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tpc-tangled-au · 8 days ago

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Chapter 12: The Hope

“So that’s how the little bodkin got in the hole!”

The exclamation—and its sharp, accompanying clap—would have startled Melisande. Would have. That is, if she hadn’t been expecting such a reaction. But she knew Naphtali too well to expect less.

“That’s just how, isn’t it?” he went on, striding to the window and back again. His thoughts could never bear to sit still. “The lady buried the thing there, so she might be rid of it! And well for me, it’d seem!”

“It’d seem!” Baron repeated, smiling. Then, again, almost hushed, “It’d seem.”

Melisande’s eyes narrowed on him.

That smile wasn’t a full one.

What reason there was for it, she couldn’t imagine. And the smile was there. If not a full moon, a crescent still. Yet something, some unknown meaning, made a mask of it. There was a storm somewhere behind the moon.

She did not watch it longer. Even if she’d tried, she couldn’t. The stormclouds broke before the dawn she loved.

“Yes,” Naphtali picked up again, “but what about this fine Wayland fellow?”

Baron shook the moonlight from his face. “What about him?”

“Well, he was listening rather close to that young fae’s warning. And there’s their mysterious talk after! Not to mention his phantomly friend-turned-foe, off gallivanting the countryside.” He threw out his arms. “What did our Wayland do next? I’m sure he didn’t simply return home after all that!”

This, Melisande could answer. But another mouth opened first.

“Well,” Baron began, before he could have noticed her, “even if he did, he couldn’t return quickly. Azarias, you remember, had brought them both from the Underworld.”

Naphtali nodded, slow then quick. “Yes, wisping about like that.”

“And you know better than anyone how long a journey that is, without the aid of phantoms.” Baron sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever the case, his tidings did reach King Elian. By his own hand, or another’s.”

“Another’s,” Melisande whispered, hidden in her own hand.

“Wayland then either returned—or remained—here, in Othrys.”

“Remained.”

“Here?” asked the sunbeam. “Why did he stay?”

“To search, then…”

“Melisande, perhaps you should tell us this part.”

Melisande dropped her hand like a glass of water. When she looked up, Baron was eying her with lifted brows.

“After all,” he continued, unable to wash away the traces of his smirk, “you seem to be breathing footnotes already.”

Though feeling silly for being spotted, Melisande rolled her eyes. “Oh, Baron, you.”

But then, “Yes!” put in Naphtali excitedly. “Yes, why don’t you tell us? I should like to hear you tell more of the story. And—why, you must know more than even Baron at this part: you said you’d spoken to Wayland afore!”

At the attention (and the familiar little afore), her annoyance and embarrassment were all uprooted in an instant.

“I… I have.” She nodded once, slowly. “Very much.”

Naphtali’s eyes and smile widened. Then, all of a sudden, he dropped right down on the floor into a crouch, sitting like a scarlet frog. Staring up at her, intently and earnestly. “Then say on, fairest of storytellers! Say on! Tell us of your noble friend!”

It took her a false start or two to even begin speaking. The very sight of him, so silly and so sincere, brought spring itself into her heart. A garden of warmth grown in her chest, and reddening roses bloomed across her cheeks. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly for a moment. (Nor did Baron’s grinning help matters in the slightest).

Eventually, though, Melisande pulled in a long, deep breath. She met Naphtali’s eyes, then closed her own. She searched out the trail of Wayland’s story amidst her ivied mind. Then, at last, she found her voice.

Wayland knew he could not leave the kingdom of Othrys without finding his partner. So he gave his message to an Othryan herald, and sent him on to Elian in his stead.

That Reuel fellow, I’ll wager!

Then he searched. Across all the land, in every hiding place, higher and lower than many dared go. For days into months, he hunted. But he could find neither the greatest ruin nor the smallest sign. It was as if the phantom had vanished utterly that night. In the end, he had to give up, and pray that Azarias had become himself again.

Had he?

You already know the answer to that!

I know, Baron, but—

Hush!

Well, he was gone, wherever to. But since he WAS gone—and knowing all that he knew—Wayland decided to follow a new path. One that took him back, but not back to the Underworld…

At the sound of a door opening at his back, King Frederick turned. Before he could greet the welcome sight, it split itself. The smaller portion was plopped in his lap.

