#I only drew one goat I hope it counts for the prompt

[twinkle-twinkle-up-above]

Carry On Countdown 2024 Day 23: Goats

"You can't go back, Simon, you can never go back…"

@carryon-countdown

[wizardofozymandias]

14 Days of DA Lovers, Day 7: Wearing the Other’s Clothes

I’m playing catch-up, since I didn’t get this finished yesterday, but better late than never.

Written for the @14daysdalovers prompt event.

Prompt: Wearing the Other’s Clothes

Pairing: Varric/Female Hawke

Characters: Varric Tethras, Marian Hawke

Summary: When Hawke shows up at his window drenched and half-frozen, Varric offers her some of his clothes to wear. 

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence

Varric sat at his desk, busily scrawling away at the next chapter of his novel. Outside, the wind was howling like it wanted to shake the whole tavern apart. Sleet rattled against the windows. Good day to be inside, Varric thought, taking another sip of brandy. 

A sudden frantic knocking at the window made him drop his pen. What in the name of. . . ? Varric peered through the frosty glass.

It was Hawke, of course. Her clothes were dripping wet and she was shivering like her bones wanted to rattle apart. Varric eased the window open. It was colder than Maferath’s left asscheek out there. “Hawke, what the hell happened to you?” he asked her.

“Long story,” she said.

“Is that ice in your hair?”

“Probably.”

“Well, since I’m assuming you knocked on the window for a reason, you’d better get in here before you freeze to death.”

She clambered inside, still dripping like a mop straight out of the bucket. 

“T-thanks, Varric,” she said through chattering teeth. 

“Don’t mention it,” he told her, securing the window shut.

There was a decent-sized puddle starting to form under his best friend. Varric grabbed a towel from the washstand. “Here.” He tossed it her way. “You’d better dry off before you flood the place.”

He shook his head as he watched her start to sponge off over her clothes.

“Hawke, I know you’re a lady, and you might be sensitive about. . .things.” He could not be blushing right now. “But you’re going to get any warmer or drier if you insist on staying in those clothes.”

She paused her frantic daubing at her clothes. “I’m an idiot,” she muttered. “You’re right.” She hauled off one of her boots, almost losing her balance in the process, and tossed it in a bare corner. 

“If you’ll promise not to fall and kill yourself, I’ll turn my back for the sake of your modesty.”

Hawke laughed. “There’s not much of me you haven’t seen, anyway. We’ve played enough Wicked Grace together.”

“I’m trying to preserve my reputation as a gentleman,” he protested.

“Avert your virtuous eyes, then. I’m about to strip.” 

As promised, Varric kept his eyes firmly fastened to the wall. Hawke was right— he had seen her without most of her clothes often enough when she drew a bad hand in Wicked Grace. Not to mention the handful of times where she had played badly until her lack of clothing made it easier to bluff. But that wasn’t in his bedroom. Alone. 

In the past few months, Varric had given up trying to deny that he found Hawke attractive. Hell, half of Kirkwall was probably attracted to her. She was the type of woman that branded herself onto your brain. Not beautiful, necessarily. But unforgettable. 

Not to mention loud-mouthed, smart-assed, and more hard-headed than a herd of Fereldan billy goats, Varric thought. 

Of course he was attracted to her. It was something he noticed early on, decided it didn’t matter, and forgot about. And it hadn’t mattered, until recently, when his face kept turning the color of his best shirt every time she glanced his way. 

Varric blamed Bartrand. Once his crazy brother was safely in the ground, Varric had started thinking too much about his own expiration date. Which came with plenty of uncomfortable realizations, like the fact that he was getting too old to eat his fill of the Hanged Man’s spicy chili, and that he had probably been in love with his best friend for the past two years.

He yanked his thoughts back to the present. “Are you going to explain what you’re doing knocking on my window?” he asked Hawke.

“Well. . .”

“Let me guess: you picked a fight?”

“No!” she insisted. “Technically, it was the other guy’s fault.”

Varric sighed. “As always.”

