed in following the guitarist's hands as they moved along the strings that he didn't notice the man sitting beside him until he had swung an arm over Brendon's shoulder. Brendon turned to him, about to tell him off for his familiarity, but the stranger's grin stopped him. There was something manic about his smile, and Brendon was confronted with the realization that he was not in quiet little Summerlin anymore. He cleared his throat.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Why, I was just wondering what a beautiful boy like yourself was doing all alone in a place like this," the man said, teeth still bared in a smile that made Brendon think of rabid dogs. "And some of us were wondering why you were staring at our friend Patrick over there. I felt it only kind to warn you that although he may look soft, he has the meanest kick outside of his majesty's stables."
Brendon stared at him, taken aback. "I'm just here for the music," he said. "He's really good, and I haven't heard this song before. I was hoping to learn it."
The man laughed at him, a hoarse guffaw that made Brendon flush with embarrassment. "You haven't heard this one before? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously," Brendon said. "I just got here today. Where I'm from...well, we really only have hymns. And this is definitely not a hymn."
"You're right about that. You're from out of town?" The man looked Brendon up and down. "Are you a farmer? You should come work for me, I need an assistant."
Brendon was a little baffled by the sudden change of attitude and subject. "I'm not a farmer," he said. "Also, I don't even know your name. And you don't know mine."
"But you've lived around farms, right? You're not from the city. You said you just got here. I'm Pete," the man said. "Who're you? Tell me your name, and then we'll be acquaintances."
"I'm Brendon. My father's a lawyer, I've only ever lived in a town. I've never farmed anything in my life," Brendon said. It seemed important to be clear.
Pete nodded. "So I was right, you're not from the city. Great! Like I said, I need an assistant. I'm a gardener," he said, as though that explained everything. "I'm head gardener, actually, at the palace, and you like music, and you aren't from the city. You'll fit right in. Say yes."
Brendon wondered if this was what his parents had meant when they warned him about the crazy people who lived in the city. Pete was obviously touched in the head. On the other hand, he hadn't expected to get work so quickly, and Pete had mentioned music. He took the bait.
"What does music have to do with gardening?" he asked.
"Well, for one," Pete said, "it makes the plants happier. But more importantly for you, Patrick is the head cook. He also likes to indulge me, and I like you. He'd totally teach you some new songs if I asked nicely."
"And will you?" Brendon asked. Pete grinned.
"Of course. Do you want the job?"
Brendon hesitated and looked at Patrick again. He was wholly absorbed in the song, bobbing his head in time with the music. Brendon looked back at Pete. "Yes," he said with determination, "yes, I do."
They stayed at the pub until Patrick had finished three sets of dancing. Pete had confided to Brendon that Patrick loved to perform, but could only play here once a week. His job at the castle kept him too busy otherwise--as head cook he often worked from pre-dawn to late in the night.
Pete introduced them after Patrick finished. "Patrick, this is Brendon. He was a farmer, but now he's my new assistant."
Patrick glanced at Brendon's clothing. He waited until Pete was a few feet in front of them before turning back to him and saying, "You're not actually a farmer, are you?"
"No, not in the slightest. My father's the town lawyer," Brendon said, and shrugged. "I told him that, but..."
"He just wouldn't listen to you?" Patrick finished. "That's very like Pete. Have you ever taken care of a plant before?"
"I helped my mother in the garden a few times," Brendon said uncertainly. "None of the plants I cared for died. I don't think."
Patrick smiled grimly. "That will have to be good enough. Once he's decided he wants something, it's impossible to change his mind, and he's decided he wants you to be his assistant." Patrick sped up enough that he was walking beside Pete, and Brendon spent the rest of the walk to the palace thinking that if everyone in the city was like Patrick and Pete, it was no wonder people back home thought it was a horrible place. They refused to abide by any of the social rules Brendon had been raised with.
He was pretty sure they would make amazing friends.
Pete gave him dinner, a uniform, and a room, and sent him to bed with instructions to be awake and prepared to work at dawn tomorrow. The rest of the night passed all too fast, and then Brendon was waiting for Pete to show up and instruct him in his new duties.
His stomach growled as he waited and he looked down in surprise. It was earlier than he normally woke up, and there was no call for him to be so hungry already. Pete appeared just as it growled again, more loudly this time, and laughed at him. When Brendon just looked at him in dismay he laughed again.
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it," he said. "Come on, I'll get you some breakfast and then we can start."
Brendon followed Pete through the maze of hallways and worried about how he would find his way back to his room. "How often do people get lost in here, do you think?" he asked.
"Oh, once or twice a week, I'd say," said Pete. "But don't you worry about that. We mostly work outside, all you really need to know in here is the kitchen and your room. You can enter the gardens through the kitchen, even, so you don't have to worry about finding another exit."