“Well, what’s this little man doing here?” he smirked affectionately.

The infant was already reaching for his face and babbling. “Der! Der!”

“He missed you,” replied Eudoria, with a knowing beam of a smile. “And I thought you might like to see a face not spouting Matters Of State.”

“Oh lord, don’t remind me of those.” He sighed, stretching his stiff spine. “I think it’s a conspiracy. Every article of business bushwhacking me at once.”

As if on cue, the baby smacked both his little hands on Frederick’s chest. “BAH!”

“Well, if they were plotting to assassinate your reading time with us, they succeeded.” She laughed a merry laugh.

The reading. That was today. Frederick shook his head, exhausted with himself. “Oh, my Eudoria. Why you married a king, I just don’t know.”

“I didn’t. I married a prince.” Her delicate hand slipped over his huge one. “And merchants and farmers have long days too.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Come, now. The cooks have been keeping the royal dinner warm almost twenty minutes, and even kings need sustenance.”

Frederick returned her smile wryly, even as his stomach rumbled. Oh, she always knew. Shifting his son in his arms, he started to get up.

A door echoed open from the other side of the throne room.

“Y’majesty?”

Frederick looked up. At the familiar sight, he sighed a grin. “Well, Lazarus, unless you’re asking if you’re still invited to dinner, I’d guess there’s some late-coming little affair of state scratchin’ at my door?”

But Lazarus didn’t grin in return. No sympathetic smirk. No look to reply ‘they just keep coming, don’t they?’ without a word, as he so often did. Neither the straight face he reserved for difficult diplomats, nor even the full solemnity he reserved for high councils, held his features. Not this time.

This time, there was hesitance. There was caution.

“Not state exactly, sire.”

“Oh?” Frederick furrowed his brow. Whatever lay beyond the door, it was something even Lazarus was wary of, and that deeply. “What, then?”

A moment’s hesitation. The counselor glanced behind, as if to make sure his eyes had not deceived him.

“A knight and a phantom, seekin’ audience with Your Majesty.”

The King of Othrys sat up as straight as if his spine were shot with ice.

A knight and a phantom.

Could it be?

He heard himself asking, “What names did they give?”

“The phantom called herself Lia.”

She calls herself Lia. Frederick began to feel the ice melt. Herself.

But the winter was not gone yet.

“The knight,” Lazarus went on, before the seasons could change, “is called Wayland, and says he knows you well.”

Silence frosted the room. Then Frederick nodded. “Yes. I know Wayland.”

The baby on his lap clapped his little hands.

“They appear to be from Elian, sire.”

“I’m sure that they are. Do they come bearing a message?”

Another glance, then back again. “They did not tell me their business, Your Majesty. The knight only said he wished to speak with you.”

Though the room was warm, chills ran beneath his sleeves.

But Frederick refused to succumb to them.

“Bring them in, Lazarus.” He lifted his crowned head. “I will hear them.”

A few seconds hovered. Then Lazarus nodded, and ducked back beyond the door.

The hand on his moved to his forearm. Frederick looked up. His dear wife’s grey eyes held him, questioning without defiance. His own gave silent reply, grave yet firm. He watched hers drift, and followed them to the sword hilt at his side. She knew what had happened before. And he remembered it all too well.

A moment’s consideration. He shook any doubt from his head.

Eudoria squeezed his arm gently, then let go. She reached to take the baby in his lap. Prometheus fussed and squirmed away, protesting the too-soon departure.

A sudden second-thought. Frederick took her outstretched hand.

“Leave him with me.”

Blinks fluttered her eyelids, and her brow furrowed. But he gave her the corner of a smile.

“It’ll be all right.”

He kissed her hand.

Eudoria didn’t say a word, but her eyes showed their struggle. Their doubts. Then, as he watched, they shifted. They chose. Their grey gleamed trust.

As the throne room door opened once more, Frederick’s dear queen nodded. She turned and was gone through the door behind the throne. Her husband then faced his visitors.

