#matteusz andrejewski

[incorrect-class-quotes]

Charlie: Once, I lost my ex at a party and found him hooking up with some random dude

Charlie: Last night, I lost Matteusz at a function and found him outside trying to befriend a stray cat

Charlie: ✨Upgrades✨

[sprnklersplashes]

Truth Of His Dreams (10/?)

AO3

“We had him right in front of us!” Antony, one of the soldiers sent to London with Quill, whispers harshly as they briskly head back to their hotel. It’s nowhere near as lavish as the ones they pass on the streets, but the budget didn’t stretch to four star accommodation. “We had him right in front of us and you told us to wait.”

“Yes I did,” she says sharply, not looking at him, not even slowing down. “Patience is the key to victory.”

“Did your father teach you that?” he asks, his tone flippant. She stops in her tracks, the question hitting her face-on, seeming to freeze every muscle in her body. She grabs Antony by the shoulder and turns to make him look at her. Rather than pin him against the wall behind them, she keeps him there with his back to the road, where he can hear the sound of passing cars. Regret immediately flares into his eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitch up into a smile, despite the unsettling nausea in her stomach and the way her hands shake even as she grips the front of his coat.

“Maybe,” she says, deciding it to be the best reply. She lets him go, secure in the knowledge that he won’t mention her family again. Her father is legendary among former revolutionaries and especially in the police and army. Her, not so much. She’s heard whispers in the cafeteria; she is where she is only because of her father’s act, sympathetic officers and admirers in office boosting her up. She won’t be mocked, certainly not by someone beneath her. She turns and keeps walking, Antony scurrying just behind her. “Rachel is staking out the Queen’s apartments. Once we know her next move, we can make ours. If she doesn’t claim this boy as her heir, then we take him and his friends back to Rhodia. Let the justice system deal with them. And if she does-” She feels the gun in her pocket. She knows it’s a dead, inanimate object, cold hard metal, yet she swears it’s burning in her pocket. “You know what we do if she does.” She suppresses a shiver. “What happens to him if she does.”

“Will you?” Antony asks after a long silent pause. She glares back at him, hoping to subdue him without having to say anything. He doesn’t meet her gaze, but shrugs.

“Humour me,” he says quietly.

“I have to,” she replies, knowing how she’s not answering his question. “Otherwise we have a legitimate heir running wild in the world.” She repeats Dorothea’s rhetoric from that day in her office, finding herself almost mimicking her tone. “A threat to the stability of the Republic.”

“Is he?” Antony asks. Quill rolls her eyes. Bravery and boldness are some of the best traits a solider can have, and she’d never condemn someone for showing them, but she wishes that in this particular moment, Antony had less of it.

“I should have pushed you into that road when I had the chance,” she mutters, barely audible enough for herself to hear, let alone him. She turns around to face him, keeping walking backwards. “Of course he remains a threat, Antony,” she explains. “You think he won’t return to reclaim his crown? Or the fact that he’s alive and thriving won’t inspire some loyalists back home?” Antony nods, not saying another word until they get back to the hotel.

The lobby is almost completely deserted when they get back in, one man dozing on one of the leather couches, his coat pulled over him like a blanket. Quill shakes her head at the sight before stepping into the lift to the third floor, riding up in an uncomfortable silence. She looks at Antony out of the corner of her eye. She almost feels guilt, and she hates it.

When she enters her room, the only source of light is the little bedside lamp. Jenkins sits next to the wall, initially reading, but jumps up when he sees her. She barely pays him any attention. Her focus is on the little girl starfished out on one of the bed, her mouth open and snoring softly. Aware of Jenkins and Antony’s presences, she crosses over to the bed, resting her hand on her cheek just for a moment. Kat murmurs and snuggles into her pillow, but she doesn’t wake. Quill lets her hair fall forward, hiding her soft, affectionate smile.

“Any problems with her?” she whispers.

“None,” Jenkins replies. “She just kept asking when you’d be home. What you were doing?”

“What did you tell her?” she asks, turning sharply to face him, her blood running cold.

“That you were doing work,” he answers delicately. “She didn’t ask what kind of work.” She turns back to look at her. “Good for us she doesn’t ask questions. Not old enough yet, I suppose.”

“She will be one day,” Quill mutters.

She had been old enough to ask her father. She had been old enough to listen to him and be told that he shot three people in the head, be told it was all for the greater good. And she had been old enough to listen to her parent’s marriage deteriorate day by day since that night, to watch her father stare vacantly at the wall with a bottle of vodka in his hand, watch him get up later and later until one day he didn’t get out of the bed. Her mother had ushered her out of the room and forbidden her from entering, even when paramedics came to do the final check and confirm the worst to her.

She bites her lip, tears overflowing in her eyes as she keeps sitting next to Kat. One day, Kat will be old enough to ask questions about what happened tonight. And one day, she’ll have to look her in the eye and answer her. Tell her what she did.

Her father’s daughter.

                                                                                               *****

Matteusz checks over the contents of his bag one more time. He barely has any money, but he’s heard that flights to Rhodia are cheap. Or maybe he can get a boat to France and do the long trek all over again, but backwards this time. But he’s not staying; he decided on that last night. He barely slept, staring up at the ceiling, the image of Charlie’s tear filled eyes and face twisted in rage looking at him stuck on his mind. He remembers the venom in his voice as he spoke to him. He wonders if he’s remembering it wrongly, if he remembers Charlie being more angry than he actually was. Or less.

Charlie has every right to hate him after all.

“You were just going to go?” a voice asks behind him. He turns and sees April, leaning against the wall, looking at him sadly, big round sad eyes and her little pink lips turned down, while Dash sits at her heels. She looks at his packed bag. “Were you even going to say goodbye?”

“Where’s Ram and Tanya?” he asks instead of answering her.

“In the other room,” she answers, sticking her hands in the pockets of her jeans. The make-up from last night is mostly removed, leaving only patches of foundation she was too tired to scrub off. “You’re not the only one upset here.”

“I know,” he replies. “I hope I’m not because we should be upset, we should all be-”

“We heard it all from Charlie last night,” she tells him sharply. “And yeah, we all feel bad about this Matteusz. But we’re not running.”

“Who says I’m running?” he asks. “He is where he belongs, I’m going where I belong.”

“And where’s that?”

“Rhodia. Where else?”

“Rhodia?” she asks, her voice jumping up an octave, at least. “Are you serious? You’re a wanted man there, Matteusz. You put so much effort into escaping and now you’re running back.”

“This escape wasn’t my idea,” he reminds her. “And fine, maybe I won’t go back. But I’m not staying here.”

“You’re giving up on yourself,” she tells him. “And on him.”

“He doesn’t care,” he replies. He swallows the lump in his throat. “He hates me. He hates all of us.” April bows her head. “So I am going wherever he is not. That is how I will make peace with myself.”

“And I can’t talk you out of it?” she asks. He shakes his head, knowing that if he says anything else, he’ll start crying.

She comes over and hugs him tightly. He replies in kind. She’s his friend, after all. They all are, despite everything.

“At least send us a postcard,” she whispers. “From wherever you end up.”

“I’ll try,” he replies.

A knock at the door causes them to pull away, both quickly drying their tears.

“It’s open,” Matteusz says, assuming it’s Tanya or Ram. Selfishly, he hopes it’s Ram, because he’ll be better at goodbyes than Tanya is.

Only it’s not either of them. It’s a tall, blond haired man, unknown to both of them, in a pristine white suit, looking around the room rather uncomfortably.

“Is one of you Matteusz Andrzjewski?” he asks.

“Yes, I am,” Matteusz answers, looking over at a confused April. She shrugs and looks back at their new guest cautiously. Matteusz looks out of the corner of his eye, taking note of the heavy looking book sitting on the desk, just in case he needs a weapon.

“I need you to come with me,” he says. “By order of the Queen Mother of Rhodia.”

“Why?” he asks. “What does she need with me?”

“I’m just the messenger,” he replies. “She says you and she have unfinished business.” Matteusz looks back at April, his stomach turning. “The car is outside to take you to her apartments.” His tone is final and demanding, and Matteusz doesn’t want to see what would happen if he disobeyed. There’s a bulge in the man’s trousers, looking big enough to conceal a baton.

“Okay,” he agrees. April runs up and grabs him by the shoulder, shaking her head frantically. He takes her hand off him, holding it gently. “Give me an hour. If I am not back by then, assume I’ve been kidnapped or something and call the police.” He looks back at the man, who pulls at his tight-looking collar. “An hour, all right?” Behind him, Dash whimpers and runs to Matteusz, nuzzling against his legs, bouncing lightly, his little tail already wagging. Maybe he wants to see his master. “The dog comes too.”

“Fine by me,” he says, having no desire to argue. April nods and reluctantly allows him to follow the man out of the room, Dash running at his heels. They walk down to the lift in uncomfortable, prickly silence, the man staring ahead of him in the lift, only glancing at Matteusz once or twice out of the corner of his eye. He walks him briskly to the car; it’s not a brand Matteusz knows, barely any cars were manufactured in Rhodia, but it’s big and shining black, the edges lined with silver. Inside, the seats are white leather and sparkling clean, so much so that Matteusz feels awkward sitting on it, as though he might leave a dirty handprint on the fine upholstery. Or that Dash, excited as he is, might leave an unfortunate yellow stain on it.

When they get to the Queen’s apartment building, Matteusz has to fight the urge to let his jaw drop open at the sight of it. It, like almost every building in London, towers over him impressively, light brown with intricate patterns carved into it. If he looks up and squints, he can just about make out the angels sitting on the two front corners. Dozens of French windows, framed by red or purple or blue curtains, line along the walls, and a red carpet rolls down the imposing stone staircase, which in turn is covered by a white and gold canopy.