Brendon wasn't sure how he felt about not knowing his way around his own home, but he'd already learned it was a wasted effort to say so to Pete.
"And what about the music? You promised me music lessons," he said.
"I am personally amazed you can think about that this early. We haven't even had breakfast yet, seriously. You and Patrick and your one-track minds," Pete said. "We meet about once a week to just play and relax. That will be in the kitchen. Anything else you'll need to work out with Patrick."
By then they had reached the kitchen doors. "Prepare yourself," Pete said before flinging the doors open. The kitchen was a madhouse, with people rushing about everywhere at once. Brendon would have paused in the doorway but Pete just kept going, and he hurried to keep up. He certainly had no idea what was going on.
"We eat three times a day. Breakfast in here, lunch in the garden, dinner in the servant's hall. You'll get used to it. Hey, Alex!" he said, grabbing a boy who was rushing past. "What do you have for me today?"
"Morning, Pete, but I really need to go flip the bacon. Ask someone else!" the boy said before jerking away and running to a stove. Pete did just that, hailing someone with the curliest hair Brendon had ever seen. He seemed marginally less busy than Alex had been.
"Alex!" he said, and turned to Brendon. "This is Alex, too. Alex, Brendon. He's my new assistant. What's for breakfast?" he asked.
"Pleasure to meet you," Alex said to Brendon. "We've got bacon and eggs and biscuits and tomatoes, and coffee if you're willing to fight Gerard for it. And oats."
"There are always oats, I hate oats. And Gerard needs to learn how to share," Pete said petulantly. "We'll have some of everything, and extra for Brendon. He's a growing boy, and has no doubt endured starvation in his hard country childhood."
"My father was a lawyer. We had plenty of bacon and biscuits," Brendon told Alex. Alex nodded sympathetically and dashed off. Brendon hoped he was going to get them food. His stomach loudly agreed.
After breakfast--"Pete, seriously, I'm not a farmer"--they went out to the gardens.
"It's pretty simple, really," Pete said. "We plant, prune, and water, and hope nothing dies. We don't touch the kitchen gardens, Patrick has people for that. We are strictly ornamental," he said, and leered at Brendon. Brendon just rolled his eyes. He was getting used to Pete.
"First up, we have the roses. Roses are persnickety fucks, but that's OK, because I'm a stubborn myself. We have come to a sort of agreement. They don't get sick, and I don't try to make them bloom out of season. It works very well for us."
Brendon knew gardening would be a long, hard day of work, but it was already far more interesting than copying legal documents.
Brendon had been at the palace for a week when he first heard the story. It probably would have been longer, because people didn't seem to like to talk about it, but he overheard two of the manservants on his way to the kitchen. He recognized one of them--Pete had pointed him out as a horrible gossip. Brendon was pretty sure his name was Stephen.
"They say he goes through a pair a night. Can you believe that? Each pair must cost more than I make in a year, and he's going through one a night. They say no one knows how it happens, either. The shoes are pristine when he goes to bed and all torn up in the morning. The king tried locking him in and placing a guard, but it's no use. And no one hears anything going on in the room, and the guard swears he was there all night. It's seriously freaky--like we've got our own ghost story!" Stephen said.
"Yeah, except it's the prince. I don't think he should be involved in ghost stories if he's going to inherit. And what if it's a demon, or if he's cursed? We'll all be in trouble then," said the other one.
Brendon kept walking, and resolved to ask Pete about it later.
He was in the oak clearing again, and he sort of wondered why. He'd gone to the city, he'd gone to the palace. He's learning new songs and new instruments, and, most importantly, there had been no sign of the prince. Brendon is glad for that. He still didn't want to marry some stranger for his money. He looked around for Ryan. If he was here to receive more cryptic messages, he at least wanted to get it over with. He had to get up earlier as a gardener than he ever had at home, and these dreams were never restful.
He spotted Ryan over to the side of the clearing this time, his back to Brendon.
"What now?" he demanded. Ryan ignored him and continued inspecting the bush he was standing beside.
Brendon stalked over to him. "Seriously, if you could just tell me what's going on so I can leave, that would be great," he said, stopping beside him.
"Do you know what sort of plant this is? Since you're a gardener and all," Ryan asked.
Brendon barely glanced at the bush before he said, "No, I have no clue. What is this about, Ryan? I already told you I didn't want to marry the prince. I haven't even seen him, anyway, and I've been here at the palace for weeks."
"It's a mountain laurel. They're not actually laurels, but they have really pretty flowers," Ryan said. "And that one?" he asked, pointing to a plant behind the mountain laurel. It looked pretty much the same to Brendon. The leaves were maybe a little thinner, a little longer. He sighed--it was obvious that Ryan wouldn't tell him why he was there unless he played along.
"I have no clue. What is it?" he said.