Two entered at the ushering of Lazarus. The phantom was indeed a woman, a silvery lady. Frederick had not seen her before. Her hair seemed an auburn brown, long and waving. And… she was old. Not old in age—from her appearance, she had died a woman, not a crone. But the years since that day left her eyes ancient.

Almost like the frost-child that night, if any who had once been human could be like that.

But, though Frederick did not know the dead, he knew the living at once. In trod Wayland, the same messenger he met that fateful night. Yet… not quite the same. His face was more worn, his gait more weary. A shadow-beard crept across his chin. And his eyes…

His eyes were fastened wide on the golden-haired baby.

They did not stare too long. Almost as soon as Frederick noticed it, Wayland met his gaze. He bowed, deeply but not dramatically. The silver lady did the same, curtseying in a style long forgotten by the world.

“Greetings, King Frederick, Master of Othrys.”

“Greetings to you, Sir Wayland,” nodded Frederick, as Lazarus took his place at the king’s side, “and to your companion.”

The phantom called Lia dipped her head. “Thank you, young king,” she answered, and spoke to him no more.

Frederick lifted his hand for them to rise. As they obeyed, he continued, “I must give you my gratitude, Sir Wayland. I have spoken with King Elian, and he has aided me in making preparations for what may come. Your service to your master saved my kingdom.” He smiled grimly. “Your service to me saved my life. For that, and for your warning, I thank you.”

Little Prometheus dipped forward, swinging his arms out. “Da ka!”

Though Wayland bowed his head, there was a cloud over it. “I fear, sire, that my warnings are not yet ended.”

Frederick’s firm hold tightened, ever so slightly, around his son. “Is it your friend, Azarias?”

The silver lady did not speak. But her gaze hardened at the mention of that name. No—it softened.

Wayland’s face gave answer before his words. “No, Your Majesty. I have hunted for Azarias a year and a day, and I have found nothing.” He took in a slow breath. “Either he has become himself again, and hides where I cannot find him, or he has remained… as last we saw him, and left the world of men. The form he took could not last this long.”

The baby cooed inquisitively, playing with Frederick’s sleeve cuff. Wayland’s eyes dropped once more before he continued.

“I do not think Azarias will trouble your household, great king.”

The slightest sigh came from behind him—all the sign of relief Lazarus would show in council.

Frederick’s chest loosened. But not his hold.

“That is well,” he nodded. “But, if he will not trouble us again…”

“Why, then, does his partner?” finished the knight grimly, with the faintest specter of a long-dead smile.

He could not help but return it. “Nay. You, sir, I welcome. But what do you warn me of, if not of him?”

The specter vanished. “Of something I do not know, Your Majesty.” And with that, Wayland began to relate all the things he had been told by the Winter Child that night.

Frederick did not doubt that it was truth. The Boy, he had no doubt, was not a child of man. The look in those eyes was more ancient, wise, kind than any, even the primeval woman before him now. And after that night, he trusted Wayland with his life. It was the reason he could be so bold as to keep his infant son in the throne room with him; a thing he refused to do at any other meeting (even meetings with safer lands than the Underworld).

It was not the only reason he chose to do so. But it was the only reason he could.

Soon, Wayland had spoken all (or at least, all for the moment). The king leaned back in his throne and considered. The infant on his lap shook his curly head, bobbling gravely.

“So,” he said at last. “You warn me first that the stars themselves are fixin’ to wage war on my kingdom. Now you come again to tell me some unknown witchery is gunning for my family?”

“I can see no other possibility, Your Majesty.”

He was silent. At his side, Lazarus was silent.

Only little Prometheus was not, swinging a tiny fist as if with a tiny sword, squealing at his unseen enemies.

They seemed a legion. A devilish horde, with each spear pointed at his son’s heart.

“Then we will guard,” he declared, set in steel. “Set a watch at all times. Make every soldier a silvren sword.”

A sudden stream of words burst from the phantomess, who had watched Wayland silently for so long.

Frederick sat forward, opening his mouth to engage her. But she did not look at him. Her eyes of objection turned only to Wayland. She seemed not to notice that Frederick had even moved.

So he leaned back instead, keeping hold of the baby (who was occupied in squealing and gibbering in return).