“Come on,” the man says to him, his tone not unkind. “She’s waiting for you in her apartment.” He hurries across the foyer to the lift, barely able to take in the colourful mosaic on the white tiles or the diamond chandelier above him, resting against the white and gold ceiling. He thought the hotel he was staying in with his friends was grand, but this is another world entirely.

The man takes him up to the top floor, the lift moving so swiftly that he worries he might faint, although that could be just nerves. His nails dig into his sweaty palms, his heartbeat growing louder every second. He’s not sure how he’s meant to even speak to the Queen Mother with his mouth so dry. He thinks briefly that since he reunited her with her grandson, the least she could do is give him a glass of water.

He follows the man out of the lift and to the first door on the right, where he knocks swiftly. Countess Oswald opens it, smiling warmly at Matteusz.

“Thank you for bringing him, Elton,” she says, before looking at Matteusz. “Come in, she’s been expecting you.”

“So I hear,” he says under his breath, stepping into the main living room. “Can you take care of my dog for a moment?” She nods and scoops up Dash before leading him to where the Queen Mother sits elegantly on a small blue loveseat, wearing a long green dress, her hair held up with an emerald clasp. He’s not sure how to feel about her; despite her change of heart, he’s still not sure he forgives her for how she treated Charlie at the ballet. He settles for bowing slightly to her, keeping his head up.

“Your Majesty,” he greets. “Happiness looks lovely on you.” He glances around nervously, wringing his hands. “He’s not here, is he?”

“No,” she answers with a shake of her head. “No Charles is downstairs, conversing with some old family friends.” She smiles, soft but radiant. “It’s coming back to him now. Bit by bit. We looked through old photographs this morning. He remembers how he loved them.”

“Is he all right?” Matteusz asks. The question takes her by surprise.

“As well as he can be,” she says with a sigh. “It’s difficult for him. Living with the burden of being the only one to survive. I imagine it will be hard for him to bear.”

“I know the feeling,” he states. She cocks her head to the side, but she shakes his head. “Your assistant said you had business with me?”

“Indeed,” she answers, beckoning him closer. He does so but maintains a respectful distance. She gestures to the leather suitcase sitting on the loveseat, opening it to reveal more money than Matteusz has ever seen in his life. So many piles of paper bills, they almost seem worthless. “The reward money. 10 million, I believe is what I advertised.”

Matteusz looks at it. He has never dreamed of having so much money. He could buy a house for himself, Tanya, April and Ram, in the nicest part of London. They could live in luxury and freedom, attending ballets, eating whatever they wish whenever they wanted. They’d never want for anything.

“Thank you,” he says. “But no.” She frowns, coming closer to him. “I don’t want your money.”

“Then what can I give you for returning him safely to me?” she asks. “Jewels? Cars? Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“Unfortunately, what I want isn’t something you can give me,” he says. He bows again, lower this time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. But you may keep your money. I would never know what to do with it.” A daring idea sparks in the back of his mind, and he takes a chance. “Perhaps try giving some of it to charity.” He turns to leave, but she grabs a hold of his arm, turning him back to face her. He casts his eyes down as she studies his face, muttering something under her breath.

“That’s not a Rhodian accent,” she states.

“I’m not Rhodian. Not by blood anyway. I’m Polish.”

“I see,” she says. “What’s your surname?”

“Andrzjewski,” he says carefully. She nods, her face unreadable.

“There was a man who worked in our palace,” she tells him. “His name was Andrzjewski. Not a common name at all, certainly not in Rhodia.” He looks at her, slightly surprised, and she laughs warmly. “I remember more than you think. I knew many servants by name. He had a son, too. And if I do my maths correctly… How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he replies, his voice shaking.

“Mm,” she says. “Just a few months older than Charles.” She lets go of his arm, knowing she doesn’t need to hold him there. “You know I keep thinking about last night. How sure you were that he was the real Prince. And then Charles told me how he survived last night. He said a serving boy led him to safety.” Matteusz turns his head away, but she grasps his chin and gently pulls him back. “You were that boy weren’t you? The boy who saved him. That’s how you knew it was him.”

“Yes,” he answers after a long while. “Yes.”

“I should grant you a Lordship,” she says. “Leave you a part of my inheritance in my will.”

“No,” he says. “I do not want your money. Or any title.”

“Then I can give you one thing,” she tells him honestly. “My eternal and sincere gratitude.” She grasps his hand tightly, her hands trembling. “Thank you for saving him.”

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly. He almost laughs; you’re welcome is such a light, trivial phrase, but he can’t think of anything else to say. “I should get back to my friends.”

“If you wish,” she says, gesturing to the door. “Elton will deliver you back. But Mr Andrzjewski, if you ever change your mind, I will not hesitate to hand over the reward money.”

“Charlie is home,” he says. “That is my reward.” He turns and leaves a slightly shocked-he’d dare say impressed-Queen Mother in her apartments and leaves, clicking the door shut behind him. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans against the door to give his shaking legs a moment of peace.

“Are you ready to be taken home?” the young man, Elton, asks. Matteusz jumps, having not known he was there.

“Yeah, yeah.” Elton gives him an easy grin, setting a shaking Dash on the floor, who immediately begins pawing at Matteusz’s legs.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, leading him to the lift. “Nice dog.” The lift opens just before Elton can push the button.

Matteusz wants to turn and run when he sees who steps out; Charlie, dressed in a light blue suit jacket and white trousers, his blonde hair pushed slightly to the side, accompanied by a young dark haired woman dressed similarly to Elton. He sees Matteusz immediately, stopping dead in his tracks. So many emotions cover his face in a single moment, shock, confusion, maybe a slight bit of happiness thought could be tricking himself out of wishful thinking, then finally a moment of realisation followed by a quiet kind of anger.

“Matteusz,” he greets coldly.

“Charlie,” he says.

“Young man,” the woman next to Charlie says, her voice shaking slightly. “You will address the Prince as Your Royal Highness. And bow when you speak to him.”

“Jenny, that’s really not-” Charlie begins.

“It’s fine,” Matteusz interrupts. He bows slightly, just enough to keep looking at him. “Your Royal Highness.”

“I trust you have everything you were looking for,” he says bitterly. Matteusz tries not to show how much it stings.

“My business is finished,” he simply states.

“Good.” Before Charlie can say anything else, Dash runs up to him, pawing at his legs. Charlie breaks out into a smile, the same smile that made Matteusz’s heart skip a beat on a rooftop in Rhodia. Seemingly having forgotten everything else, he scoops Dash into his arms, chuckling as he licks his face. He eyes Matteusz suspiciously, one hand running through his fur.

“You brought the dog?” he asks.

“He wanted to come,” he states. “Maybe he missed you. He is technically your dog.”

“I suppose so,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course it is.” Charlie nods stiffly. He gasps slightly, his eyes already shining.

“Goodbye Matteusz,” he says, and he hurries down the hall with Dash in his arms. The woman who was with him, Jenny, shoots Matteusz an apologetic look before heading after him, and he gets into the lift with an uncomfortable looking Elton.

“Is that his dog?” he asks as he presses the button. Matteusz looks at him oddly, since that was the last question he could think to be asked. “Just making conversation.”

“He had it when I met him,” he explains.

“Hey, look, I know it’s none of my business.” If he wasn’t committed to being kind, he’d tell him he’s right, it’s none of his business and ask him to stop talking. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” When he turns to look at him, Elton simply shrugs. “I mean, you’re not exactly subtle. And I know heartbreak when I see it.” He doesn’t reply, simply sliding his hands into his back pockets. “That must be rough, mate.”

“Rough is one word for it,” he replies.

                                                                                               *****

Charlie keeps stroking Dash’s fur rhythmically, trying to banish Matteusz from his mind. It’s not easy when he’s been all he can think about whenever he has a free moment. Luckily for him, he rarely has a free moment now, with old family friends clamouring around to see him. He starts recalling names once he sees them, bits and pieces of his fragmented memory coming back to him, building back him up from the nothing he used to be, brick by brick.

“Grandmother?” he calls out as he steps into her apartment-their apartment, he corrects. She’s given him the guest bedroom, despite Countess Oswald insisting he can take hers. He’d be fine sleeping on the floor in the living room. “Grandmother, are you here?”

“Here I am, love,” she says, coming out of her own bedroom. She crosses over to him as quickly as her old legs will carry her, eyeing the dog in his arms with amusement.

“Yeah,” he says delicately. “Um, about that. He was mine in Rhodia and I took him across Europe and…” He takes a sharp breath in, deciding to leave Matteusz out altogether. “He uh, he followed me here. Can I hold onto him?”

“Of course you can, darling,” she says, stroking his cheek. She’s touched him so much since they found each other, stroking his face and hair, holding his hand and touching his shoulder. Like he might disappear on her again. Still, he won’t complain. It’s been a long time since someone was so affectionate with him.

Dash, apparently bored, jumps out of his arms and runs around the room, exploring every new piece of furniture available to him. Charlie sees his grandmother try not to wince when he nestles up to the couches and chairs, no doubt leaving his hair everywhere.

“He is trained isn’t he?” she asks him.

“Uhh, probably.” He says, thinking back to Rhodia. They had set up some newspapers in the corner of the theatre and taken turns trying to train Dash to do his business in them. It took a while, normally leading to loud complaints from Ram and debates over who was going to clean it up. He shakes his head. Forgetting his former friends is harder than he thought it would be.

“Well we’ll have to get someone in to train him anyway,” his grandmother says. “Now come here.” She takes his arm and leads him over to the couch. “Tonight, we’ll announce you to the world, officially, right here in the hotel. A celebration for Rhodians only.” She squeezes his hands. “A reminder that they didn’t win. Not entirely.” He nods, but his smile dips slightly. No doubt the room will be filled with Rhodian nobility, but they won’t compare to what was lost that night. Every person he meets lost someone eight years ago.