"It's oleander--you know, rose laurel?" Ryan said. Brendon just raised his eyebrows. "Fine, you're the most clueless gardener ever to garden, I get it. Well, rose laurel's not really a laurel either," Ryan said.
He suddenly had hold of two smaller versions of the bushes. "Take these," he said, shoving them at Brendon, who mostly just grabbed them so they wouldn't fall and break.
"OK, good. Plant those in two pots in the garden, OK? And then take these," and he produced a bunch of gardening tools and waved them at Brendon, "and you need to use the rake and the bucket and the towel only on the laurels. When they're as tall as you are you need to say 'Beautiful laurel, with this golden rake I have raked you, with this golden bucket I have watered you, and with this silken towel I have wiped you,' and then ask for anything you want, and the laurels will give it to you."
"I thought you said they weren't really laurels," Brendon said. Ryan glared at him.
"It's magic. It doesn't matter if they're actually laurels, only that they're perceived as laurels," he said.
Brendon shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I still don't get why I'm here. I don't really need magic plants to be a musician."
"Just take them!" Ryan said. Brendon did, and Ryan once again disappeared.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," Brendon muttered. It was the last thing he remembered before he woke up.
When Brendon saw the laurels at the foot of his bed, he just groaned and pulled the pillow over his face. Why couldn't the crazy fairy man just leave him alone? He finally had the chance to play whatever music he wanted, whenever he wanted. He did not need this magic stuff messing with that. He let himself wallow in self-pity for five minutes before dragging himself out of bed and the laurels down to the garden. He couldn't just leave them to die.
It quickly became clear to everyone that the laurels were magic. They were as tall as Brendon within a week, just in time for Pete to ask him to make bouquets for the royals.
"How many should I make? There are two princesses, right?" Brendon asked.
Pete got a wicked glint in his eye, the sort that Brendon had learned to distrust within his first day. "Oh, three. That way each of the king's children gets one," he said. Brendon stared at him, suspicious.
"Why does the prince need a bouquet?" he asked.
Pete shrugged. "Don't ask me. He likes flowers, though. Haven't you seen him around?"
Brendon hadn't, but he decided it would be more trouble than it was worth to argue with Pete. He would just make the bouquets--how bad could it be?
He took his time, assembling the flowers with care. This seemed more important than pruning rose bushes no one paid any attention to. If someone made him a bouquet, he would want them to put some thought into it.
He gathered roses and baby's breath and then he paused in front of the laurels. They weren't exactly traditional for bouquets, but...well, they were magic. And, he thought, staring at the plants, they just happened to be budding.
"Ross, I swear, if this is your idea of a joke, I will--" he started, and then abruptly stopped. What would he do, exactly? He hadn't dreamt of the oak tree since Ryan gave him the laurels.
Brendon cut sprigs from each for the bouquets, and set about tying them together.
He was going to kill Pete, he really was. Just as soon as the prince stopped glaring at him
"What is this?" he asked Brendon. He was frowning at the bouquet like it had insulted his mother. Brendon could feel his cheeks heating up, but he couldn't tell if the blush was caused by anger or embarrassment. He figured it was probably equal parts of each.
"It's a bouquet, your highness," he said. Why had Pete thought this would be funny? It wasn't. It was horrible. The princesses had loved their flowers, but the prince was an entirely different story.
"A bouquet. Do I look like I need a bouquet?" the prince said. The courtiers surrounding him all laughed, and Brendon wished he could just disappear. This was worse than anything that had happened in Summerlin. This was the prince mad at him, nobles laughing, not just the baker's son and his friends.
"I don't know, your highness," Brendon said, and immediately felt like kicking himself. It had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
"You don't know?" Prince Spencer asked, eyes flashing with annoyance. Or maybe it was anger. Brendon wasn't sure, he hadn't exactly faced down royalty before. He hoped it was just annoyance.
"I mean. I mean, you don't look like you need one, no," Brendon said, backpedaling. "I just thought you might like one. The, uh, the mountain laurel matches your belt." It even had the benefit of being true, thank God. The prince was wearing a pink sash--and he was asking if it looked like he needed a bouquet, seriously--and the roses and the ring of color in the middle of the laurels matched it exactly. The prince stared at him, eyes narrowed.
"In the future, please limit yourself to making bouquets for my sisters--and perhaps any dalliances you manage to attract," he said, and turned back to his friends, bouquet lying forgotten on the table beside him. Brendon knew when to take a hint. He left, already planning how to get back at Pete.
The next day Brendon found himself cursing Pete again. He had never even seen Prince Spencer before yesterday, which was totally Pete's fault, and here he was, faced with the prince's scowl again, the very next day. And this time was Pete's fault, too.
Brendon had been sent to get more burlap from the palace while Pete stayed out in the gardens and continued to work. The task hadn't seemed difficult when he set out, but he'd never been in the wing of the palace with the fabric stores before, and, thanks to Pete, he didn't know his way around the palace at all. So of course he got incredibly lost. He had finally resorted to opening the nearest door and looking inside, and had come face-to-face with an angry, shirtless prince.