“Bodahn made way more soup than the three of us could eat, so I decided to take some to Merrill. I’m walking back, minding my own business, and this templar—”

“Andraste’s ass,” he interrupted, “you picked a fight with another templar? I can’t leave you unsupervised for a minute!”

“Hey, this asshole made a joke about what a shame I’m not as pretty as my little sister. And—I won’t repeat the rest of it.”

Varric’s mouth fell open. A strangled sound issued from his throat.

“Yeah.”

He coughed. “I hope you got him good.”

“I broke his nose and pitched him into the harbor. It had started snowing at that point, and there was a bunch of ice in the water. Unfortunately, he dragged me down with him.”

“I’m still missing the part of the story where I come in.”

“I thought that was pretty self-explanatory. It was pouring snow and sleet, and I was out in Lowtown. This seemed like the obvious place to wait out the weather, but they wouldn’t let me through the front door. After all I’ve done for this town!”

Varric laughed. “Kirkwall’s biggest menace.” 

“I’d wear that badge,” she said. “And, speaking of wearing things, do you have any spare clothes I could borrow? It’s either that, or I may have to commandeer your curtains.”  

“If you pull down my curtains, I’m throwing you out. I don’t think the management would stand for it.”

“Aren’t you their best customer?”

“Yes, and I’m not about to let you change that.” He walked to his chest of drawers and pulled out one of his shirts. He had no idea if it would fit her, but it was the only real option. He tossed it at the bed.

“Thanks,” Hawke muttered. 

“Any time. Let me know when you’re decent.”

There was some rustling around, then Hawke burst out laughing. “Um, Varric, you need to see this. I’m not sure if it counts as ‘decent,’ though.” 

He turned and stifled a laugh of his own. 

Hawke’s arms looked humorously large sticking out of his shirt. The hem barely grazed her thighs, and the neckline sat around the same level as her ribcage. If she had been as well-endowed as Isabela, the results would have been slightly scandalous. As it was, the only part of Hawke that was exposed was a ridiculous amount of skin below her collarbone. 

“I definitely don’t have the chest hair to pull this off,” Hawke said, still cracking up. “Or the chest, for that matter.”

Varric laughed, trying once again to hide the redness of his face. “Here,” he said, tossing his leather coat her way. “Put this on and get over here by the fire before you freeze to death.”

“You’re the best, Varric.”

“I know, I know.” 

Hawke ended up wrapped in one of his blankets while she unthawed, but even bundled up in that, Varric could still see the scarlet fabric of his shirt against her shoulder. He tried very hard not to think about how the color brought out her cornflower blue eyes. 

[rmjagonshi]

The Prince and the Streetrat

For the writing prompt from @princeasimdiya12 with her suggestion of Mullet Stan Alladdin Au set in Agrabah. I may have gone a bit over my initial word count estimate. Hence why it took longer than expected. So....sorry?

Gen (no ships), family friendly and all that. 

The Market was unusually busy today. It was off season for much of the local harvests and the trade caravans were coming in by the dozens. Some were even from places he didn’t recognize; their garb and wares colorful and exotic. The number of horses in the public stables was now rivalling the number of camels. The street cleaners and stable hands were running to keep up with the increased workload. The guards were out in full force, but even they were having trouble keeping up with the petty crime occurring sometimes right in front of them.

With all the tradesman distracted and the large crowds, it was the perfect time to gather stock for the week. It had been so long since he was able to get enough food for more than a day. In fact, the last time the market was this busy, the kingdom celebrated the prince’s coming of age ceremony; the day the son of the emperor became a man and could now take his position as ruler of Agrabah. Furtive movement to his left caught his eye; a fisherman was tossing out some rejected pieces of the fish he was butchering. If he was quick or charming enough, he could probably get the fish heads, tails and spines. Not the best, but still meat, and meat was rare for a streetrat.  

The kids and he were going to have themselves a proper feast. With the crowds, he might even be able to pickpocket a few of the richer folk, might be able to get Mable a new dress, or at least the fabric to make one. He was good with a needle and thread, but he had never actually made clothes before. The boy was getting taller, too. He would need to conserve fabric to accommodate the two growing children in his care.