“I wish they could be here with us,” he says, his voice small. She kisses his head, gasping lightly.

“They’re always with us,” she reminds him. He hums in agreement but isn’t entirely sure if he believes her. She wipes away his tears. “Anyway, the press will be there too, and they’ll certainly have questions about you. About where you lived, why you took so long to come here…”

“Let them ask,” he sighs. “All that really matters is that we found each other.”

Before she can say anything else, the front door opens abruptly, and he hears Countess Oswald’s unmistakable voice making futile protests. A man with bleached blond hair and a familiar enough face sweeps in, wearing a red-lined black cape over a navy blue suit, despite the warm enough weather. He looks Charlie up and down with a snarl. He briefly considers hiding behind his grandmother but thinks better of it. He won’t hide from anyone. Behind him, Countess Oswald looks devastated and mouths an apology to them, but his grandmother waves it away, looking bored.

“Surely, Your Majesty, you don’t believe this imposter is the Crown Prince Charles,” he says. Charlie is sure he recognises the voice. An image creeps up in his mind, he guesses from when he was six or seven, at a party on a cold, dark night, his parents talking with this man, giving one word answers to his long, elaborate speeches and giggling when their backs were turned. His father made a snide remark about how he wasn’t sure why they had to invite him-

“Count Masters,” he interrupts excitedly. He steps back, his mouth open a little in shock. Details comes flooding into Charlie’s mind and out of his mouth with little control, the way it seems to do when he remembers someone. “With your dyed hair, loud voice-and vodka breath!” Count Masters covers his mouth with his hand while Charlie bounces a little. Admittedly, he doesn’t look as dignified as a Prince should look. “No wonder my parents laughed at you behind your back.”

“You’re right Charles, they did,” his grandmother agrees. He feels slightly bad, but only slightly. His parents never liked Count Masters anyway. Appalled, he turns and runs out, not bothering to even bow at either of them.

“Where were you three weeks ago when he was pestering me?” Countess Oswald asks. “By the way, when I was downstairs, this arrived for you.” She pulls a small white envelope out of her coat and hands it over to him. “From one of your friends. Hand delivered too, must be important. She looked like she ran to get it to you.”

His heart sinks when he sees the handwriting; his name is written on it in Tanya’s distinctive looped scrawl.

“Thank you,” he says, putting it into his pocket and intending to never take it out. “I’ll read it when I get the time.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Your Majesty, I have an arrangement this afternoon with Countess Ashildr,” she says.

“Of course, Clara,” she says. “Go, enjoy yourself.” The Countess-Clara, he supposes-smiles and drops a curtsey to each other them before leaving. Behind him, his grandmother tuts. “She thinks she’s subtle.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, turning to her.

“She and Countess Ashildr think their whole little affair is private,” she laughs. “Maybe the rest of those old fools haven’t picked up on it, but she can’t get past me.”

“Nothing gets past you,” he says.

“Mm.” Guilt crosses her face as she wrings her hands. “Perhaps. You know, Charles this party tonight… You don’t know most of these people. You were still a child when you saw them last. And since it’s your party, you’d be more than welcome to invite some people.”

“Who would I even invite?” he asks. “I imagine everyone I know is already on the guest list.”

“Perhaps your friends from the ballet?” The suggestion takes him by surprise, making him feel cold all over. He pulls at the sleeves of his jacket, suddenly far too uncomfortable in it. “And your young man?”

“He’s not my young man,” he replies, turning slightly away from her. “And they aren’t my friends. They were using me.”

“Well, if it’s not plain t you that he loves you-”

“He’s not my young man, Grandmother!” he says sharply and regrets it immediately. He looks at the floor, biting his lip hard to keep it from trembling. “He’s not.”

Whatever feelings he thought Matteusz had for him was in his imagination; he knows that now. And he was a fool for even thinking anything different. His grandmother shrugs casually, shaking her head at him.

“When he refused my reward for finding you, I thought Charles has found himself a different kind of Prince.” His head shoots up at her words. “One of character, not birth.”

“Matteusz refused the reward money?” he asks.

“You are home,” she replies. “He said that was his reward.” She takes his face in her hands, looking at him with shining eyes. “You have made this the happiest day of my life, Charles. Make sure it will be yours as well, Charlie.” She kisses his forehead gently. “We will always have each other no matter what you decide.”

“Promise?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says. “Now I need to go out for a while. Make arrangements for you before you’re made my official heir. Will you be all right on your own?”

“Yeah.” She kisses his head one last time before heading out, reminding him he can call her or Countess Oswald if he needs anything. He sits back down on the couch and pulls the letter out of his pocket, his hands shaking so badly he can barely read it, one single thought pounding in his brain; Matteusz didn’t take the reward money.

                                                                                               *****

Quill’s radio bursts into life in the early afternoon, right when she was contemplating going out, having almost given up hope entirely that they’d have word on the Queen and the boy. It’s just her and Antony; Jenkins once again minding Kat by taking her down to get ice cream.

“Quill? Quill, come in, it’s Rachel. Over.” Her voice comes in with a burst of static, shaky and difficult to make out.

“Rachel, I copy,” she replies into the mic. “Any updates on the Queen Mother? Or the boy? Over.”

“She’s recognising him,” Rachel replies. Quill’s blood runs cold as she grasps the mic tighter, her finger pressing harder and harder on the red button keeping Rachel’s channel open. “She’s recognising him as her heir tonight. And he’s alone now. Over.”

“Alone, over?” she asks dumbly. Her heart feels like its clawing its way up her throat.

“Yes. The Queen Mother said she’d be gone a few hours. I have a key to the room, swiped from one of his guards. What’s our next move? Over.”

“Stay there,” she decides immediately. “I’m on my way. If I need back up I’ll radio in for you. Don’t move until you get my signal. Over.”

“Copy that. I’m keeping the channels on their apartments open. Take a walkie and I’ll radio if there’s any disturbance.” On the other line, Quill hears her swallow. She wonders how old Rachel is; fresh, round face and wide green eyes. “What’s the play?”

“You know what it is,” she says flatly, fighting against the lump in her throat. “She’s recognised him. His fate’s sealed now.” The room falls quiet, so quiet she can hear Rachel’s breathing through the static of the radio. “Over and out.”

Her gun is already in her holster, fully loaded. There’s no turning back now. She gets up and puts on her coat, concealing it. She can’t explain why, but her hands are shaking. She doesn’t feel fear. She has never felt fear. She is a soldier, and wars aren’t won by cowards too scared to pull the trigger. Her father wasn’t scared. No one who fought and killed and died eight years ago was scared. And despite her hands shaking as she opens the door, her chest feeling empty as she steps out of her hotel and in the direction of the Queen Mother’s apartment building, she tells herself neither is she.

                                                                                               *****

It takes Charlie a full hour to open the letter. Grandmother still isn’t back yet, and he curls up on the floor, back against the sofa to read it.

Dear Charlie-Charles, now, I guess,

Look, I’ll just say it. I am so, so sorry. I didn’t think-I never thought about how this plan was going to mess with you. I never thought that far ahead. I just wanted out of Rhodia and I wanted the money so badly I-forget it, that’s not important.

I wish April were writing this. She’s better at this than I am but I just wanted you to hear this from me. Or read this. Whatever.

I’m really happy you’re happy and you’re home and you’re with your grandma again. You deserve it. I hope you have good Prince-y life. Living in castles and being rich. I hope you get everything. We all know you’re the real Prince anyway.

I know you hate us now and you probably should. I wish we’d done it all differently. I wish we were still friends. I wish I’d done it right from the start. April’s sorry and Ram’s sorry and Matteusz is a mess. He’d rather you not know that but he is. We’re all so sorry. Honestly.

Tanya.

By the time he finishes, he can barely read with the tears in his eyes.

He folds it over and places it next to him, his body going limp as he lets out a long breath. His limps sink into the sofa and floor; he feels too drained to move. Once again, everything he had thought it gone in an instant.

Dash pushes his head against Charlie’s hand, demanding to be pet. He huffs a laugh and gives into his puppy’s wishes. Dash rubs his nose against the letter and rests his head on Charlie’s lap, looking up at him. He recognises the look on Dash’s face; it’s the same one he had the first day they met and he pulled him towards the Capitol, away from a life of working in a factory without an identity and towards a long journey home.

And towards Matteusz.

Picking up Dash, Charlie wanders over to the mirror above the fireplace. He looks fine, he knows that. He’s taken a hot shower for the first time in… well longer than he cares to admit, he’s eaten more than rations and stolen food and slept on a real, comfortable bed that doesn’t poke and stab his back. And he has someone who loves him. He’s not searching for himself or who he is anymore. He has someone to hold him-and who did hold him for hours and hours last night. He should be happy and he is.

And he also isn’t.

Eight years is longer than most people realise, including himself. And he might be Prince now, but for eight years he was an orphan. It’s a big jump from one to the other, and he knows that he’s not landed yet, and he definitely won’t have landed by tonight. He might well have been born into this world of money and diamonds, fine food and fast cars, but a lot of that is still an unfamiliar bur to him, a process of learning it all again.

Maybe it’s not his world anymore, or at least it won’t be for a while.

Maybe his world is a boy with a Polish accent and dimples and whose hand fits right in his.

And it only took him this long to realise it.

Stupid boy.

Behind him, he hears the door open and he wipes the tears from his face, trying to calm his frantic heart. He at least thanks God that he has a grandmother who can understand him, who’ll wait for him to come back when he does. He’ll always come back.