“Lazarus,” the king whispered, “do you know what she’s saying?”

Lazarus shook his head. “I ain’t even sure what language she’s speaking. It’s old, though.” He tsked, then added in a whisper, “Mighty old.”

The ancient complaint ceased, as suddenly as it began. Wayland looked as if he had spoken to her. But he had not uttered a word.

Lia spared a glance toward Frederick. Then she spoke silence to the knight.

The knight shook his head.

“Well?” Frederick sat straight, folding his hand round the baby’s little chest. “What says she, Sir Wayland?”

With a sigh, Wayland turned from the lady. “She protests that such measures will do little good, Your Majesty.”

Another surge of ancient whispers.

“And that your history will prove it.”

“That so, indeed?” cut in Lazarus, stepping forward and looking most civilly nettled. Frederick could see his head held high from the corner of his eye. Oh, this was not a thing to disparage around Lazarus. “And does this fine lady know our history? Does she know King Carter? King Thomas the Fearless? King Ward?”

“She knew them indeed, advisor,” Lia replied, looking as if seeing him for the first time. “Yes, I knew them.”

A moment he stood. Almost hesitating on the border between awe and offense. When he spoke again, it was carefully. “And do they prove that Othrys can’t protect her own?”

“Oh, they were valiant. And the power in their hands was great indeed. Their own were safe in even the shadows of their kings’ cloaks. With the stones’ power, they protected against all this land faces and more.”

As Lia spoke, she did not look at Lazarus. Not truly. Her eyes stared, as if watching the years of the world span ethereal before her, immaterial monoliths of history all risen at once, somewhere far beyond the world they belonged to.

Then she turned to the physical man. And she may as well have been turning to spot a fly going past.

“But for you, little one, they are long dead. The men you have among you now never waged war with the likes of these. You tell your stories of those who could. But their distance proves.”

Lazarus dipped his head and smiled up tight. Oh, he was far past the borders of offense now. “’scuse me, ma’am, but we’ve had phantoms a-plenty, pickin’ fights with us, and losin’ em, too. Sire, we don’t—”

“Phantoms, yes,” sighed Frederick, guessing her end. “Not sorcerors and faes, though. Not for generations. That, I think, is your point, ma’am?”

The woman nodded, and looked at them no more. Her intangible eyes seemed to have other things to look at than mortals. Than mere men of any here-and-now.

A moment. Then, “Yessir, Y’Majesty,” muttered Lazarus, stepping back. But Frederick could almost feel the glower he sent toward the right-proven phantom.

In the midst of this silent strife, Wayland stepped forth, interposing a truce. “Swords can slay sorcerors, O Master. And silvren can indeed pierce the fae. Such things have protected me in many a battle.”

“I know this,” Frederick nodded, “firsthand.”

“But what good will a thousand swords do a man, if he is enchanted ere he can wield the one he holds? If he cannot see through the guises a witch may take? Your men are brave, Your Majesty. I have seen them. But they do not know what they are fighting.”

Lazarus started to step forward once more, but Frederick held up his hand. “What, then, do you suggest, sir?”

“That you grant the hope of a messenger.”

With these words, Wayland took a knee, sinking to the floor. And that sinking was heavy, as if he had been wounded and would not rise again. But his knees held firm. He bowed his head, and did not fall.

“Good King Frederick, I humbly ask that you take me into your service.”

Wordlessness gripped every Othryan in the room. The king, in wonder. The counselor, in stark bewilderment. The prince, in blind curiosity. None knew what to say to the kneeling knight.

“Well, sir,” was all the reply Frederick could find. He hardly knew why. “Well, sir, now.”

“Is my boon so strange, sire?”

“No.” He chuckled softly. “No, I can’t say it is. Sudden, striking, surely so. But not strange.” Not in my courts, he added in thought. Then, again, And… somehow… not for you.

“Well, now—if I may, sire,” put in Lazarus, tentatively. Frederick nodded. The counselor took another step forward. “Well, now, it might be a little strange, considering this fine fella’s warning. Now, I ain’t meanin’ to be rude by this,” he added, his gaze turning over the phantomess before reaching the man on his knees, “but… well, sir knight, if you say a thousand swords do no good, what help’ll one more bring?”