"What do you think you're doing?" Prince Spencer hissed as he yanked his shirt on and started buttoning it. Part of Brendon--the part that wasn't mortified--mourned the loss of the view. "Don't you know how to knock, or were you never taught basic manners?"
"Sorry!" Brendon squeaked, and slammed the door shut again. Seriously, Pete was dead.
He ran into the prince again the next day. Brendon was getting really sick of seeing Prince Spencer. He never seemed to smile, and it was really hard for Brendon to get along with people who hated joy. He ignored the fact that Prince Spencer was very, very attractive. Plenty of people were attractive, and not all of them were jerks. He really hoped this wasn't the prince Ryan had been talking about--if it was, he really hoped Ryan had been delusional. (He would hope that Ryan had been a figment of his imagination, but there were the laurels.)
Brendon was in his own wing of the palace this time, not lost at all, minding his own business and carrying a pitcher of water outside for Pete. He may have been hurrying a little, but tonight was a music night, and the sooner they finished their work, the sooner he could play Patrick's guitar again.
He sped around the corner and immediately collided with someone else. The water in the pitcher, of course, spilled all over both of them. Brendon didn't even have to look up to know he'd run into Prince Spencer. He could so feel the icy stare, no matter what Alex said about crazy delusions. He slowly looked up.
He knew it. There was Prince Spencer, sopping wet and looking like a drowned cat. His glare was almost shocked this time. Brendon wondered if he should be proud of that--the prince seemed difficult to shock.
"Hello again, your highness," Brendon said, trying to remain cheerful in the face of certain doom. Somehow, he was sure, this could still all be blamed on Pete. He started to plan his defense for assaulting a peer of the realm.
"Hello," said the prince. "Do you ever manage to do anything right?" he asked.
This, Brendon felt, was going too far. "I do plenty of things right," he said. "Did you even look at that bouquet? It was fucking gorgeous."
The prince looked a little taken aback. Well, good, thought Brendon, it served him right. He was kind of sick of the prince being a dick when none of this was Brendon's fault.
"Now, I'm very sorry, but I really need to get more water. Pete could faint of dehydration, and then where would we be?" he said, and swept away. It made him feel a little better to have left the prince speechless for once.
That night Brendon poured all of his embarrassment and stress into the music so he could just forget it all and relax. He couldn't wait until he'd saved enough to buy his own guitar. It still didn't feel like enough, just playing Patrick's spare once a week. It was miles more music than he'd been able to play at home, of course, but not nearly as much as he wanted to, even though Pete let him sing all he wanted as they worked and he had some spare time each night to play his pipes. There could never be enough music for Brendon, though.
He'd just finished his second turn at the guitar and passed it to Frank when he saw him. The prince was standing in the hallway outside the kitchen, watching them. Brendon looked away, not wanting to alert anyone else to his presence. But he kept an eye out, sending glances the prince's way as he shook his tambourine and sang along.
The prince was smiling, and he was gorgeous. Brendon wished he would smile like that all the time. He almost seemed like someone Brendon could like when he smiled.
Over the next week Brendon continued to see the prince around, but he (thank God) stopped embarrassing himself in front of him. Instead, he saw the prince talking with his younger sisters, or helping one of the court children fly a kite, or curled up with one of the hunting dogs. It became obvious that the prince was a generally nice person, and that Brendon brought out the worst in him.
"Pete, I saw Kate from the laundry knock him over yesterday, and all he did was laugh and offer her a hand up. If I had done that I'd be in the dungeon right now!" he said one day in the rose garden.
"Brendon, Prince Spencer doesn't hate you. Now hand me the trowel," said Pete. Brendon glared at him, but handed the trowel over without saying anything further.
He tried to convince Patrick over dinner that night.
"Today I passed him in the hallway and he stared right through me. Which, OK, that's his prerogative as prince, but Pete was walking beside me and he got a wave and a smile."
Patrick shrugged. "Maybe he's shy or something. If he hated people just because they spilled things on him or gave him bouquets he would definitely not be smiling at Pete," he said. "Do you think the chicken needs more rosemary?"
Brendon scowled at his plate. If Spencer didn't hate him for any of those reasons, it meant he hated who Brendon was instead of the dumb things he'd done. Brendon could always apologize but he couldn't change himself.
"The chicken's fine, Patrick," he said, and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry tonight.
Prince Spencer, Brendon decided, looked absolutely exhausted. The shadows under his eyes had started to overwhelm his face, his hair lay limp and dull against his head, and his smile became strained. The rumor about Spencer's shoes was spreading, too. People were speaking about it openly instead of in whispers, wondering if the prince was just sneaking out to meet a lover or if he was possessed. Servants who worked near the king said he was furious with his son, ready to send him off to a cloister.