“Grandmother, I-”

His voice catches in his throat when he turns, only a small, pained gasp escaping him instead. In his shock, he stumbles backwards on shaking legs, knocking into an ornate hat stand. He’s not sure if the room got colder or he just did, but a shiver runs down his spin. It’s not his grandmother. Or Clara or any of the other Counts and Countesses or any of the bodyguards or servants. She closes the door behind her, sliding the chain into position. The click seems to echo throughout the the room and hit his chest. He can’t think how she got in here, into his apartment or into this country for that matter. It’s been many weeks since he saw her last and she looks more or less the same; straight blonde hair and pale skin, especially with the black ensemble she’s wearing. Her steel blue eyes seem cold as they lock on him, not even leaving as she pulls out a heavy looking gun and snaps the safety off, a feral snarl on her face.

“Quill,” he whispers, his voice thin. She flashes an empty, quick smile and raises her gun.

“Hello, Charles.”

I should be glad I’m where I should be

But nothing is what it was

I didn’t know he mattered to me

But now I can see he does

[kathrynmjaneway]

i feel attacked

[incorrect-class-quotes]

Quill: Just because you fancy that Matteusz kid-

Charlie: I don't fancy him; I am in love with him, and I want to father his children.

[sprnklersplashes]

Truth Of His Dreams (7/?)

AO3

After leaving Rhodia, Queen Alia bid farewell to her beloved Charles and her most trusted lady-in-waiting, Countess Clara Oswald, not wanting to take too many on her trip and seeing Clara needed some time off, and set off for London. She had resided in her apartments since then; they had been in the family since her grandmother. A penthouse suite on the top floor of the towering building, overlooking the city skyline, stretching as far as the eye could see. At night, the city of London came alive, lighting up in orange and blue and red and green against the dark backdrop while music snaked through the streets and Alia could stand safely in her apartment and watch it all and think about how much Charles will love it when he comes.

Then she hears about unrest in the Capitol. She’s no fool; she knows that the people aren’t content, they weren’t during her reign, why should they be during her son’s? She had tried to talk to him, begged him to listen to what the protestors said, see reason, but he had brushed her aside, assuring her that Rhodia was strong enough to withstand anything. He had said it with such conviction that she believed him, even all those miles away.

Then she heard of the riots in the Capitol.

And began seeing nobles from Rhodia coming to England by boat, including Clara, who turned up on her doorstep with a half-packed bag and tears streaming down her delicate face.

And then she heard about the storming of the palace.

And then… Then she was sent a letter from an old general, written, he said, just days before he was due to be executed himself.

Her son.

His wife.

His child. Her only grandson. Her beautiful Charles. Shot down in the place they called home.

London suddenly became her home. Her penthouse apartment her prison, along with Clara, who stepped into the job of lady in waiting without question and with little complaint. She placed a photograph of each member of her lost family on her dresser, Charles in the middle, smiling brightly at the camera. Some small, persistent presence in her heart tells her he was still alive, that he was out there waiting for her to bring him home. At night, she can sit in silence and listen to the sound of his voice in her head. She still hears him as a small child, even though he should be nearly a man soon. He should be nearly a King himself, the last heir to the throne. She finds herself spending more time than she used to in her bedroom. No make-up, no jewels, no gowns. Just her and her photographs. A mad old woman and figments of her imagination.

Still, foolish as she is, when she goes to bed, she keeps the lamp on for him,

                                                                                               *****

“She can’t always be resting.”

Clara wonders briefly how unladylike she would be considered if she drop kicked Count Masters down the staircase. When she came into the lobby, after coming in from brunch with Countess Potts, she had been greeted with the entirely unpleasant sight of Count Masters, who had taken the liberty of escorting her to the penthouse apartment she now shares with the Queen Mother. He chatted to her about the weather and the theatre and nightlife and then, like always, he asked about the Queen Mother’s health, and, like always, mentioned he had an important matter to discuss with her.

She wishes that just once he’d change his structure at least.

“The Queen Mother knows I have important papers for her to sign,” he persists, following her into her living room.

“Papers designating you the heir to her family’s fortune,” she laughs, sitting herself on the sofa and turning to face him. He’s closed the door behind him, and it briefly crosses her mind that no one would hear if she kicked him right now. “She will never sign them.” She’s known the Queen Mother for years, and she’s nothing if not stubborn. The day she signs her fortune over to anyone who isn’t her blood relation, let alone Count Masters, will only come after she is dead and someone forges her signature.

The Count narrows his eyes and takes a step towards her, brushing a speck of dirt off his immaculate white suit.

“She’s an old woman who’s outlived her place in history,” he spits back. “Charles is a pathetic product of her deranged imagination.”

Clara clenches her fist against the cushions. She should tell him to have empathy for her. She knows full well his lover died in Rhodia that night as well, and how he should think how she feels. She feels his pain, only tripled.

Her eyes fall on the pile of letters on the coffee table. Every morning without fail, letters have arrived for the past eight years, from anywhere and everywhere; Barbados, Hungary, Canada, Thailand. All young men claiming to be Prince Charles. Never him, but she won’t let Alia give up on her grandson. Sometimes she wonders if it’s the only thing keeping the old woman sane.

“Eventually I will be recognised as the sole beneficiary of the King’s estate, by international court of law,” he goes on. Clara lets out a long, steady breath and relaxes her fist. She turns to him with a pained smile, hoping he sees the strain in her cheeks.

“I’ll tell Her Majesty you called,” she tells him, rising to her feet and going over to him. She motions her head towards the door, not allowing him to act confused. He looks at it and back to her, mouth gaping.

“You will be at the Gallifrey Club this evening, Clara?” he asks.

“Along with every other former Rhodian in London,” she replies.

“I will want the first dance,” he tells her. “I’ve been practicing my Charleston.”

“Well, sadly I’ve promised that to Countess Ashildr,” she replies, grinning as she watches his face fall. “She is a very beautiful woman.”

“Indeed.” Clara holds out her hand and he kissed it gently before turning proudly and walking out the door.

She wipes her hand on the side of her dress.

“Is he gone?” a voice asks from the master bedroom. Slowed and cracked slightly with age, but a Queen is a Queen. Still rich and commanding and regal.

“You Imperial Majesty,” Clara greets as she comes in. She wears a black robe over her dress, her grey hair held back in a braid. She even walks like she’s still in court, her head held high, her back as straight as she can make it.

“He’s like a dog with a bone,” she grumbles. “How is Countess Potts?”

“She’s well,” she answers. “She was asking after you.”

“Her and every other noble in London,” she sighs, sinking into her armchair. “Doubting I’m even alive.”

“Not everyone is Count Masters, your Majesty,” she reminds her. “Some just miss you.” She pushes the corner of the envelope into her palm. “Only five letters today.”

“Oh,” she groans, closing her eyes. “If only I could lose hope entirely. I used to open each one trembling, tears in my eyes, thinking ‘could this be my beloved Charles?’. But after so many imposters I’ve come to dread the morning post.”

Clara nods, thinking about the many fakes she has stupidly allowed to see the Queen Mother. They always slip up at some point, usually with a trick question Alia thinks up herself to catch them, some secret only she and Charles would know. She loves how crafty she can be sometimes.

“Dear Grandmother,” she reads from the first one. “Remember that one happy summer we spent in Venice?”

“Venice,” she chuckles. “They certainly do their homework.”

“Strange and bizarre events have brought me to Jamaica,” she continues reading. “Bring me to London, and I will convince you I am Charles.”

“He wants me to pay his passage?” she asks. “At least that imposter from Buenos Aires paid his own way.” Clara nods and crumples up the letter, throwing it to the side. It’ll make for good fuel for the fire later on. She opens the next one.

“Dearest Grandmama,” she begins.

“I was never grandmama!” she explodes. “I was grandmother. Or Nana. Never grandmama, he would never say that!” Alia claps her hand over her mouth, beginning to tremble. Clara feels her heart break. She normally makes it through four letters. Sometimes she manages to make it through every one of them.

Not today.

“They take me for a fool,” she says sadly. “Grandmama…” She looks at the letters in Clara’s hands as though they’re spiders or snakes. Like the sheer force of hatred in her eyes could burn them. “No more. No more letters. No more interviews.”

“But-”

“No more.” She clutches her chest and Clara understands. She made it out alive. Some of her friends and family, people she loves, weren’t so lucky. Still, the finality in the Queen Mother’s voice makes her tremble.

“There will be other young men,” she reminds her, her voice soft. “What will I tell them?”

“Tell them,” she says. Her voice shakes. “Tell them Prince Charles is dead. And the Queen Mother is dead with him.”

Clara presses her hands together to keep them from shaking. She should refuse to allow her to give up hope, but she knows it would be cruel to keep tempting her heart like this. Keep having imposters come in and out of her apartments on the off chance one is Charles.

And besides, no one can change Alia’s mind when she decides something. Not even her.

“I’ll be going out soon,” she says, her voice tiny. Alia doesn’t even react. She keeps staring directly ahead. Clara may as well not even be there. Her lips are moving but no sound comes out; none Clara can hear anyway. “I’ll leave the lamp on for you.”

                                                                                               *****

Clara’s door clicks shut, leaving Alia alone in the dark. The only light is the orange glow of the lamp on the table beside the sofa, the only sounds the ticking of the clock leaning against the wall and her own strained, heavy breathing.

Three unopened envelops sit on the table; each one feels like it’s laughing at her, tempting her to open it, reading the words, analysing the writing, searching for something familiar in the words or the script. Her heart skipping a beat when she sees a letter i without a dot or seeing “should of” rather than “should have”. His father would clip him around the ear for making such silly mistakes in his writing, and he’d come running to her, clinging to her skirts. She’d run her hand over his beautiful hair and kiss his cheek and give him chocolate and tell him how much she loved him until he started smiling again.

She rises and moves over to the fireplace, lifting a framed photograph off the mantlepiece. She doesn’t think he knew he was having his picture taken at the time, but it was so long ago. He was about five, sitting on a bench in the garden next to her, laughing at something she had said, or something someone else had done. She doesn’t remember what they were doing, or why they were outside, but she remembers his laugh. Her Charles had such a beautiful laugh, and he laughed often, finding anything and everything amusing. He’d even get confused when no one else laughed with him. She runs her hand over the glass, tracing his delicate cheeks.

