Chapter Text
When Couriway was seventeen, he thought he knew everything.
There he was, starting a new life, far away from his home, his past. He was finally free.
Yet the memories chased him. The memories of bandages and bruised knuckles, panhandling on the side of the road.
Couriway had been through enough by seventeen, he’d decided. No longer was he going to suffer. He knew better. He knew better than letting people look down on him. He knew better than to trust royalty.
They are good for nothing, he’d thought, packing his pitifully small number of possessions into a bag and escaping into the fields on the outskirts of the city he once called home. Royalty always turned a blind eye to suffering. The sick, the poor, the disabled. Even when they’re children.
When Couriway was seventeen, he knew enough of royalty to decide he wanted nothing to do with them. Kings and queens, dukes and duchesses—the kinds of people who regarded scum on their boots with more respect than people like Couriway—he knew they were no good.
Now, at least Couriway knows enough to know that he knows nothing.
“You think you and I are at all similar, old man?” Couriway pulls at the collar of his rumpled old shirt. He can’t remember the last time he washed it.
“Son.” The King places a firm hand on Couriway’s shoulder.
Couriway tenses, unease sparking in his nerves. “Don’t call me that.”
“My apologies, lad.” The King chuckles heartily. “I never had a boy of my own. I suppose I got a little ahead of myself.”
“A little?” Couriway snaps. “I don’t care how much you beg me, I’m not joining your family of rich snobs.” Couriway gestures flippantly at the looming palace behind the King.
“Come now, lad, isn’t it a little rude to talk to your elders this way?”
“I don’t owe you shit.” Couriway crosses his arms, turning up his nose. “You’ve done nothing to earn my respect.”
“Ah, but the same is true of your disrespect, is it not?”
Couriway glares up at the King, studying his pale grey eyes. “I’m not going to be your Prince. All this sweet-talking isn’t going to work.”
The King’s eyes crease as he smiles, his forehead wrinkling. “I’m not trying to convince you.”
Couriway glances away. “Then what are you doing? Not that I care.”
“You’re too focused on your past for someone so young, lad.” The King says, seemingly ignoring Couriway’s question. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but haven’t you ever wanted to be more than the summation of your hardships?”
Couriway considers the King’s words. How is he supposed to forget about his past when it haunts him every day?
Trying his best to look disinterested, Couriway glances back at the King. “What are you talking about?”
“Old folks like me don’t have much to think about but memories. The luxury of the future is something we can no longer afford.” The King leans on his cane as if to emphasize his age. “But you… how old are you, lad?”
A subtle smile traces Couriway’s lips. “Seventeen.”
“Glorious skies, I never thought I’d see someone so young claw their way through the Run.” The King chortles, his eyes sparkling. “You have great tenacity.”
Couriway frowns. He’s never heard that word, tenacity. But he’s smart and he knows everything so he doesn’t even think about asking the King.
“Ah, what I mean to say is, how do I put this…” the King hums in thought for a moment. “You’re courageous. Quite the will of steel you have there. That’s rare these days. Don’t take it for granted.”
“Easy for you to say.” Couriway glares defiantly at the King through his scratched lenses. “Kids aren’t supposed to be courageous. We’re not supposed to be tools for war. Or— or weapons for you freaks to mold into whatever you want. You wanna praise my courage? You may as well praise the Universe for being merciful enough not to kill me.”
The King raises an eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling. He seems to be pondering Couriway’s words.
“Really,” Couriway continues, his breath hot on his tongue. “It’s not praise at all. It’s just something you say to broken people to make them think their pain is anything but exactly what it is! Sometimes, pain is just pain,” a gasp, “and you learn nothing from it and— and nobody gets any better or worse for it, it just happens and people tell you you’re so brave for pushing through but you can’t be brave because you never had a choice in the first place.”
Tears are pricking at Couriway’s eyes now, but he doesn’t notice as words keep tumbling from his lips, doused in kerosene. “So what you actually are is a coward, because if you had the choice you wouldn’t have picked to be hurt, nobody would, but somehow it’s still ‘brave’ to pretend as if you had one and chose to be strong through it all.”
By the time Couriway is finished speaking, tears are flowing freely down his cheeks, his chest tense as he gasps for breath. He lifts his sleeve to wipe his face, turning to leave as his ears burn red.