Brendon was worried about him, and felt ridiculous for it. Spencer hated him. And anyway, Brendon was just a gardener who could sing pretty well and strum a few songs. Before, it had never mattered that he wasn't particularly brave, and couldn't fight, and was sort of scrawny and not at all intimidating. He didn't need to be huge and brave to play the guitar, or to compose a song. But now Spencer needed someone who could be a hero, and that person was definitely not Brendon, and he kind of hated that.
The king seemed to agree about the need for a hero. He issued a proclamation throughout the kingdom saying that whoever figured out where Spencer went each night and what happened to his shoes would be awarded the prince's hand in marriage. Whoever failed, it said, would be put to death.
"Can you believe this?" he asked Pete and the Alexes over dinner a week later. "What if Spencer doesn't want to marry whichever arrogant asshole figures this out?" Brendon had run into one of the visiting princes earlier that day. It hadn't gone well--Pete had deemed his black eye "totally awesome, my tiny friend," which hadn't made Brendon feel any better. Being tiny was the only thing stopping him from helping Spencer.
"Brendon, he's the prince. He's pretty much stuck marrying an asshole no matter what happens. That, my friend, is politics," Pete said.
Patrick set his bowl down across from Brendon. "Why are we talking about politics? Brendon, I heard an awesome song in the market today, don't let me forget to teach it to you later," he said.
Pete got that horrible glint in his eye. "Brendon is pining over the prince. He thinks our royal guests aren't good enough for him."
Patrick frowned at his soup. "Well, they're not. Spencer's a pretty good guy, and he deserves better than the jerks we're getting with this challenge."
"Guys," Brendon mumbled, "please stop talking about this."
"Oh, don't worry about it, Brendon," Pete said. "Prince Spencer is smart. He won't marry anyone he doesn't want to marry. In fact," he said, his most manic grin spreading across his face, "you should accept the challenge. You can use your ridiculous bush--it must be good for something, right?--and rescue the prince, and then the two of you can live happily ever after."
Brendon choked on his water and started coughing so hard that the nearest Alex had to pound him on the back to get him to stop.
"I don't want to die, Pete, which is what will happen if I take up the challenge," he said, still gasping for breath. "And the prince hates me, in case you've forgotten."
"That's where you're wrong. Patrick, tell him how wrong he is," Pete said. Patrick looked pained.
"The prince doesn't hate you, Brendon. Haven't you noticed him at the music nights? I have. He stares at you, Brendon, it's honestly kind of creepy," Patrick said.
"But not as creepy as me, right, Spencer? I am always the first creeper in your heart."
"Yes, Pete, you're the creepiest," the table chorused.
The prince who hit Brendon was given three days and three nights to solve the mystery.
Brendon waited impatiently for the three days to pass, and it felt as though the entire palace was waiting with him. People loitered in the hallways and speculated on his chances in hushed voices. It really did feel as though there was a curse--what else could it be, to dim Spencer's smile to nothing?
The third night came, and the prince hadn't found anything. Spencer had destroyed three pairs of shoes, and his door had been locked every morning when the guard checked it. The prince said that he had slept through each night without hearing or seeing anything. The king has him beheaded.
People did their work diligently for the first time in three days. No one stopped to talk in the hallways; people hardly spoke at all. What had seemed like a fanciful diversion before was now horribly real. People were dying because Spencer disappeared each night after being locked in his room.
Brendon was thoroughly sick of the entire thing.
Brendon barely had a chance to recognize the clearing before Ryan was in his face.
"OK, I get it, you're sort of stupid. But how stupid can you get, really? Rescue Spencer. This shouldn't be that hard, even for you. What do I need to do, hold your hand? I can hold your fucking hand."
Brendon stumbled backward.
"Hey, Ryan, whoa. What are you talking about?" Brendon said.
Ryan growled, a low note in the back of his throat that was pure frustration. "Save. Spencer. I know all you want to do is play music, but surely even you can see how bad this will be for the kingdom if this continues?"
Brendon suddenly felt like crying, which was strange. Ryan was always like this. "I'm not a hero. I can't do anything, I'm just a gardener. Nothing special. Not that it would matter, all the heros are dying, too," he said. "I wish I could, Ryan, but I can't."
"Are you an idiot? Seriously, did I pick an idiot? Fuck," Ryan said. "Fuck. I gave you fucking magic bushes, Brendon, what do you mean you're just a gardener? Magic bushes! They're magic!"
"Ryan, it doesn't matter. I'm still me. I can't do it. I just can't, and if I try, they'll kill me," Brendon said.
Ryan's mouth was a straight, tight line as he glared at Brendon. He stared long enough that it became uncomfortable, long enough that Brendon started to shift his weight and wish he could just wake up.