Silently, he swung down from the awning he was perch atop, shuffling across the decorative eves and dropping down to the dusty ground in a narrow alley. He checked to make sure the handholds he had carved into the wooden supports were spaced closed enough to make for a quick climb; he’d left his bag up top, it did no good to have all his ill-gotten gains with him if he was ever caught. He’d grab a few things here and there and make a trip back to deposit it. If anything happened, Mason knew where the drop bag was and knew when to collect it. Smart kid, not quite strong enough to make it on his own, but the boy was young still, he had time.

On the ground he had to be careful. Being a streetrat had more than its fair share of disadvantages. Wearing the same clothes everyday made him easy to spot by the local tradesman; he was hoping there were enough newcomers to allow him to lose himself in the throng. He glanced briefly down at his worn clothes. The color of his leggings reminded him of sour milk, the patches doing nothing to remedy the terrible dye choice, and his open vest was a royal blue, almost purple. He loved it, but it was an unusual color and drew too much attention. He would have to be quick.

Three hours passed before he chose to call it a day. He had gotten those fish heads and tails by flirting with the fishmonger’s daughter and trading away a kiss. The poor girl was a bit slow and had one perpetually lazy eye, but she wasn't too bad looking. He might just visit her again. He was able to swipe a bag of millet to make into flat bread, a full basket of dates (that he topped with rejected ones), a full watermelon, couple of eggplants, a pouch of mystery spice he pocketed without thinking, and a full goat leg, already drained. He’d even been able to lift a leather band to pull his horridly long hair back. Mable told him it made him look dashing; he thought she was crazy, but he never cut it knowing he would disappoint her.  

He had a few close calls with the guards; they tailed him for a street or two before he ducked into an alley and shimmied up the side of a residential building and onto the roof. The stall owners gave him no trouble. The newcomers were duped by his dazzling smile and charming personality and he delighted in swiping things out from under them. Local tradesmen were more warry, but waiting for the moment they were distracted by other customers made easy work. He heard from gossip that the prince was being officially crowned heir in a week’s time, and that the celebration would end in a grand ball where he would choose a bride from the neighboring kingdoms. Heck, if it meant he and his family could eat this well, the prince could marry a new girl every week.  

He was tempted to head back down and try picking a few pockets. He had been eyeing the stall, run by a scary old woman he was sure was a witch, all day. She had fabric in all types and colors. Finely woven silk as thin as a flower petal, thick canvas rolls perfect for sleeping mats, and wool spun so fine and clean that he didn’t recognize it as wool. He’s sure the old woman noticed him, he got lost staring at the pale pink wool spool he wanted to get for Mable. The witch had eyed him crossly, her angular face and long nose adding to her menacing appearance.

He was tempted, he was, but the risk was almost not worth it. Stealing food was one thing, you spent a day or two in the dungeons. Stealing money meant losing a hand. But he couldn’t get the fabric any other way. He could just try stealing something from some hanging laundry, but he’d done that last time and poor Mabel was forced to tie it in place until she grew into it.

Alright. Just once. He’d have to really pick his target. Someone who obviously had a lot and wouldn’t miss a small amount. It didn’t take long. A foreigner with large white hair, pale skin and strange pale blue garb strutted through the crowd below, a large coin purse dangling from his waist. He smirked and tracked the foreigner from the rooftops, He dropped down to the street and made his way into the throng of people, maneuvering his way to the snooty foreigner. He found his chance when the man stopped to chide a stall owner over their quality of fruit, claiming that his homeland had much better produce. It was hardy a challenge to lift the bag and disappear in the crowd and up another wooden scaffolding. He could hear the man screaming that someone had stolen his money, but he was already a street over and making his way down to the fabric stall.