“Son, wait just a moment, will you?”
Couriway sniffles, daring to glance over his shoulder. The King has sunk to his knees in the grass, one hand gripping his cane, the other outstretched to Couriway.
Couriway scrapes together his dignity. “What?”
“I think you're right,” the King says, his kind eyes trained on Couriway. “I apologize.”
Couriway’s cheeks flush. “Thanks. I guess.”
“I won’t ask what happened to you,” the King’s hand drops to his side. “When I said you are more than the hardships you’ve endured, that wasn’t a lie, son.”
Couriway turns back to the King, wringing his hands nervously. “I know.”
“The truth is, I haven’t been the greatest man in the past,” the King’s voice takes on a somber tone. “But it’s not too late for me to make,” the King lets out a quiet laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Ah, make things… better.”
Couriway watches the King’s bony fingers tremble around the grip of his cane. “It isn’t too late for me, is it?”
“Skies, no.” The King’s warm candor returns. “Your story has barely begun.”
An old man lays dying in the washed-out backrooms of a castle.
With his last embers of strength, he calls for two subordinates.
“Hurry,” Couriway gasps through uneven gulps of air. “We don’t know how much time he has left.”
”I’m running as fast as I can,” Kayfour groans, barely keeping pace with his elder as the two race across the dirt paths of their kingdom. “It’s not my fault you have bigger lungs.”
“You made it here,” Couri fires back without missing a beat. “You should be as fast as I am.”
”I am,” Kayfour seethes, frowning. “We’re both Runners, right?”
Couriway skids to a stop in front of a looming structure, built from old brick and stone. Carved in calligraphic inscription above the wooden gates are the letters HBG.
“ I’ve never seen it up close before,” Kayfour mumurs between panting breaths. “It’s fuckin’ huge.”
”Watch your language, kid.” Couri elbows Kayfour in the side.
”You’re only two years older than me,” Kayfour retorts, frowning. “Besides, I made it through the Run when I was even younger than seventeen. And I’m taller than you.”
”Okay, so you ran through some trees at sixteen.” Couri rolls his eyes. “Big deal.”
”Shut up,” Kayfour says, snickering. “You know better than I do how hard it is to get through that bitch.”
”I do,” Couri admits, mirroring Kayfour’s smile.
When it comes time for Couriway and Kayfour to say goodbye to their old King, and their old lives, they are standing by the bedside of the man that took them in just months ago.
Couriway’s heart is pounding in his chest, his skin pale and clammy like he’s the one on his deathbed.
”Couri,” The King croaks, placing a golden pocket watch in the clammy palm of Couriway’s hand. “How the Skies have molded you into a fine young man.” The King coughs. “I want you to carry on my legacy.”
Couri’s chest tenses, not with sorrow, but with dread. He sighs.
”Yes, sir.” Are the only words Couriway can manage.
“Kayfour.” The King shifts his weary gaze to the younger of the two Runners. “You raced against the sun and stars when you were just a lad.” A wheezing cough interrupts the King’s words, and Kayfour bites their lip. Couriway wonders how Kayfour feels about all this. “That’s nothing to scoff at, young one. Those woods are even more treacherous these days than they used to be.”
The King’s eyes close.
Couriway’s heartbeat picks up. He’s never seen someone die before; he doesn’t know what it looks like.
Is that it? Is it over?
Just like that?
Finally, the King hums, cracking his eyelids open to look at Kayfour. “Take care of Couri, will you?”
Kayfour nods slowly, and Couriway feels a pang of guilt in his chest.
I can take care of myself.
”My prince.” The King’s sunken eyes twinkle as he takes Kayfour’s hand in his. “Can you do that for me?”
”Of course, sir,” Kayfour breathes, their voice wavering.
Couriway rips his gaze away, opting instead to study his new watch. He runs his thumb along the cracks in the glass protecting the face, its hands frozen in time at twelve o'clock.
“Kayfour, are you sure you’re, like, okay with this? This— This is a lot.” A crown rests in Couriway’s hands, his contact with the object kept minimal as if the gold is molten.
It could be, Couriway thinks, because of the oppressive early morning sun bearing down on HBG, Couriway—and his crown—being no exception.