"Fine," he finally said. "Fine. Be that way. Just, just ignore it, hope it goes away. And Spencer will waste away to nothing, and all the bright stars of the kingdom will volunteer and be executed. And then Spencer will die, and the kingdom will suffer ten years of drought and ten years of plague. And I hope you survive it all, so you can see what happens when you're a coward."
Brendon woke up, and wished Ryan's words hadn't sounded so much like a prophecy. He knew what he had to do either way, though. He couldn't stand to see Spencer lose any more weight, and Ryan had said that would happen. Spencer would die.
He went to ask for an audience with the king.
"Do you understand what you're doing, son?" the king asked. Brendon thought he should be offended by that--he doubted the king had asked the other hopefuls if they were sure, or called them "son." Then he thought that maybe he should be flattered. He realized the king was waiting for his answer.
"I understand, your majesty," he said. And he did. Patrick had tried to talk him out of it, even though he'd brought it up it in the first place. Pete had yelled. He hadn't waited around to hear what anyone else had to say, had just left early for the audience room instead. He supposed he was lucky that he had friends who cared, and wondered if they'd find a way to let his parents know if he died.
"Well, if you're sure," the king said, sounding dubious. Brendon decided he would be offended. Then the king did something he hadn't expected; he turned around and beckoned at someone in the hallway. "Spencer," he said, "come in and meet Brendon. He's going to stand guard tonight."
Brendon ducked his head in embarrassment. He hadn't spoken to Spencer since he'd spilled the water on him, had only watched him from a distance. He hoped Spencer didn't remember the water incident, but suspected that he would.
Spencer certainly recognized him. "Brendon?" he said, and Brendon couldn't help but look up. Spencer looked absolutely stricken. Of course he did, Brendon told himself. Who would want to be rescued by the gardener's assistant?
"Brendon, what are you doing? What does he mean, stand guard tonight? You're a gardener," Spencer said.
"Spencer, you know this man?" the king asked.
Spencer flushed. "I--yes, father. We're acquainted," he said.
"I see," said the king, and shot a knowing look at his son. "Well, Brendon, I wish you the best of luck," he said. "Someone will come for you after dinner tonight, and your time will start then."
Brendon bowed and left without meeting Spencer's eyes again.
That evening before dinner he went up to the laurels--the ridiculous not-actually-laurels that he sung to every day--and tried to remember what Ryan had told him to say.
"Um. Beautiful laurels, with this golden rake I have raked you, with this golden bucket I have watered you, with this silken towel I have wiped you. Um. If you could please give me something to keep me from being seen tonight, that would be amazing," he said.
One of the buds on the mountain laurel opened, and Brendon stared at it. "I really hope this works," he muttered, and plucked the flower. He stuck it into his buttonhole and went to test it out on Pete. He threw pinecones at him, jumped up and down in front of him, even got up in his face and made ridiculous faces, but Pete didn't even blink.
"OK," said Brendon, "I guess it works, then." He was about to go on his way when he remembered that Spencer would be locked in his room, and Brendon locked outside. He went back to the laurels.
"We're trying this again, I guess," he told them nervously. "Beautiful laurels, with this golden rake I have raked you, with this golden bucket I have watered you, with this silken towel I have wiped you. And if you had something to open locked doors I would really appreciate it," he said. This time it was the oleander that bloomed, and he picked the flower and put it in his pocket with the first. Then Brendon went to get some food to take to his room. He didn't particularly want to face his friends right then.
Someone from the palace guard came to collect Brendon after the dinner hour was over. Brendon had seen him around before, normally trailing after Spencer. He introduced himself as Zack. They went to a wing of the palace Brendon was unfamiliar with and Zack ushered him into one of the rooms.
The room was obviously meant for important guests, with plush carpets on the floors and tapestries covering the walls. There was a fireplace blasting out heat and a bed piled high with pillows. Zack gestured at the bed.
"You can sleep there if you'd like, but I don't recommend it," he said. He waved toward the only other door in the room. "That's his highness' room. The door should already be locked--you can check before I leave if you'd like."
"Probably a good idea," Brendon said with a nod and walked over to the door. He jiggled the handle and it didn't budge. It was locked, just as Zack had said.
"I'll come back at dawn. Good luck," Zack said, and he left the room. Brendon stuck the mountain laurel in his lapel again and went back to Spencer's door. He took out the oleander and looked at it dubiously before waving it in front of the lock. He didn't hear anything change, but tried the handle anyway. It opened soundlessly and he peeked in. Spencer was asleep. Brendon didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until it left him in a sudden whoosh. He stood in the corner and waited for Spencer to wake up and do...whatever it was that wore out his shoes. He hoped it wouldn't take all three nights.