He tucked the bag in his vest and lowly approached the old woman, trying his best to act casual. “Back again, I see. Come to try and rob me like you’ve robbed the others?” Her eyes bore into his sole. Her voice was high and screechy and wrapped around him like a miasma. He stood, transfixed, and fought the urge to run. Had she seen him? Did she know him? He had never seen her before. Maybe she was a witch.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward, “I don’t understand what you mean. I am simply interested in the pick fabric you have. It seems of low quality, seems scratchy, but it’s the right color. How much ya chargin’ for it?” He fingered the fabric and tried to look as disdainful as the man he had pickpocketed. But the woman saw through his ruse. She grabbed his wrist and yanked him forwards over the small wooden counter.

“Far more than you can afford, Streetrat!” Her breath stank worse than his, and he couldn’t bathe regularly. He tried pulling back but she held firm. He fumbled with the purse and the coins spilled out onto the counter. “I can pay, witch! Let go!” He struggled against her iron grip, feeling the blood pulse in his veins, faster and faster.

“Stolen coins are worthless to me Stan! You shall get what you deserve! Guards! Thief!”

He pulled harder, he didn’t care about the stupid fabric anymore! This witch knew his name! Knew he had stolen the money! He needed to leave, get his family’s food and get home. NOW!

A six-fingered hand materialized in the space between him and the woman. A gentle voice filled his ear as a second warm hand settled on his shoulder. “Now, now. That won’t be necessary.”

The witch released his wrist at once, attention now focused on the newcomer. Stan pulled his wrist to his chest and rubbed at the skin. It felt like a she had burned him; the skin was red and tight and looked swollen. He turned to the newcomer and was faced with something uncanny. It was like looking into a reflection. The man’s face was his own, maybe a bit slimmer. Same square jaw, same overly large nose, same high forehead.

“His man was simply trying to purchase something from you. No need for accusations. Now, what was it that you wanted to buy?” The man’s face was soft and open as he turned to face Stan. Stan was disconcerted with the familiarities between them. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. But the stranger had saved him, so he owed the man some courtesy.

“Just some of the pink wool. A yard or so. Probably two ta be safe.” Stan’s voice was strained. He was having trouble bringing out his classic charm. He was unnerved and he just wanted to get out of here.

“Perfect. How much for two yards of the pink fabric, miss?” The stranger smiled at the witch, nose only slightly wrinkling at the woman’s breath. It was like this stranger had drawn all the charm from Stan for himself. Stan decided he didn’t like him. He was dressed well, too well. A businessman, or even a council member. The sand colored robe the stranger wore was made of fine thread, tightly woven together. This man was exceedingly wealthy, despite his deformity. Though, if Stan was being honest, the extra finger was kind of fascinating, in a weird and morbid sort of way.

“Sixty coins. It’s the finest I have save for the silk.” The woman’s screech was painful to the ears and made Stan flinch. Sixty Coins! That was insane! No trader worth their salt would charge sixty coins for wool. He didn’t even know if the white-haired man he had stolen from had that much. He hastily began counting the coins, making small piles of five to keep track. Even though he had more money at his fingertips than he had ever had before, he was still woefully short of the price necessary to get Mabel a new dress. She was grossly overcharging. He swore under his breath.

Stan’s posture slumped. He didn’t even have enough to buy one yard. His eyes skirted the dusty street in hopes that he might have dropped a coin or ten. Nothing. He heard a clink of coins on the counter and watched in stunned silence as the stranger counted out sixty coins with ease and tucked away the purse that still held far more.

“That should cover the cost, yes?” The man pushed the pile of coins to the woman. She scooped them up and let them fall into a pocket sewn into the front of her robe before pulling out a pair of shears and a leather strip to measure with.

“You don’t…have to…” Stan stuttered. He really didn’t want to take charity from this man. He didn’t like owing favors to people, especially people he didn’t know yet. Bu the man was insistent.

“Nonsense. It’s quite alright.” There was that gleaming smile again. Teeth clean and face smooth, this man was very wealthy indeed. It might be in Stan’s best interest to befriend this stranger. It might prove lucrative.

The witch pressed two yards of cloth wrapped in burlap into the stranger’s hands and he accepted it graciously. The stranger nodded to him and started to hand the bundle to Stan when the sounds of the guards carried over the crowd. The stranger glanced over his shoulder, flipped his hood up quickly and tugged Stan by the hand and into the masses.