Eight years is such a long time. A long time to keep her heart open, to keep her door open. A long time to look other young men in the eye and find some blemish, some imperfection in them. Hair too dark, too many freckles (Charles never had freckles, never even tanned), couldn’t answer something about his own family, couldn’t remember the name of his favourite toy. A long time to keep watching them walk out the door.

She was a Queen. People used to kneel before her and kiss her ring. Now people come in her door only to try to make a fool of her.

“He’s dead,” she whispers, her finger lingering on the photo in her hand. “You’re dead.”

Even before whispers of her grandson’s survival had begun to surface, she had felt he was alive in her heart. A small, frantic beat of hope in her chest that she clung to all these years, now she knows it was a foolish lie. An insane dream of an old woman who longs for the world to be the way it should have been instead of the way it is. Who lives the past, in a world of glittering dresses and fine suits and crystal chandeliers and little boys who run to her and kiss her cheeks.

“I should have taken you with me when I had the chance,” she whispers to him. She should have taken him to London like he asked. Then he would be here with her and not buried in an unmarked grave in the woods with a bullet hole in his chest.

With a trembling hand, she places the picture face down on the mantlepiece, humming an old song under her breath, a song passed down through her family. When she dies, it will die with her.

                                                                                               ******

Clara welcomes how cold the night is. Her rooms, and indeed, her whole apartment, feels far too warm, too stuffy, almost claustrophobic. At least out on the streets of London she can breathe, run in any direction and forget anything she wants to.

In the middle of a busy street, standing tall and proud, is the Gallifrey Club. Founded by a Rhodian aristocrat barely a year after arriving in London. As the story goes, he bought up the building, renovated it, and employed all the old servants and maids that nobles and aristocrats had taken with them when they escaped the revolution. The Capitol on the Thames, people were calling it. The bar staff keep the Rhodian gin stocked and the vodka flowing. Against the ink-blue sky, the white paint stands out, the gold lettering shines and acts like a beacon for any lost Rhodian noble looking to get drunk and dance and act like they’re still living in the land of yesterday.

Which, as it happens, is precisely what Clara plans to do.

“Countess Oswald,” the bouncer greets. “How lovely you look this evening.”

“Flattery will get you absolutely everywhere,” she tells him.

“Countess Oswald!” a voice calls from behind her. It makes her start; it sounds far too young to be any of her friends, yet the accent is distinctly Rhodian. She turns immediately, holding her hand out to tell the bouncer to stand down.

A respectful distance away from her stands a small group of teenagers. She almost laughs at how young they look; they can’t be more than 17, and one of them looks even younger. They can’t be fellow ex-nobles; she’d know them and their clothes are far too shabby.

“Yes?” she says, taking a step towards them. The youngest looking one; a girl with dark braids, steps forward nervously.

“Um… We need… with respect… we’re looking for an audience with the Queen Mother,” she says, pulling at her sleeve. “It’s a matter of urgency.”

“What kind of matter of urgency?” she asks. The girl opens her mouth but nothing comes out, her eyes darting everywhere but Clara.

“We have someone she needs to meet,” her companion, another girl, speaks up. She tilts her chin up, straightens her shoulders, and for a moment she looks like she could pass for an aristocrat. “We’d like to present the Crown Prince Charles.”

Clara shakes her head, half smiling. She’s never been approached in the street like this. They’re unique, she can give them that.

“You’re about an hour too late,” she tells them. “The Queen Mother has decided no more. No more young men, no more interviews.”

“What?” the girl asks.

“She’ll make it public in due course,” she says. “But she’s made up her mind. Prince Charles is dead. Queen Alia dead with him.” Her throat tightens and her eyes begin to sting but damn it, she will not cry. She will not be seen crying, no matter how much it hurts her heart to say those words out loud.

“What?” another voice asks, male this time. She looks past the two girls, her eyes landing on a young boy with a small grey dog nestled in his arms. About 17 years old. About the same age Charles would be now…

“Come here,” she tells him. After looking at his companions, who give him encouraging nods, he steps forwards and she moves him into the light of a street lamp. She had seen Charles a few times; at balls, birthdays, social gatherings, the odd state funeral. She had a good grip on what his face looked like, and now she feels like she’s seeing it again. She’s seen many imposters who bear striking resemblances to the Prince, but they pale in comparison to him. He even has his father’s eyes. She reaches out and tilts his chin upwards.

What strikes her as odd is that he doesn’t talk. Each one she meets does his best to impress her by showing off his knowledge of the royal family or sweet-talking her, telling her how he remembers how much he enjoyed when she came to visit (it was easy to weed those ones out). This one just looks at her with wide eyes and held breath. She notices that his hand gets faster and more tense as it strokes his dog’s fur.

The Queen Mother’s words echo in her mind. No more. No more interviews.

But then she looks at him and everything she said melts away. Something in her gut screams that this boy has to meet the Queen Mother.

“Tomorrow,” she says and she watches his exhale. He looks like someone lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small plastic card. “Come to this address. We can talk there.”

“Thank you,” he says finally. There’s something about his voice; it’s far too strong and fitting for a street urchin. And the way he says the words, he sounds like he’s close to fainting. “Thank you.”

She smiles at him as he goes back to his companions, all of whom take a look at her card and whisper amongst themselves.

She can only hope some good comes of this.

“Clara!” another voice, thankfully familiar this time, greets from behind her. She turns with a smile to see Countess Ashildr, looking lovely in a purple evening dress and short black jacket. “How wonderful to see you.”

“Likewise, Countess,” she says. “Why don’t I escort you in?”

“Only if you let me buy you a drink,” she says, winking. Clara blushes as feels her insides melt.

In the Gallifrey Club, she will drink and dance with whomever she pleases, reminiscing about the old days when they lived in palaces as opposed to flats, had at least six ladies in waiting as opposed to being one herself, discuss the plans to visit the theatre this week, especially with the European ballet back in London, and drink some more, hide their sorrows behind smiles, drown them in wine and gin. They celebrate that they aren’t dead, and in private moments in toilet stalls, they mourn those who are. They let themselves loose and go live in the imperial heyday that was Rhodia. As long as the night is young and the alcohol flows, they live like the aristocrats they are.

Or can still pretend to be.

                                                                                                               *****

Quill arrives in London during the night. She steps off the boat with a sleeping Kat in her arms, one of her comrades taking Kat’s bag. It gives her some amusement watching him carry a pink and blue suitcase around London.

Her back remains on her shoulders. She became accustomed to travelling light when she was still a young woman. Kat insisted on taking almost everything she owned. Quill laughed and managed to compromise with her; two coats were all she’d need, another pair of shoes, a few skirts and she couldn’t talk Kat out of bringing what she liked to call “her special dress”; dark purple with a pattern of butterflies sewn onto it. In addition to her clothes, Kat took some colouring books, her doll and three of her favourite bedtime stories.

It seems the phrase “like mother, like daughter” doesn’t apply in this instance; Quill has only a change of shirt and trousers in her bag (she and her comrades left their uniforms in Rhodia after Dorothea declared this an undercover mission), toiletries and… her gun. Loaded up, and with two extra cases of ammunition in case she needed it.

She shouldn’t need it. Five shots. Five bullets. That should be next to nothing for her.

“Mum?” Kat murmurs, squirming in her arms. Quill’s first thought is to wonder if she’s been to the toilet yet, because at four, bed-wetting still causes problems. And right now, she is the bed.

“It’s all right, my darling,” she whispers, kissing her temple. “Look, we’re here. We’re in London.” Kat grumbles and lifts her head, eyes half open to look at the scene, before she drops back onto Quill’s shoulder, her breathing slowing again. Quill chuckles and kisses her head again. With her free hand, she pulls the strap of her bag up on her shoulder, heavy with the weight of the gun.

Five bullets. Five kids.

It shouldn’t be hard. It shouldn’t scare her.

But it does.

[incorrect-class-quotes]

Charlie, very drunk: Who is the most beautiful man ever?

Matteusz: Me?

Charlie: No. Ryan Reynolds.

[sprnklersplashes]

we’re all in agreement at charlie, matteusz and tanya openly cried when Oppy died and held a memorial for her, right?

[sprnklersplashes]

Hey y’all I didn’t know if you heard but Charlie and Matteusz love each other like a lot

[incorrect-class-quotes]

Tanya: You're straight? So is spaghetti until it gets hot.

Chalrie: Are you suggesting we boil straight people?

Matteusz: The real gay agenda.

[incorrect-class-quotes]

Quill: Wow, so we have all this room to walk in?

Charlie: Your hand can be seen from the living room window. You've just killed Matteusz.

Matteusz: Charlie-

Charlie: I can't hear you Matteusz, you're dead. You bled out in her lap. How will you break the news to me? Let's see...

Quill: We don’t have to do this.

Charlie: Ah, Quill, how are things going with Matteusz, the love of my life? Wait, why are you here at this late hour? And whose blood is that?

Quill: Okay I get it-

Charlie: It's Matteusz's? This is devastating. I'm inconsolable. And... I've killed myself.

[sprnklersplashes]

Truth of his Dreams (2/?)

AO3

Eight years pass since the execution of the royal family and the declaration of a new Rhodia, a fairer, more equal Rhodia, created and built by the working people to become the envy of the world. Equal wages, ample food, free education. That was the fantasy, the promise of the revolutionaries that had stirred so many people to fight for their side.