Less than an hour had passed when Spencer began to wake up. Brendon startled where he was standing--he'd been composing a new song in his head to pass the time--and walked closer. Spencer stretched and got out of bed. Brendon tried to tell if he was awake or sleepwalking, but couldn't decide either way. Spencer walked over to a wardrobe and started rummaging in its drawers. He pulled out shirt after shirt and more pairs of trousers than Brendon had ever owned, throwing them all at his bed in disgust. He finally settled on dark gray trousers and a creamy shirt, and went to a different wardrobe to pick a jacket. Once he was satisfied with his outfit, Spencer went over to the mirror and fussed with his hair and face, pinching his cheeks and lips so that they pinked up and turning his head from side to side to examine his reflection. He finally nodded at himself and bent to put on a pair of shoes.
Brendon almost gave himself away by gasping aloud when he saw the shoes. They were the most delicate shoes he had ever seen, made of silk instead of leather and embroidered all over. He understood how these shoes could cost more than a year of his wages in a way he never had before. Spencer went through a pair of these every night? No wonder there was gossip about it.
Spencer seemed to be done with his preparations, but he had paused by the wardrobe for some reason. He wasn't looking at his reflection in the mirror, he was just...standing. And then he moved to pick something up, and Brendon finally understood what Patrick had been talking about.
Spencer had saved the bouquet Brendon made for him, dried it and displayed it in his room. He plucked a sprig of the baby's breath and tucked it behind his ear. Brendon just stared at him in shock until Spencer turned around and hit something on his bed post. Then he was stuck watching in horror as a trap door opened in the wall. How had the king and the other heroes managed to miss this? From where he stood he could see the first few steps of a staircase leading downward. Spencer grabbed a candle and started down the stair, and Brendon hurried to follow him.
The staircase seemed to go down forever, a dizzying spiral lit only by Spencer's candle. At one point Brendon misjudged the distance between steps and tripped forward, brushing Spencer's sleeve. Spencer stopped and spent a minute looking around, trying to see what he'd run into, but kept going when he didn't see anything. Brendon gave silent thanks to Ryan for giving him the bushes.
The stairs finally ended on a small landing. Brendon thought it was a dead end at first, but when Spencer raised the candle a little he saw the door. Spencer went straight toward it. He opened it and went through, and Brendon followed.
They were in a forest, but it wasn't at all like the forest from his dreams or the one by the river in Summerlin. Brendon had never seen anything like it. Brendon recognized all of the trees--oak and ash and pine, just like at home--but they had leaves made of silver instead of the normal sort. Brendon stared at the branches in awe until he realized he'd lost sight of Spencer and snapped his gaze forward. He could just see Spencer's hair through the brush, and hurried to catch up.
They walked through the forest of silver until the trees began to thin and Brendon started to hope they were nearing their destination. His heart sank when he saw there was another forest directly after the one they were leaving. In this one the trees all had leaves of gold, and Brendon began to worry about just what Spencer had gotten tangled up in here.
There weren't any animals, so it was eerily quiet. Brendon tried to step softly so that Spencer wouldn't hear his footsteps until he realized that the laurel was silencing them. Brendon felt his skin prickling into goosebumps as they kept walking. The trees were beautiful, but they were wrong. They didn't reflect light quite the way they should, and the sound the leaves made when they brushed together was too harsh.
The forest of gold turned into another with leaves of diamond. Brendon had to blink several times to convince himself that what he was seeing was real. He was tempted to pluck a leaf from one of the trees. A pine needle would buy him a new guitar several times over. It would buy a new piano several times over, an organ if he wanted one. He could quit his job as a gardener and just play music all day. But then he flashed to an image of Spencer lurking in a doorway and listening to him sing, and shook his head at himself. He wasn't here for money, he wasn't at the castle for the money. He'd told Ryan he wouldn't marry a prince just so he wouldn't have to work, and so he wouldn't. But neither would he abandon a prince so that he wouldn't have to work, especially not one that he loved as much as he loved Spencer. He kept walking, and left the trees alone.
The path finally ended at a lake, and Brendon wondered where they'd go next. There weren't any boats in sight, and there was only forest to their sides. Then Spencer brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled. A light bobbed into life out on the lake and started moving steadily toward them.
Brendon watched as it slowly neared and resolved itself into a boat with a single man at the helm. The boat beached itself on the bank in front of Spencer, who quickly climbed in. Brendon followed, trying not to rock it unnecessarily or run into either Spencer or the oarsman, who was just as finely dressed as the prince.
They set off across the lake. Spencer stared hard at the place where Brendon was sitting, and for a moment he thought that Spencer had seen him and was going to alert the oarsman that there was a stowaway. But Spencer only turned around and said, "We're going slower than usual." Brendon tried not to breathe too hard.
"We're not going any slower than we usually do, your highness," the man said. "Relax and enjoy the ride, and we'll arrive at the pavilion soon enough." Spencer didn't reply.