This stranger was on the run from the law, huh? Ok, maybe he was starting to like him. He left the stolen purse on the witch’s counter.

Stan took over leading and made his way back to the alley he started from. The stranger was still hanging onto the burlap bag and seemed to have no intent to hand it over.

“By the way, I never got your name.”

“Stan. Yours?”

My name is S… is Ford. You can call me Ford.”

Stan raised his eye at the obvious cover, but instead took Ford’s hand, gave it a quick shake and let go. “Well, nice meeting you. Thanks for helping. It’s yours now, so I’ll be goin’.” He didn’t wait for Ford to leave before starting his way up the building to the roof where his drop bag was.

“You going to hurry up? You’re slow.” Stan heard a chuckle below him and nearly lost his grip whirling his head around to see that Ford as climbing up after him. He heard guard voices close by and understood. Once he reached the top, he turned back around and helped Ford climb onto the roof. He made no mention of the extra finger.    

Stan flashed Ford a knowing grin when the man peered over the edge of the roof to check on the guards. Anyone on the run from the law was a friend of his. Well, not everyone, but heck, he couldn’t exactly judge. They waited a few minutes, watching the busy street below as the evening encroached upon the desert kingdom. The wind swept over the two men, catching at Stan’s long hair that had come loose from the leather band and pulling Ford’s hood down around his collar. They hadn’t said much to one another, but Stan was surprisingly comfortable with the company. But it was getting late, and the kids would be getting worried if he didn’t make it back soon.  

The man pulled a crooked face when Stan pulled out the bag of goods and threw it over his shoulder. “I aided a lowly criminal? I should have let that woman call the guards.” However, Ford’s actions belied his actions when he tied the burlap wrap around his torso and made to follow Stan.

Stan snorted. “Hey, man’s gotta eat. I’d work if I could, but no one’ll give me a job.” It wasn't exactly a lie; he had never been offered a job, but he also had never tried to get one. He had lived his life on the streets, most of it alone. He mother had left one night to gather food just as he was doing, and never came back. It was another reason he wanted to make sure he made it back tonight; the kids didn’t deserve that.

“That much food for one person? I’m not letting you out of my sight. What did you need this fabric for, anyway? Reselling? Smuggling? I think that purse was stolen. You know, you people are the reason why the economy is failing.”

Stan rolled his eyes. The guy kept talking, but be he was still not making any moved to call the guards or arrest him. He placed a plank of wood over the gap between buildings; he wasn't going to play acrobat carrying this much food. And he didn’t think that the smart guy could make the same leaps of faith he made on a daily basis.  

“You commin’?” He didn’t wait for an answer and made his way across the alley. He heard Ford follow hi snot long after.

They weaved in and out of rooftops and shimmied down the sides of buildings, over rubble and into the oldest part of town. They walked and climbed for nearly an hour; they passed by street urchins and beggars trying to carve out a living in the collapsing streets the populace had abandoned. Ford felt disquiet following this criminal. He was greeted by many people, beggars and children alike. Stan paused a few times and handed out food from his sack to those who looked sick. They watched Ford closely, but gave him wide berth. As much as he was uncomfortable, Stanford realized that he was in no danger walking through these streets as long as he was with this…with Stan.

They snaked through a maze of ramshackle alleys until they reached an open square of what used to be an academy. Stan lead him through a collapsed stairwell, dodging fallen wooden support beams and brushing aside cloth hung to give privacy. Stan held his hand and guided him over a few weak areas that shifted under his weight.      

He heard voices ahead, two distinct ones. They sounded young. The whispers rang out and bounced off the stone walls. Stanford heard a sound that he might have attributed to a chicken being strangled. He heard Stan sight ahead of him and mutter something under his breath.