The reality however, is a long way off from what had been promised. The reality was walls with ears, skies grey with the smoke the new factories produced, lines all the way down the sidewalk waiting for one loaf of bread to feed their families, as well as running the risk of it being stolen with one of the ten or more people they were cramped into their small flats with under the guise of “equality”. If you’re lucky you get to live in a building that is still in-tact; many buildings were partially destroyed during that fateful night eight years before and had never been repaired, leaving families living with holes in the wall covered with planks of wood. One can’t complain though; not out loud anyway, or they’ll fear being whisked off to who-knows-where. By Tanya’s count, seven high profile people had disappeared form the streets of the Capitol.

In the middle of the square, standing on the marble podium where a statue of the King had once been, a tall woman, brown haired and smiling, addresses a crowd gathering there, her voice bellowing over the worried tones of the ordinary people gathered on the cobblestones.

“I hear you, friends. We all hear you. Together, we forge a new Rhodia, a better country, for all the world to envy. The old Capitol is now the people’s Coal Hill!” she declared, saluting her fellow comrades.

“They can call it Coal Hill,” Tanya mutters, barely loud enough for herself to hear, never mind anyone else. “But it’ll always be the Capitol.” New name, same empty stomachs and uncertain future. She isn’t a monarchist, not by a long shot, but she isn’t with the new regime either. The centre of town should be her least favourite part of the whole city; it’s crowded, it’s loud, you can’t turn around for fear of being abducted. Still, needs must, they have the best markets in the country. And she has to admit, the best gossip. She perches herself on top of an overflowing bin and listens to those who gather in the nearby alley to swap stories, listening to the juiciest secrets about the Chancellor’s allergy to peppers or that the General is bald under that wig (although frankly, he’s not fooling anyone). It’s scummy, maybe, but it gets her through the day.

“Have you heard,” a woman asks in a low voice, so low Tanya is nearly falling off her seat in an attempt to hear. “There’s rumours about the royal family.”

“The royal family!” her companion scoffs. “They were gunned down in their own home and good riddance to them!”

“Yes, but apparently,” the woman continues, casting a glare to her friend and slipping a pile of folded up paper, maybe three or four sheets. “Although the King and Queen didn’t live, there’s a chance their son may be still alive.”

Tanya shakes her head. Of course, she would be shocked, had she not heard the same rumour yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. It was the Capitol’s favourite story, buzzing around when officers weren’t around, whispered in alleyways spies didn’t look twice at, through cracks in walls. It was nothing more than a rumour, albeit a rumour that was woven into their history.

Tanya should know that there’s no point in wondering; the prince died with his parents the night the rebels stormed the palace. Everyone knows that.

Still, there is talk that they never found a body.

“But look!” one of the women says, pointing at the paper. “Just last week, the Queen Mother declared a reward. A royal sum for the royal prince.”

Now she is interested. She leans against the prickly and cold brick wall behind her and watches the women, listening intently to every detail of their conversation, all the while a plan comes together in her brain. She needs one of those newspapers. She can’t possibly make a plan without all the variables. When the one with the paper makes to leave, she jumps down and cuts her off.

“Hello there,” she greets, her eyes straying to the bulge in the woman’s pocket despite her attempts to focus on her face.

“What is it, girl?” she scoffs, having no time for a rough-sleeping street orphan like her.

“That paper,” she whispers. “Can I have a look at it?”

“You can have more than a look,” she offers, raising an eyebrow. “For the right price.”

“Of course.” Tanya wants to laugh at her, thinking she can possibly beat her at a game she became a professional at before the age of ten, one that had been her key to survival. “I don’t suppose this would be of any use to you?” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out what would look like a gold necklace. In reality, it was a few wires she had braided together and then painted gold with some paint she found on a street corner, swiped when the artist had her back turned, then returned of course. “Found it in the ruins of the palace. Solid gold, of course, rumoured to have belonged to the Queen’s sister.” The woman’s eyes light up greedily when she sees it, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.

“Deal,” she says, practically swiping it out of Tanya’s hand and replacing it with the paper.

“Sucker,” Tanya whispers as the woman scurries away. She perches herself back on the bin, scanning the area for officers while reading the article. Most of it is a history lesson; how the royals were killed, and their associates and other nobles fled, all things Tanya knows like the back of her hand. She doesn’t need a reminder of that night. Some things you don’t easily forget.

But it’s the bottom of the page that���s different; the bottom of the page states that the Queen Mother, living in London, is still holding out hope that her grandson survived. And she’s prepared to offer a £10,000,000 reward to whoever returns the Prince, the real Prince (since she also states that she’s been tricked too many times) to her, safe and sound.

Tanya’s eyes light up at the prospect, focussing entirely on the reward money. She had never had that much money in her wildest dreams. Splitting it among her friends would still leave a sizeable amount for her. Enough to buy herself a cosy place in London and probably eat full meals every night until she dies of old age.

It was prefect.

“Tanya!” April calls, jogging up to her, carrying a half-full bag of food. Matteusz and Ram trail behind her, both with their own sorry looking bags.

“Word is they’ve closed off another border,” Ram huffs. “I’ve told you all, we should have gotten out of here while we could! Borders are dropping like flies.”

“I’ve nearly got the travel papers,” Matteusz assures him. “Then we just need a place to live. And means of getting money.”

Tanya was only half listening, her eyes fixed on the paper.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about the Prince Charles,” she remarks in a low voice as they make their way to the two-bedroom, damp hellhole they’ve been calling a home.

“You and the rest of the bloody country,” April replies.

“I say who cares if he’s dead or alive,” Ram sighs.

“You should care,” Tanya says and leans up against a wall, motioning her friends to gather round her. “Because he’s our ticket out.” She flashes the paper in front of them, pointing to the reward amount. Ram’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “We find a boy to play the part, dress him up and get him to London.”

“Look at the reward the grandma is willing to pay,” Ram whispers. April is clearly trying not to look impressed, but she can’t help her eyes widening at the amount.

“Who else could pull it off but us?” she asks. “Think about it, we’ll be millionaires!”

“We’ll be out,” Matteusz adds, but still looking conflicted. Of all the group, he is easily the one with the softest heart. He’s a conman, like them, but one with a fairly guilty conscience.

“We’ll be just another rumour in the Capitol,” she says. “So, come on.” She leads them down the street, away from their normal route, turning towards the old houses, where counts and countesses and dukes and duchesses lived in the time before the revolution. She ducked through a small doorway, motioning for the rest to follow her.

“Where are we going?” Matteusz asked.

“We’ll need something to make it authentic,” Tanya tells him. “Something that belonged to him to show the old lady.” She pulls aside a curtain, revealing a room full of men and women showing off ornate, expensive looking items. “In here there’s an underground market of old stuff people stole from the palace when it was raided.”

“How much for this painting?” one asks, holding up a painting of the palace, so accurate you could have sworn it was a photograph. “It’s the Queen’s, I swear on my life!”

“Count Capaldi’s pyjamas, buy the pair, the perfect keepsake for any royal fanatic!” another calls.

“This was in the palace,” another announces, waving a silk handkerchief in the air. “Initialled with a C. Could be Charles’, where shall we start the bidding?”

“We’ll need something that would have belonged to the Prince. Matteusz, your father worked in the palace, could anything here look like it did?”

“I never came into contact with the Prince,” he tells her, toying with the leather bracelet on his left wrist. “Tanya are you sure about this plan? It’s risking a lot. Which is saying something for us.”

“Yes, it’s risky, but no more than usual,” she says. “We’ll need papers, tickets, nerves of steel.”

“A lot more than usual,” he corrects her. “We can only hope we don’t get shot.”

“You’re welcome to stay here, Matti,” she says. He tenses at that. Yes, it’s dangerous, but remaining in Rhodia is infinitely more dangerous. Tanya sighs, guilt striking her gut, and she puts her hand on his shoulder. He has to bend his knees to let her reach. “I’m sorry, Matti. I’d never leave you here. But you know our best chance is together. And besides, I’ll jump in front of that bullet for you.” He smiles at that.

“Liar,” he replies, but it’s with an easy grin.  He bumps his arm against her shoulder and they stroll over to a stall where April and Ram stand, hands in each other’s back pockets, looking over some items from the palace. They’re mostly inconsequential, pieces of curtains and torn jackets and dresses, but something catches Tanya’s eye. It’s a small box, the glint of the gold on it makes her notice it. She shifts the scarf that half-covers it to get a better look and notices the glittering lettering on it “Together in London”.

“How much for the music box?” she asks the vender. His eyes dart to the box in question and he snatches it up, holding it close to his chest.

“The music box, it’s a genuine royal. I could never part with it,” he explains, stroking the box like a cat. After a brief look with April, a quick nod from her, Tanya rolls her eyes and reaches into April’s bag.

“Two cans of beans, comrade?” she asks, waving them in the air. It takes all of five seconds for the vender to agree to trade his apparent prized possession for some extra food. She holds it up so her friends around her can see it.

“Do you think it belonged to him?” Ram asks.

“He said it was genuine,” Tanya says. “And didn’t the grandmother take off to London?”

“It’s real,” Matteusz says softly. At the sight of the music box, his face goes three shades paler. “It was his.”

“How do you know?” April asks while moving to help him sit, but he swats her away, eyes fixed on the box in Tanya’s hand.

“I just do,” he answers. “I saw it in his bedroom.”

“Thought you never went near the royal family,” Ram says.

“I didn’t. But his bedroom, I hid there when the soldiers came,” he says, and everyone knows to shut up. They all have their own demons from the night of the revolution, and they all made a silent promise to each other not to talk about it. They knew that Matteusz and his father had been in the palace the night they soldier stormed the palace and that Matteusz made it out alive. His father wasn’t so fortunate. He toys with his bracelet again as he speaks. “It was in his bedroom.”

“Okay then,” Tanya announces, leading them out of the room and to a large open window so Matteusz can breathe. “All we need now is a theatre and the boy.” They lean against the window, watching the grey skies, and eventually watch the rain begin to pour down in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Do you guys think he is alive?” April asks. They look from one to the other, all not knowing the Prince’s true fate. Matteusz runs his finger along his bracelet, slowly at first, but starting to get faster, to the point where Tanya worries he’ll wear out the leather.