Couri looks up, deciding he’s had enough of staring at his reflection, distorted and warped in the gold. He watches Kayfour, the way their hands fidget idly with their collar, their expression still so youthful. Couri hopes, naively, that it will stay this way.
Kayfour glances to the side, evading Couri’s intense gaze. “I guess.” His words are almost silent. He continues to fiddle with the buttons on his overcoat, his trembling hands doing nothing to help. Kayfour gives up on buttoning his jacket, hands falling to his sides. “I have no other choice, do I?”
“You’ve always had a choice, Kay,” Couriway says softly. “No matter what happens, you will always have a choice.”
Couri chews his lip, letting his focus wander to the chattering of residents in the square. The crowd buzzes with excitement, undoubtedly excited for the coronation ceremony.
“Fruit, can you look at me for a second?” One voice stands out from the rest.
Couri immediately identifies the voice as Tapl’s, one of the older and more formally-trained residents of HBG. He’s also one of the most friendly.
Tapl’s conversation partner, Fruitberries, lets out a lofty chuckle. “What are you doing?”
Fruitberries is decidedly less friendly, but he’s always had a soft spot for Tapl.
”Stay still,” Tapl replies, and Couriway glances over.
Tapl leans over Fruit’s shoulder, one hand placed on the wooden table beside him; the other hand holds a quill, resting on Fruit’s cheek.
“Harvey, for real.” Fruit bats Tapl’s hand away. “Quit it.”
“Fine,” Tapl groans, returning to his seat. “I’m done anyway.”
Fruit’s expression twists in confusion, then he grabs Tapl’s sword off the table and holds it up to his face, examining his reflection in the blade. He grins, huffing out a laugh. “Why did you draw a smile on my face?”
Tapl grins in response. “So we can match.” Tapl points to his cheek, where a similar tattoo resides. “See?”
”Cute,” Fruit deadpans, his eyes sweeping back to Tapl’s sword. Couriway can see the gears turning in his head before he reaches for his belt, setting the sword down in front of him.
Tapl raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop Fruit as he draws a dagger from his belt and begins to carve into the handle of Tapl’s sword.
“Okay, now what are you doing?” Tapl asks.
“You’ll see,” Fruit says out of the corner of his mouth, biting his lip as he concentrates.
“There.” Fruit slides the sword back to Tapl. “Mine is better because you can’t wipe it off.”
Tapl frowns. “Maybe you can wipe it off now, but we will have matching tattoos one day. I don’t care if I have to hold you down, it’s happening.”
Fruit laughs, pretending to consider Tapl’s offer. “I’ll think about it.”
Couri turns back to Kayfour, whose expression twists into a grimace. Couri knows they share the same thought—why didn’t the old King choose Fruitberries or Tapl?
Fruitberries is a resident held in high favor by the rest of HBG. He’s lived here longer than Couriway, and Tapl knows the most about the damn place. In Couri’s opinion, those two are more integral to HBG than anyone else. Both are pivotal in such a way that their disappearance would shake the kingdom at its foundation.
He means, sure, Fruit’s reckless and foolhardy, Tapl’s long retired from fighting and isn’t great at public speaking, but he’s, well, anyone’s better than Couri stepping up to the throne.
Right?
“Hey.” Kayfour places a hand on Couri’s shoulder. Couri jumps as he’s torn away from his thoughts. “It’s okay to be afraid. You’re going to do great.”
”You don’t mean that.” Couri lets out a humorless laugh as he lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair away from his face. “You can be honest, dude. It’s— It’s okay. I won’t get mad.”
Kayfour is silent for a moment, seemingly deciding what to say next. “I mean it.”
Couri casts a bewildered look up at Kayfour. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
Kayfour mumbles something, reaching up and gingerly removing the crown from his head. “I don’t think I’m the best choice, either, but,” they trail off, fixing their gaze on the ground. “What matters is that the old man chose us, right? We have to respect that.”
Couri nods—he knows this; he’s painfully aware of this. After a moment of staring at his feet, Couriway meets Kayfour’s eyes, glimmering in the early afternoon sun.
Then, Couriway makes his first ill-fated decision in a series of many to come—he places the crown on his head.
The castle door’s hinges squeak as the massive gate swings open; the announcement of someone’s arrival echoes in the empty corridor.
Couriway lifts his head, his sullen expression immediately replaced by a stoic one.