“It’s fine, kid, it’s just me. We’ve got a guest. He’s safe. I brought dinner.” They mounted the last few steps and came to a landing that may have been a central gathering area for students once upon a time. The walls were decorated with tattered fabric and ancient parchment covered in paint and drawings likely created by a child. There were mats on the floor mad of palm fibers and a few toys made of broken pieces of wood, metal, and bits of string. Pieces of wood and stone were pushed together into some semblance of furniture, a stack of chipped bowls, flat pieces of pottery used as plates and wooden utensils sat on the sill of a window that had been boarded up. Piles of cloth sat in a corner beside a wash bucket beside a hole in the floor. A curtain was tacked onto the wall to act as a privacy barrier.    

When Stanford saw the two children run up to the streetrat Stan, all the anger at seeing this man take so much from hard working men and women dissipated. This man was just trying to feed his family the only way he could. He felt shame at putting so much value on such a small thing as a yard of wool. The children were frantic over Stan, asking him if he was alright, if he had gotten caught, what took so long, who Ford was, and what was in the bag, was it all food? Ford could tell these children were hungry; they weren’t starving, least not the way the children they passed on the street earlier were starving, but they were still likely going without meals more times than not. They were thin and gangly, and likely older than they looked. Stanford placed their ages somewhere between twelve or fourteen. He placed Stan at around twenty, closer to Stanford’s own age. If this was the criminal classes in the city, then his father was being purposefully blind to the social problems in his kingdom.    

“For the girl?” Stanford asked, pulling the burlap sling off his shoulder and lifting out the pink fabric. The little girl, nearly a woman, squealed in delight and rushed over to him; stranger or no, the prospect of something pretty was too alluring. She carefully fingered the cloth slowly, like she couldn’t believe it was real.

“Stan, did you steal this?” She asked quietly, eyes flicking up to Stanford, unsure of what she could say in front of him.

“You know that can get you into more trouble, right? Food is one thing, but anything that really has value will get the guards on your tail faster than you could blink.” The boy was more warry of Stanford and hung back to help Stan unpack the assortment of food he had swindled and stolen.    

“Thank this guy, Ford, right?” Stanford nodded once. “He was the one who paid for it. Wasn’t cheap either. That woman was inflating the price ‘cause the prince is throwing some kinda party.” Ford felt himself freeze at Stan’s mention of the celebrations in his honor. He had been trying to escape the city and do some investigating in the desert when he came across Stan and the saleswoman. He had no interest in the feasts or the parading around and showing off for the foreign officials.    

Warm brown eyes looked up at him with glee and adoration, with maybe a hint of shyness. Her eyes catching just a hint of the light peeking through the gap in the ragged tapestry covering the giant hole in the wall. He couldn’t help but smile at her, something about her just filled his chest with warmth and affection. He knelt down and set the fabric in her hands like a prized treasure.

“Here you are, m’lady.” A faint blush rose to her cheeks, but she took the compliment in stride.

“Why thank you good sir. And my, what charming manners you have.” He smiled at her with ease and she smiled back with equal intensity. They shared a quiet giggle between them and exchanged names. He complimented her on such a pretty name and told her that the name Mabel meant someone who is kind and lovable. She blushed and giggled again.

Ford caught Stan and the boy rolling their eyes and putting together a fire to cook the goat leg and make a decent stew with the vegetables. Ford stood to help, but Stan waved him off. A tug on his robe brought his attention back to Mabel.

“Do you want to see some of the designs I came up with for this?” She held up the pink fabric and looked into Ford’s eyes with hope. He could tell she didn’t have much chance for company other than Stan and the boy, and she was having a hard time saying no to her. Her enthusiasm and cheerfulness was infections.

“Sure. What did you have in mind? Something modest or more flashy?” Her eyes sparkled at his answer. She took him by the hand and lead him over to her little corner. “I had a few designs in mind, actually. You look like you might know a thing or two about fashion what with the jewelry and the quality of your clothes. You can tell me what might be in style.” Ford let out a nervous laugh, he had forgotten about the earrings and gold pendant he wore. He was surprised no one had tried to mug him. But if all the thieves were like this tiny family, well, jewels were the least of their concern.      