“It’s a fascinating mystery,” he admits.

“Suppose it will be a bit of a fairy-tale,” April says. “Reuniting the Prince and his long-lost family.”

“A fairy-tale the whole world will believe,” Tanya agrees, looking out to the crowd of people below, walking around the square in groups of two or three, whispering excitedly about the ‘long lost Prince’. Soon she suspects they’ll be whispering about her and Ram and April and Matteusz, the group who reunited the royal family.

It’s a pity that Tanya lost her belief in fairy tales long before the Prince went missing.

                                                                                                               *****

A day’s drive from the Capitol, stood a tall, concrete structure with a high, barbed wire fence and a door with a heavy iron knocker. To an ignorant passer-by, it would look like a prison, but bizarrely, and unfortunately, it was an orphanage. It housed mostly orphans of the revolution, as they were called, children whose parents were killed in the chaos, or whose families had had ties to the royals and were killed while they look on, horrified.  Children who waved their fathers and mothers goodbye that morning as they went to work and never came home.

Charlie is dragged out from the orphanage by his scarf by the Matron, tripping over his feet as he turned to wave goodbye to the children with their faces pressed against the windows, watching him leave. It happened every time an orphan turned 17, they were found work and sent out to the first place that hired them. It only took a small five months for them to find Charlie a position in a factory, boxing fish. And they said jobs weren’t easy to come by in this new regime.

“Will you come on!” she snaps, giving his scarf another tough yank. “For the past eight years….” Here it was. The lecture Charlie had been subjected to every damn year. The only part of the lecture that ever changed was the amount of years as he grew older. “I’ve fed you, clothed you, kept you clean and off the streets, kept you warm with a roof over your head, all while you stride around, acting like the King of Sheba-”

She stops abruptly when she turns to look at him and finds Charlie giving a not-so-flattering pantomime of her speech. She’s not amused and shows as much with a sharp smack on his face.

“How is it that you do not have a clue who you were before you came here, but you can remember all that?” she asks, dragging him by the ear to the gate.

“Ow, ow, ow, stop it,” he begs, swatting at her. “You know I hate that. And anyway, I do have a clue.”

“Oh, your prophetic dreams?” she asks mockingly. “Your gut instinct that your family is in London?”

“Exactly,” he says, tugging at his jacket.

“So, you want to go to England to find your family?” she asks. “Well grow up, child. You’ll never have the money nor means to get to England. Now go on, away with you. This job was difficult for me to find for you. I had to fight tooth and nail.”

“Just for me, Matron. I knew you had a soft spot for me,” he says, running away before he can get another clip on the ear. He runs down the route she has drilled into him; jogging down the path until he finds himself at a crossroads. One sign, pointing left, goes to Akhaten, the small fishing village where his career lies. Thirty, maybe fourth years of boxing stinking fish on a conveyor belt. And on the right, there is the Capitol. The place where he could get tickets, money, a train. A way out. A way home, he dared to think.

“Turn left,” he says, mocking Matron’s high voice. “I know what’s left. I’ll be Charlie the orphan forever. But if I were to go right….” His voice trails off and he rolls his eyes at his own stupidity. “Me? Go to London? Yeah, right.” But he feels in his gut that he needs to go. Ever since his first days in the orphanage, there’s been a voice in the back of his mind screaming “London, London, London”. All he has seen of the city was in old films; drinking in the skyline and tall buildings, scanning the crowds for a familiar face, hoping some small detail would jump out and jog his memory.

“I need a sign,” he calls out, begging some unseen force. “Something to tell me what I should do.”

He’s not entirely sure what kind of sign he’s looking for. Nevertheless, he gets his scarf pulled off him by… something. He turns and finds a small dog, grey fur only slightly messy, holding his scarf in his mouth, panting.

“Very cute, little man,” he remarks. “Now can I have that back?” The dog cocks his head and whines before backing up. There’s a glint in the little fella’s eye that shows Charlie it’s all in good fun. “Ha ha. But come on, I need that.”

The blasted dog scampers off in the other direction.

“Come back!” Charlie calls, running after him. He chases him down easily, of course. He’s a small dog and Charlie’s fast. He lifts him up and tries to pull the scarf out of his mouth, with little success. “Come on, that’s not fair, I’m already going to be late….” His voice trails off when he stands and takes in his surroundings. He chased the dog right, away from Akhaten and the fish factory, towards the Capitol.

In fairness, he did ask for a sign. He just didn’t think it would be this furry. Or cute.

“Okay,” he breathes, looking out at the bath before him. Grey skies and a concrete road. Cars and trains pass in the distance. He can always go back, take the safe route and live out his quiet, normal, uneventful life. A life not knowing who he is.

He can’t afford to lose his courage right now. All his life, well all that he remembers, he’s stood up to and backtalked Matrons, snuck out after curfew, hidden food in his jacket and ate it alone. And yet it’s this that scares him. He doesn’t remember feeling so small, the world feeling so vast.

The dog nudges against his legs, pushing him forward. One foot goes in front of the other and again and again and he’s walking down the road.

Somewhere at the end of this road, there’s his family. Someone is out there waiting for him to come home. He thinks that it’s silly to keep hope alive at this point, eight years and no one has come for him, but he also thinks that years of dreams can’t just be wrong. It all has to lead to something for him. Doesn’t it?

The road leads into another small town that he doesn’t know the name of. People are just getting up to start their day; shops opening, people coming out of houses, full buses crawling down the roads.

At the first house he passes, he sees a mother holding a little boy’s hand, sees a father carrying a girl who looks barely one. All of them smile, the father kisses the little girl and the mother laughs at a bad joke the boy tells her. He has to stop and look at the scene; he’s seen the same thing in book and films, but it’s completely alien to him.

Home, love, family. There must have been a time where he had those things too. When he was found, he was found in an expensive jacket, one that the orphanage sold to keep their bills paid. But whoever got him that coat must have loved him once.

And he’ll never be complete until he finds them.

Lifting the dog in his arms, he continues through the town, gaining speed and confidence with each step until he’s practically running through, dodging in and out of townsfolk and apologising. This road could be leading anywhere, but he’s following it since it’s the only one he has right now. Down towards his future; back to his past. Finally finding out why after so many years; why was he in that alley, why no one came back for him.

As he runs up a hill, he sees it in the distance. The tall spires and bright lights of the Capitol beckoning him. He feels dwarfed by the scene, one he’s only ever seen in posters and drawings. He’s never even set foot in the city before, and yet here he is, standing breathless staring at it, his newly adopted dog still pushing him even now.

Well, if that wasn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is.

“Please be mine,” he whispers before pushing onwards, running down the hill and towards the tall gates of the city.

Running home, he hopes.

                                                                                               *****

Matteusz knew this was a stupid plan from the get-go. Aside from having terrifyingly slim chances of actually working out, it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong, and he knows that his friends know it’s wrong. It’s one thing for him to trick people into buying fake gold necklaces or trading cheap watches for extra food. After a few years, he’s come to term with the fact that it’s a necessary evil, and he makes it a policy not to target those who can’t afford to lose anything. It’s another thing entirely for him to attempt to trick someone into thinking she’s reunited with her long-lost grandchild and only surviving relative.

And anyway, it’s not like the auditions to find the boy are going any better.

“Grandmama,” a man clearly in his forties breaths, voice thick and gravely, throwing his heavy fur coat to the side. “It’s me, Charles.”

They four exchange nervous looks. Matteusz can smell the cigarette smoke from his seat. He searches for a way to let him down easily, but Ram beats him to it.

“I don’t think you’re exactly what we’re looking for,” he says. “Next.” The man storms off the stage in a huff, swinging his coat over his shoulder in very unroyal manner; he stumbles on the way off and Matteusz is almost certain he ends up falling headfirst. He never would have worked out. Charles never used “grandmama”. Only “grandmother” or “nana” when he was being extra affectionate.

“Oh brother,” Tanya sighs, placing her head on her arms.

“Still think this plan is brilliant?” Matteusz asks dryly. Tanya responds with a rather inappropriate gesture with her hand.

“Someone will come,” April says, ever the optimist. It’s simultaneously Matteusz’s favourite and least favourite quality about her. “Or maybe we could call one of them? I mean that first guy was good.”

“Was he?” Tanya asks. “How hard can it be to find a 17-year-old boy who looks vaguely like a probably dead prince?” Matteusz wants to respond with ‘evidently very hard’ but holds it back. Partially because Tanya doesn’t need that right now and also because there’s a good chance she’ll smack him for that comment.

The theatre door opening grabs their attention. They’ve set themselves up in what was a theatre that only the richest of the rich could afford. Much of it is still intact, the only real damage being the windows and balcony doors are now smashed and boarded up and it hasn’t been in use in eight years. Everything else was still there; high done shaped ceiling with detailed pictures of angels painted on, rows upon rows of seats with thick, soft red cushions, a high wooden stage, painted gold and protected with thick purple curtains, and a high crystal chandelier. It’s a miracle that it was never harmed.

They turn to the door, worrying that it’s an officer who has heard of their little plan. Fortunately for them, it’s a boy around their age, wearing a green jacket slightly too big for him and a scar wound around his neck. He stops halfway down the aisle, shuffling under their gaze.

“I… I’m looking for Matteusz,” he asks in a small voice, and all three of his friends turn to look at him.

“I’m Matteusz,” he says, standing. The boy creeps closer, and Matteusz can see the small grey puppy nestled in his arms. He’s stroking the dog’s fur rhythmically. Matteusz can recognise a nervous tick when he sees it.

“Um, the word on the street is that you can get someone travel papers,” he says. “Is that true? I’m not supposed to tell you who I heard it from, though.”