A king’s job is to be a symbol of strength, after all.
“Hey, Couri, can you spare a moment?”
”Fulham!” A grin slowly stretches across Couriway’s face as an old friend steps into the castle’s Great Hall.
The soles of Fulham’s boots click against the marbled floor as he draws closer. Eventually, he stops a few paces away from Couri and crouches on one knee, bowing his head. “Good day, your majesty.”
“Shut up! How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” Couriway grimaces as he pulls his friend off the floor by his wrist.
The last time Couriway had seen Fulham was just over two years ago now, right after Couri’s coronation. They’d celebrated together. Fulham got blackout drunk, and Couri’s first task as a King was making sure Fulham got home safe.
Fulham is dressed in a dull grey coat paired with epaulets sporting large golden tassels over a deep indigo waistcoat. A bag tailored for holding scrolls hangs from his shoulder, piquing Couriway’s curiosity.
Fulham peers at Couriway over square glasses. ”At least once more.” Fulham smirks as Couri recoils in mock disgust.
“Great skies, stop talking,” Couri demands as he presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.
”As you wish.”
“Lewis, stop.” Couri subdues a chuckle. “ Please stop. Your stupid accent makes it worse.”
Fulham opens his mouth to speak, but Couri interrupts him with a pointed glare. “Say ‘as you wish’ one more time, and I’m throwing you in the gallows.”
Fulham chuckles, tilting his head to the side. “You don’t have the guts.”
”Care to find out?” Couri challenges—a complete bluff.
Fulham shakes his head, though Couri gets the feeling Fulham saw through his facade. “Shelve that, I’ve got something I need to show you.”
Couri exhales a tense breath. He missed shooting the breeze with someone, as friends, not adversaries, business partners, or King to citizen.
He missed this.
“Come sit down.” Couri gestures to a nearby table and chairs, tucked next to one of the grand windows. “Tell me how things have been.”
Fulham hesitantly takes a seat, shooting Couri an odd glance. “You don’t want to see what I have to show you?”
Couri shrugs, taking the seat opposite Fulham. “I mean, sure, but I want to catch up first.”
Fulham offers a lopsided smile, running a hand through his dark curls. “I was under the impression you were too busy for this sort of thing.”
Couriway frowns, pretending not to be hurt. “Lewis, I’d never be too busy. I will always make time for you.”
Fulham offers a dry chuckle. “Your guards don’t seem to share your sentiment.”
”Fein and Reign?” Couri asks, raising an eyebrow.
Fulham raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who else would be bickering with each other instead of doing their jobs?”
Couri places his elbows on the table, letting his chin rest in his hands. “They take their jobs very seriously.”
Fulham snorts, adjusting his position in the chair. “That, or they like messing with me. Which one do you think it is?”
Couri casts a sideways glance at his friend. “No comment.”
”Anyway, I found something quite cool.” Fulham waves dismissively with one hand and reaches for his bag with the other.
Couri leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
”Take a look at this.” Fulham pulls a large scroll of parchment out of his bag and deposits it on the table with a sly sparkle in his eye. His eyes stay trained on Couri, gazing at him expectantly.
Couri reaches for the end of the scroll, unraveling it as he pulls his hand back.
Couriway’s breath catches in his throat as he flattens the parchment against the table with the palms of his hands.
Depicted on the large scrap of paper is a massive collection of purple-hued buildings, floating high over an endless void. Scrawled at the top of the scroll, reads “ The City at the End of the Game,” along with foreign characters Couri doesn’t recognize.
”You have to kill the dragon to get there,” Fulham places his index finger on a particularly large building, vaguely resembling the hull of a ship. “But it’s rumored that there’s a ton of gold, diamonds, and this one guy I spoke to told me there are dragon wings stored in the ships that can give anyone the ability to fly.”
Couri gasps softly. “Woah.”
”I reckon we could get worldwide recognition if we find these things. Imagine folks flocking from all over to meet the people who killed the dragon and learned to fly,” Fulham speaks quickly, emphasizing his words with a glance at Couri. “Don’t get me started on how rich we would be. You’d be a madman to pass this up.”
Couri’s gaze remains locked on a hastily drawn sketch of what looked like a pair of dragon wings. He swallows a lump in his throat, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, no way.”