Wayland nodded. “An honest question, counsel.” He lifted his face to the king. “In the Underworld, in my lord Elian’s service, I and my fellow sentinels have battled many such foes. We have contended with dark forces, by strength of arm or of will. And we have contended with their charms and deceits.”

Prometheus suddenly swung his arm down, screaming delight once more.

A glance down. It quickly flicked away, as if forbidden. “I know how to fight them, sire. More still, I know how to spot them, and how to drive them away. Those who prowl, and those who pretend, will not pass my notice.”

Frederick began to see his intention. Yet something else reminded itself into consideration. “You have done all this in Elian’s service. What, then, of him? Does your own master know you have come to me for this purpose?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. If you grant me my hope, I have his leave. If you deny, I shall return to the Underworld with this good lady,” —he lent Lia his eye— “and continue in his service, as I have these sixteen years.”

His hand went to the scabbard at his side. Lazarus jolted slightly.

Frederick did not.

Slowly, Wayland drew the blade he had used to defend the King of Othrys, that winter’s night that seemed so lately passed. He held it up in both hands. One of his gloves was gone, revealing the handmark of Elian’s men.

“I offer you my sword and my service, King Frederick. I ask no rank nor title, but only to wear the red of your livery. I cannot ward off every danger. But set me as a watchman over your royal family, and I will do my utmost to drive away any who would harm them.”

Frederick believed him. But now came the test. Not only of Wayland, but of his own decision, just before the messengers entered.

“Even though they only live by the refusal of your first warning?”

The man lifted his stony eyes. It was not Frederick’s face they found. But in that look, Frederick found the answer he’d been looking for. The reason for keeping his son with him. He had seen something that night, something in his eyes when Frederick spoke of his family. The eyes had hardened. But they had not lost it.

“Yes, sire,” said Wayland, his stare fixed unwavering on the child. “Yes.”

Prometheus’ round face turned upward. He spotted Wayland at last. Instantly, he lurched forward. His grabby little hands stretched out eagerly. He was reaching for the raven-haired soldier who wanted and hoped—truly—to protect him. He was cooing. What’s more, he was beaming.

And, in that little moment, Wayland’s gaze lost all its hardness.

~*~

A knock came at the door. “Prince Prometheus?”

Naphtali did not rise, but turned his head. Baron couldn’t see his expression. However, the prince shifted forward eagerly. His hand lifted in half-gesture, half-greeting. And from his voice, Baron knew he was beaming.

“Ah, welcome, good Travers! Aye, here’s your quarry! Come in, fellow!”

The raven-haired soldier stepped into the room, the red of his livery catching the last light. He bowed to his royal charge. He nodded to Melisande, then to Baron.

“Evening, Travers,” greeted Melisande, with growing smile.

(Baron almost smirked. The one man who could get her to smile like that, besides Naphtali at least.)

A flash of softness as Travers returned her smile. Then he went straight as steel. Oh, he was here officially. “What have you been doing today, Your Highness? You’ve hardly been seen since lunchtime.”

“Why, writing the story, Travers!” exclaimed Naphtali, turning in his crouch.

“The story of what?”

“The story of everything!”

“Or at least, everything we know,” Baron added with a wink.

Travers aimed a different sort of nod at him, and his smile turned wry for a moment. “Is everything you know interesting?”

A shrug. “That’s the hope.”

“Well, that hope’s been fulfilled, at least!” put in Naphtali, grinning from one of them to the other. “We’ve talked of the fireflower, and the lighthouse, and the little poniard in the hole, and all the happenings of my early winters! It’s been grand.”

Baron noted a stony look when Naphtali told their ‘talked-ofs’. Though, he couldn’t tell if it was the ‘early winters’, or if the fireflower’s mention put it there. I suppose either might make sense, Baron pondered. I know he still remembers the night that witch finally slipped past his guard.

But, in the midst of this pondering, another strange thing caught his attention: Melisande, sitting quite still. Her hands were folded. Her eyes were affixed. She was waiting for something, waiting patiently. Then the soldier seemed to notice.

“I was just telling them of Wayland,” Melisande said, perfectly plain, “and the day he came to the Othryan guard.”