Stanford did not expect to find himself in the company of the lowest class of people in his kingdom when he left home. He did not expect to help a poor man purchase a gift for his daughter and find him a criminal by necessity. He did not expect to share in their ill-gotten feast and spend the evening telling stories of wild escapades surviving on the streets and hair-raising adventures overheard from tavern goers. Stanford had few stories he could tell that wouldn’t give away his identity, but he could at least tell them about learning how to ride a camel when he was younger and how he now lived in perpetual fear of them even though he was required to ride them for ‘work’. He also told them of all the strange and mystical things that existed in the desert and even pulled out a leather-bound journal he was working on to catalogue all that he found. They boy, Mason, was fascinated by the pictures, but was ashamed to admit that he, nor his sister, could read all that well. Books were nigh on impossible to come by without money, even in a defunct academy.

“Hey, by the way, I noticed that you and Stan kinda look alike.” Mason had said, trying to hide his face behind Ford’s journal; he was looking at the sketches Ford had done of the spiraling pits of quicksand Ford had come across in his explorations.

“Yeah, now that you mention it, you two kinda do look alike. What if you’re long lost brothers?” Mable said in delight, rushing over to Ford and mapping out his features with her fingertips.

“Mable, stop, you’re embarrassing yourself.” Mason sounded more like he was the one embarrassed, and Mable stuck her tongue out in response, but did stop and return to her seat. “She is right, though. You two could be brothers.” Stan waved them off and dug out the watermelon for dessert.    

The large hole in the wall was really just a missing wall covered with a variety of cloth tacked to the wall on either side. It provided a beautiful ambient light and an amazing view of the sun setting behind the palace. Stanford tried to show enthusiasm, but the reminder of his future only seemed to suck the joy out of him.

When the children had gone to sleep, bellies full and heads equally full of stories and prospects for food tomorrow, Stanford found himself sitting in comfortable silence with the strange man he never expected to meet. He was reluctant to leave, and only did so long after the sun had set and Stan sat dozing against the frame the wall-sized window made. He stuck to the rooftops instead of the streets to find his way back, climbing over the palace wall with the aid of a perfectly concealed rope he had hidden earlier that day. He gathered some old things in a pile before he fell asleep that night, dreaming of pink dresses, narrow streets, and goat stew.  

Stanford made it a habit to venture back to that abandoned landing on the old part of town everyday leading up to the crowning ceremony and subsequent bridal choosing. He fully admitted he was avoiding it; not because he disliked women, far from, but he was in no hurry to marry a stranger just to satisfy his father’s need to be a grandfather. Besides, the mysteries of the desert still eluded his grasp and he had so much yet to learn before he settled down. His liaisons to the abandoned part of town was eating into the time he could be spending searching out answers. But he found he didn’t mind.  

He brought food, and books, and old toys for the children and brought companionship for his new friend. He and Stan would sit for hours and just talk about anything that happened to catch their interest. Stan was uneducated, but he was wicked smart about how to read people, how to avoid trouble and how to de-escalate conflict. The few times Stanford thought to bring up politics and law, Stan was quick to comment on what laws seemed to work and which ones only provided loopholes for the corrupt to exploit the lower masses.

While neither one ever discussed it since the first night, Mason’s comment that they looked alike still resonated in the prince’s mind. He often found himself staring at his reflection and analyzing his features, comparing them to his companion’s, and to his father’s. One night, he finally built up the courage to ask his father about the possibility of illegitimate heirs. He found his opportunity when his father began discussing his new duties as crowned heir. This was his chance.

“Father, I’ve been going over the old laws, and, while I know that I don’t have any siblings, I wonder what would happen if I did? How would that change the crown order? I read something that if the siblings were close in age, a high council vote would choose the heir, is that true?”

His father paused, letting his fort drop to his plate before looking his son in the eye. Or, maybe, the emperor always had a thin black cloth tied around his eyes for reasons unknown to Stanford. He had learned as a young boy to never ask. Filbrick was a hard man, and an even harder emperor. He desired physical wealth above all else and felt that any man could earn his way to wealth through hard and honest work. He cared little for knowledge unless it brought him more wealth and status with the neighboring kingdoms. Stan, and the children, was just the type of person his father wanted to drive out from the city. Stanford could feel the seconds pass like hours waiting for his father to speak.