“There’s one bit of an issue.” Fulham’s voice pitches. “I don’t know if any of us are strong enough to kill the Ender Dragon. I mean, it’s called that for a reason.” Fulham pushes his glasses further up his nose, leaning forward. “I spoke to someone who’s seen the dragon in person. He barely made it out alive. Dude wears a mask to cover his awful scars now.”
Couri glances away, biting the inside of his cheek.
“So far, no one has even done so much as destroyed a single crystal—Couri, are you listening to me?”
Couriway’s head swivels back to Fulham. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”
“So,” Fulham continues. “I’ve come to you. You’ve ought to know someone who’s up to it; you’ve got the best of the best here, haven’t you?”
Couri nods, his eyes once again trained on the drawing of wings. “There are only two people I know who could possibly be up to the challenge.”
Fulham hums to himself as he exits the castle, wondering who Couriway has in mind for the End expedition.
As the gates close behind Fulham, Feinberg saunters over and locks them, studying Fulham with icy suspicion.
“We’ve only met a few times before, haven’t we?” Fulham says conversationally, because he gets the feeling Feinberg isn’t the type to start one.
Feinberg returns to his post, leaning against the stone-brick wall. “Twice. Three if you count when I caught you hopping the fence.”
“You kept track,” Fulham says with an easy smile. “Impressive.”
Feinberg folds his arms. He doesn’t seem any more comfortable around Fulham than he was before. “It’s my job.”
Fulham takes a moment to survey Feinberg’s appearance. His uniform is standard—a violet overcoat, collared shirt and ascot. What’s more interesting is the colorful pair of glasses resting on his nose, and the golden ribbon tying his curly hair into a high ponytail. It looks exactly like the ribbon Couriway gave Fulham to decorate his bag.
“Pardon my asking, but in all my travels I’ve never seen anyone with glasses like yours. Where’d you get them?”
Feinberg squints at Fulham, as if deciding whether Fulham is trustworthy enough to confide in.
“They were a gift from the King,” Feinberg says slowly, his gaze never leaving Fulham. “Guy in town made them.”
Fulham nods. “And the ribbon?”
Feinberg visibly hesitates, opening his mouth to respond before closing it again, his hand reaching up to twirl the ribbon between his fingers. “Also a gift from the King. Why?”
Fulham smiles again, attempting to be as unthreatening as possible. “I’m an old friend of Couri’s. He’s careful about who he’s friends with, but you two seem close.”
Feinberg raises his eyebrows. He seems to be caught off guard. “You think so?”
“Looks like it.” Lewis gestures to the ribbon Feinberg is fidgeting with. “He gives you thoughtful gifts and you keep them with you. Pretty textbook if you ask me.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell him,” a more excitable voice chimes in.
“Reign,” Feinberg hisses, shrinking.
“Reignex!” Lewis approaches Reign, pulling him in for a quick hug before drawing away, clapping him on the back. “Where have you been?”
Reign shrugs. “Weekly check-up with the doc.”
Fulham nods. “It’s good to see you.”
“Hope Fein wasn’t too mean to ya,” Reign says, grinning. “He’s not one for small talk.”
Feinberg lets out a short sigh, frowning.
“No, not at all.” Fulham turns back to Feinberg. “We were just talking about Couri.”
“Right.” Reign trots over to Feinberg, jostling his shoulder. “Fein loves to pretend like he and the King aren’t besties.”
Feinberg rolls his eyes, shrugging Reign off him. “And Reign loves to embarrass me.”
Reign giggles. “Is it working?”
Feinberg doesn’t respond. Smart move.
“This guy.” Reign sighs dramatically. “It’s so hard to tell what he’s thinking.”
“I’m thinking you should shut up and get back to your post before I get the King involved,” Feinberg mutters, glaring at Reign.
“There he goes again,” Reign says, returning to his side of the gate with a huff. “Always running to the King.”
“I’m being merciful,” Feinberg fires back without missing a beat. “If I did it myself you’d end up with nine fingers.”
“Ah, you’d never.” Reign crosses his arms. “You love me.”
“Right, well, I’ve got places to be, so I’ll leave you two to it.” Fulham offers a parting wave. “Have a good one.”
“Bye, mister Fulham,” Reign calls back. “Visit again soon.”