Silence caught in the air. It hovered there, if only for a moment.

In that little moment, Travers’ gaze lost all its hardness.

“Ah.”

The moment lingered a bit longer. But, soon enough, it was royally expelled.

“Aha! So Wayland did come into Father’s service, then?”

Melisande held on a few seconds more, then turned away. “Yes, Naphtali. King Frederick granted Wayland his boon, and he became a soldier of Othrys. He left behind his old name, and his old life, that day.”

“A little like his partner, perhaps?” proffered Baron.

But Melisande shook her head firmly at that. “No. Wayland did so, not to flee, but to defend. To faithfully guard the fiery child…” She turned her gaze, brimming with gratitude. “…and others he had no need to keep as he did.”

Travers said nothing.

Oh, Baron would have a great deal to write of that nothing.

“A fine fellow indeed,” sighed Naphtali, who seemed to have missed every bit of nothing said. Once it had passed, he turned in his crouch once more. “Well, then, fine fellow, what news? What’s brought you to our scriveners’ den, hmm?”

In the fading light, it was hard to tell if Travers had shivered. But his official straightening was plain to see. “Your orders, Your Highness.”

A wild-haired head cocked. “Mine?”

“Yours, sire. You had wanted me to remind you,” he cleared his throat, quite unsuspiciously, “when it was time.”

“Time? Time for—”

Naphtali fell over backward.

“OH! Yes! Yes, yes, quite right, quite—quite so, indeed, yes!”

Even as he spoke, he scrambled from the floor, trying desperately to straighten his clothes. (They weren’t at all wrinkled.) If Travers’ nothing had been silent, Naphtali’s was said aloud, a stammered nonsense.

Baron couldn’t help but snicker at his flustered display. If Melisande says no to THAT, I’m sure I never knew a thing about her. But, his thought added, as he saw her fond smile bloom unhidden, I know her well indeed.

The same scarlet as his vest, Naphtali cleared a swarm of butterflies from his throat. “Yes, well. Well, my thanks for the reminder, good sir.” He sighed, quite sharply. That seemed to do it, for afterward, he squared his shoulders, head held high, and offered a hand to his lady. The crack in his voice was almost imperceptible.

“Will you come, me dear?” he asked.

Surprise lifted Melisande’s brows, but her smile did not vanish. If anything, it grew. “Aye, mo dòchas.” And she took his hand as she rose. “I’ll come.”

Naphtali swelled at the sight and sound of it. But he seemed to try to suppress the energy threatening to erupt. He nodded to Travers. “Thanks, good soldier.” He nodded to Baron. “Thanks, good friend.”

“You’re welcome,” Baron smirked, then shooed them away. “Go on now. I’ll handle the letters, you two… have a good time.”

It was as much as a starting gunshot. Naphtali bounced on his heels, then shared a glance with Melisande. She seemed to see the burst coming. She picked up her skirts with her other hand. The second after, Naphtali catapulted out the door, holding onto her like his life depended on it. They disappeared into the castle halls. And—Baron wasn’t quite sure of this—it almost sounded as if a laugh echoed after them.

He was sure that he heard a soft laugh from Travers, though. As he looked up, he caught something even softer in his face. Something… well… peaceful.

“Look at them,” he breathed. “Still those same children, really. Running down the halls together, off to some surprise. But look at them now.” A deep, slow sigh that hitched. “Just look at them now.”

Baron thumped his arm playfully. “Don’t tell me this soldier is a sap.”

Travers rolled glistening eyes, thumping him right back. “He’s a father. You’ll understand that sometime.”

Baron laughed. Then, he looked at the stack of letters on the desk, barely still illuminated. He looked at the ring on his hand, catching a faint gleam from the window.

He looked at the corner of the bench. And he could have sworn he saw the future sitting there, waiting for him to read.

“That’s the hope.”

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 11/Wayland and the Winter Child ... Chapter 12/you are here! ... Book Two/yet to come!]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

#tpc tangled au #the kingdom of othrys au #salt and light #the actual fic #naphtali #melisande #baron #wayland #travers #king frederick #lazarus #queen eudoria #lia

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