“Yeah, it’s true. And I don’t know if you have any siblings. I never kept track of the number of of servants I bedded. Come to think of it, there was one girl that came forward about twenty years ago. Claimed she had borne a son from me. I recognized her, but she was a liar and a thief, so she was ejected from the palace. I never found out if her claims were true.” Filbrick resumed his meal, indicating the conversation was over.

“I…I have a brother?” Stanford refused to let it go. The possibility, the chance that he had a sibling, that he may very well have met his sibling, was too much of a pull to back down.

“I don’t know, nor care. If he’s as much of a liar and a thief as that woman, then he’s likely one of the surge draining the lifeblood from this city.” Filbrick was angry and bristled at Stanford’s insistence to continue the topic. His face smoothed a bit as he remembered the mystery woman. “Shame too, I liked her, she was feisty and didn’t kowtow to my every command.”

But Stanford had stopped listening. He had all the information he needed. Stan had told him of his mother, how she had found the academy building and kept him there as a child, of how she never came back. He told Ford about the stories she used to tell him of working in the palace, of how the halls were painted with gold and flowers and the kitchen was always stocked. She told him about the gardens and fountains and how kind and just the emperor was, if a bit misguided. Stan had told Ford he had seen firsthand what the laws of the kingdom did to people, what people turned to to protect themselves. He didn’t hate the emperor, but Stan felt that their ruler did not understand the plight of the underclass, did not know that hardship of going without and being forced to steal.

Stanford left that night after his last meal. He was supposed to be preparing for the ceremony tomorrow, but this was far too important. He dressed hurriedly and made sure to inform his room attendant that he would not need anything else that night. When the young girl (she was extraordinarily pretty, and unusually intelligent, he may have to bend the laws a bit when it came to marriage) had left, he escaped through the servant’s passage and over the palace wall.

After a week of traveling the rooftops and allies, he was familiar with the route to the old academy and the residents along the way knew him enough to leave him be. He wanted to help them, but he could do only one thing at a time, and after his crowning ceremony, he could intact proper change. But, for now, he just needed to find Stan and the kids. He dropped down from the roof to the deserted square and entered the academy. He could hear voices above and the crackling of a fire. He was just in time for dinner. Shame he had already eaten. He had grown to love the simple stew Stan made – he always made sure to bring gifts or ingredients to cover his portion, he wasn't completely devoid of logic.

He heard the voices stop as he mounted the stairs. A poor imitation of a chicken echoed off the walls and he returned his own, more recognizable call. “’Bout time! Was wondering when you’d come. Thought maybe you’d finally gotten lost.” Stanford chuckled at Stan’s thinly disguised worry. He saw Mason pick up the book Ford had given him, eager to impress the man with how quickly he was learning to read. But they all froze when he mounted the last stair into their tiny home.      

He stepped out of the shadows and removed his robe, letting the light catch his regal garb and reflect back a prism of colors in the tiny room he thought of as ore a home than his own. Stan’s eyes were blown wide, hair loose and piece of moldy bread left forgotten on the pottery piece he used as a plate. Stan recognized him now, or his clothes, at least. He worn this to all his public appearances, which is why he chose it for tonight. The children recognized him too, he was sure of it when Mason stopped in his tracks to greet Stanford. Mable clutched the doll he had given her and stared.

Stanford dropped the robe and crossed the room in a few quick paces. He stopped in front of the man he had come to think of as his best friend, one he hoped would now become his family.

“Stan,” He felt tears well up in his eyes as his took Stan by the shoulders and felt a smile split his face in two. “I have something wonderous to tell you.” Stan blinked and swallowed once, uncomprehending the sight before him.

He could hear the children whispering frantically back and forth. He caught only a few words. He embraced the man before him. The man that looked so much like him, the man that he had come to care so much for. The children he had come to love dearly in such a short period of time. He felt Stan slowly return the embrace, still stunned and visibly shaken. The words escaped Stanford’s mouth before he could stop them.  

“My brother.”