Brendon looked over the prow at the fast-approaching lights. As they drew closer to the bank Brendon could make out an impressive orchestra playing as though at a ball. The boat docked and the oarsman clambered out before turning and offering Spencer his arm. They set off toward the pavilion while Brendon was still struggling get out of the boat without overturning it.
He managed to soak both trouser legs before he made it to land, but he did make it. He could see Spencer's candle in the distance. Spencer and his escort had almost reached the pavilion. Brendon ran after them but by the time he reached the pavilion doors they had already disappeared into the crush of guests. Brendon looked around for a chair he could stand on to scan the room and spotted one by a table heavily laden with food. He made for that, heedless of all the people he brushed against and ran into on his way. He was almost there when he saw a flash of cream and gray to his left.
Spencer looked healthy, not sick or tired, as he spun around the dance floor with the man from the boat. And he was smiling.
Brendon had never considered that Spencer might not want rescuing.
Five minutes later he stood over one of the guests in the darkest corner he'd been able to find and shook out his hand. Pete had never said that punching people hurt. He massaged his knuckles a little before bending to snag the peacock feather mask. Brendon grimaced at his dirty sleeves and decided he'd better take the coat as well. He wrestled it off the man and brushed ineffectually at the dust. Too big, but it would have to do. He didn't want Spencer to recognize him. Before he left the corner he plucked the mountain laurel blossom from his lapel and pocketed it.
He was going to figure out what was going on here.
"May I have this dance?"
Spencer turned away from his escort and smiled at Brendon. "You may," he said. As a minuet started to play they clasped hands.
"I don't think I've seen you here before," Spencer said.
"You wouldn't have, as this is the first time I've been here," Brendon replied. "Everything seems very strange."
Spencer shrugged. "You'll get used to it," he said.
"Still," said Brendon, "I'm not sure if I'm enjoying myself. What about you? Do you like this sort of thing?"
Spencer smiled tightly. "I'm don't exactly have a choice."
"What do you mean, you don't have a choice? It's just a ball, isn't it?" Brendon asked.
"It may be just a ball for you, but it's punishment for me. I have to attend every night, and it's starting to get old. The orchestra only knows about twenty songs, and they play them every night. Worse, the timpanis are out of tune," Spencer said.
Brendon grinned at him as they glided through the steps. "Well if the timpanis are out of tune, there's no question that it's a bore. What do I need to do to get you out of here, fair prince?"
Spencer stopped and pulled him to the side. "Look, thanks for being nice and all, but you can't help me. I'm cursed--all standard rules apply, including the bit about true love's kiss. And the only person who can help with that is going to die in a few days, so I need you to leave me alone right now." He walked away while Brendon was still stuck on the part where Spencer loved him
Spencer didn't leave until the early morning, and Brendon was almost asleep on his feet as he followed him through the dwindling crowd of ball guests and out to the boat. They had a different oarsman for the trip back across the lake, and Spencer didn't ask him any questions. The trek through the forests was equally silent until Brendon grabbed one of the silver branches and snapped it off. He and Spencer both jumped as the sharp crack sounded.
"Who's there?" called Spencer. Brendon froze in place. After staring suspiciously into the dark forest edging the path Spencer continued on.
They made it back to the palace without any further incidents, and Brendon crouched by the prince's bed until he fell asleep and Brendon could creep back into his own room. He tumbled into bed and sleep accompanied by Ryan's voice saying, "Well it took you two long enough. Thanks for watching out for him."
The banging at his door started at an utterly obscene hour of the morning.
"Go away," Brendon muttered into his pillow. "Some of us were solving mysteries last night."
"Open up, the king wants to speak with you!" shouted the person outside and Brendon jerked awake and out of bed so fast that he tripped over the bedclothes.
"Just a minute!" he cried. He threw on yesterday's shirt and pants and flung open the door. Zack was the only one outside.
"You said the king was here!" Brendon said.
"No, I said the king wanted to speak with you, and he does," Zack said. "Hurry up or we'll be late."
Brendon trailed behind Zack as they walked through the hallways to the throne room. his first thought when they arrived was that the king hadn't arrive yet, but then he spotted the king standing by one of the great glass windows, Spencer at his side. Brendon swallowed hard and hoped for the best as he stepped forward.
"Good morning, your majesty, your highness," he said with a bow.
"Brendon! How wonderful to see you again," the king said. "What did you learn last night?"
Brendon fumbled at his pockets and pulled out three branches, one made of silver, one of gold, and one of diamond. Spencer's eyes widened for a second before he broke into the largest, most beautiful smile Brendon had ever seen.
"Well, your majesty, it's a funny story," Brendon began with an answering smile. The king never did get to hear the story, though, as Spencer grabbed Brendon and drew him into the sort of kiss that they write poems about.
And they lived mostly happily for a very long time thereafter, and their orchestra never had an out of tune timpani or any shortage of songs.
the end