“Um…. Yes, it is,” he replied. Up close, he can see the boy’s good looking. A head of floppy but neat blonde hair and a strong looking body underneath his jacket and light blue eyes. Not to mention a nervous, crooked smile that Matteusz could fall for under different circumstances. “But, the thing is….”

“Is that a puppy?” Tanya interrupts, almost squealing. Matteusz is shocked to say the least; Tanya Adeola does not squeal. She just does not. But she runs right up to the boy, eyes glued to the small dog in his arms.

“Do you want to hold him?” he asks, and Tanya nods enthusiastically. He hands her the half-asleep dog, who nestles into her arms with ease. Everyone in the room watches her heart melt.

“He’s so precious,” she whispers, before looking up to their new guest. “Now, you’re looking travel papers?” He nods. “Where are you looking to go?”

“London,” he answers.

“What’s in London?” April asks, perching herself on the table they’d been using for auditions. He shifts, running his hand up and down his leg.

“Um, well, that’s a long story,” he replies.

“Okay well let’s shorten it,” Matteusz says. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie.”

“Don’t have a last name?” Tanya asks, giving little air kisses to the dog.

“Well… that’s the awkward part. I don’t know my last name,” he says. “Or my first name, really. Charlie is just what the Matrons in the orphanage called me.”

“The orphanage?” Matteusz asks. He feels guilty for prying, but you don’t get stories from the orphanage a lot. And he can tell Charlie wants to share.

“Yes. I was found on the street when I was nine years old,” he explains. “And I woke up in the hospital. They asked me where my parents were, what my name was, where I lived. And I couldn’t answer. They said something must have happened to me, shock or assault or something. Said my memories would come back to me but so far there’s nothing. I don’t remember anything before I came there, and they called me Charlie.”

“You were found?” Tanya asks, studying his face. “Do you know when?”

“The night of the revolution,” he answers, visibly trying not to wince. That night brings bad memories back for all of them. “They suspect that whoever my parents were, they were killed.” That hits all of them. There is barely a child in Rhodia who didn’t lose one or both parents that night.

“But you don’t remember it?” April whispers, her hand wrapped tightly round Ram’s. He shakes his head.

“I mean, in my dreams, things come to me. Bits and pieces, dark shadows, a light at the end of a hall,” he explains. “Fire and people screaming. They said it’s normal. PTSD.” No-one says anything, but they all understand. Matteusz has seen Ram break down screaming, woken up himself from nightmares of watching his family be struck down. He shakes his head, a too bright smile on his face. “But I know everything’s going to come back one day.”

“And then what’s with London?” Ram asks in a low voice. His grip on April’s hand is so tight his knuckles are white.

“Um, well…” Charlie blushes and Matteusz tries and fails not to find it adorable. “That’s my dreams again. I dream of a city beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. A clock tower and a river with a bridge and someone tells me they’ll meet me there. That we’ll be together again.” As he talks, he seems to look through them rather than at them, lost in the winding corridors of his mind, before he comes back to reality. “And then I was told to come here, to you, because you have travel papers. Or so they say.”

Matteusz takes a while to realise that Charlie is looking at him, and a little longer for him to realise what to say.

“Um, yes, well, I can get travel papers,” he mumbled. “But…” Getting travel papers isn’t an easy feat. It involves a lot of meetings in back alleys and bribing officials with his dwindling supply of cash that he and his father had earned working in the palace. And with Tanya’s insane plan, he has to fork out for another set of papers, which can take even longer to process.

“Well, we’re on our way to having five sets of papers,” Tanya interrupts. “But the fifth is for him.” The dog still nestled into her right arm, she pulls the folded-up article out of her pocket and showed it to Charlie.

“Prince Charlies?” he asks, his nose wrinkling.

“You see, we plan to reunite the Queen Mother with her grandson,” Tanya explains, cocking her head to the side, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile. “You know, you do sort of look like him.”

“She’s right,” Ram remarks, coming closer to the scene. “You have the Queen’s chin.”

“The King’s nose,” April adds. Charlie keeps looking at the photo, and Matteusz has to agree. He does have a strange, striking resemblance to the Charles. He even had the same eyes. The royal family’s eyes.

“Have you ever considered that you could be... you know?” Tanya asked.

“That I could be royalty?” he asked, half laughing. “Well it’s hard to think highly of yourself when you’re lying on the cold floor at night.”

“Think about it,” April tells him. “You don’t know what happened to you. No-one knows what happened to him. He disappeared the night of the revolution, you don’t remember anything before the revolution.” Matteusz prides himself on not being violent, but he honestly wants to slap April at this point.

“Well,” Charlie says, looking at the picture again. “I mean… I guess every lonely boy would hope he’s a Prince.”

And somewhere, one little boy is Matteusz thinks, and immediately wants to kick himself. Charles is dead. He’s dead, dead, dead. And he’s not coming back. No matter how much he thinks about him.

“Well, we’d love to help, but like we said, the fifth ticket is for Prince Charles,” Tanya says, handing him back the dog. “But good luck and I hope you find what you’re looking for.” She turns him around and nudges him in the direction of the door. She gives him a light shove and he blindly stumbles towards the door, despite the dog’s sounds of protests, while Tanya flounces back to the table.

“What did you do that for?” Ram asks. “Why didn’t you tell him-”

“He only wants to go to London,” Tanya replies, her eyes still on Charlie. “No need to split the money further.”

“We’re walking away too soon,” April hisses. Tanya shakes her head, a proud smile on her face.

“Three, two, one-” she whispers, counting down on her fingers.

“Wait,” Charlie says, running back down to them. His hand is buried in the dog’s fur. “If I don’t know who I really am, then who’s to say I’m not a prince, right?”

“Right,” Tanya agrees.

“And-and if I’m not, then the Queen Mother will know right away, and it was all a misunderstanding,” he continues.

“Either way, you get to London,” Ram replies. Charlie nods, a nervous smile beginning to grace his lips.

“Well, let’s do it,” he says.

“You’re serious?” Tanya asks, almost bouncing. It’s times like this Matteusz remembers she’s only fourteen and is both impressed with her and what she has done to survive and saddened that she has to do it.

“Yes,” he sighs, and it’s final. Tanya goes around introducing them one by one and talking to him about something Matteusz can’t quite hear. His attention is focussed on Charlie, watching as he half-listens to Tanya, half looks at the room around them, frowning slightly. The dog wriggles out of his arms and jumps to the group, nuzzling at Tanya’s legs, darting in and out of the seats. Tanya goes chasing after him, as does April, and Ram watches April, leaving Charlie looking out into the vast row of seats, eyes flickering to the chandelier, the stage mouth moving slightly, whispering something he can’t hear.

Matteusz is only a few feet from him, but Charlie seems to be in another world.

“Are you okay?” he asks eventually.

Charlie jumps at the question, the cloud in his eyes lifting as he looks at Matteusz, pink spreading across his cheeks.

“Fine, fine,” he mumbles. “It’s just…. I have the strangest feeling that I’ve been here before.”

[sprnklersplashes]

Top 5 LGBTQUIA Characters!

yay! 

Raphael Santiago from Shadowhunters, who is asexual (He may not be my favourite SH character, but I have to put Raph at the top. He is the first character I have ever come across who is like me. I was nearly crying when he came out and watched that scene over and over again. He mean so much to me). 

 Alec Lightwood from Shadowhunters who is gay (his coming out story is handled so well)

Magnus Bane from Shadowhunters who is bisexual (smashes bisexual stereotypes, is 300 years old and would not approve of someone calling bisexuality a “phase”)

Bill Potts from Doctor Who, who is a lesbian (we stan an adorable lesbean who is flying through all of space and time with her girlfriend)

Ruby Lucas, from Once Upon A Time, who is bisexual (we all knew she was bi back in season 2 when she was full on flirting with Belle and it was just confirmed in season 5, beautiful bisexual wolf babe)

note: I want to put Clara Oswald from DW on here and I would have, but since her being bi is never made explicitly canon, I don’t want to put her above openly, canon queer characters. 

ASK ME TOP 5/TOP 10 ANYTHING

[sprnklersplashes]

top 3 lgbt characters

Magnus Bane from Shadowhunters, who is bisexual

Matteusz Andrejewski from Class, who is gay

Raphael Santiago from Shadowhunters, who is asexual (I have to put the canon ace in here, it’s in my contract)

ask me top 3 anything

[sprnklersplashes]

Matteusz Andrejewski: appears Me: (Hamilton voice) Look at my son.

[sprnklersplashes]

Honestly April saying "be careful of your shadows" to Tanya was.... Kinda funny. To anyone who hadn't been attacked that'd just sound weird. Ram was Tanya's adoptive brother even before he was her official Big Brother MARLIE!!! Matteusz Andrejewski; official king of petty and no fucks

[sprnklersplashes]

Truth Of His Dreams (4/?)

AO3 (this got significantly longer than I intended but thats the world we’re living in now I guess)

Matteusz and Charlie hurry back to the theatre in silence. Well, Matteusz hurries, Charlie is slower, wading and stumbling along the streets, almost not seeing where he’s going, just blindly following Matteusz. Matteusz takes his wrist gently, not to hurt him, but to give him something to ground him, bring him back from whatever world he’s stuck in, and Charlie manages a smile. They walk in that way, Matteusz pulling Charlie along, and his hand slowly slides down Charlie’s wrist, and his cold, tight fist slowly opens to allow Matteusz to slip his fingers between his and press their palms together.

He’s stopped crying now, his cheeks dry, his lashes only look spiked if you stand close enough. His eyes have a dazed, confused look about them, but other than that he looks completely ordinary. If Matteusz hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have believed he had been crying.

The minute he had opened that music box, Matteusz saw Charlie slip away. He had tried calling out to him, tapping his cheek, but nothing worked. Charlie had kept his eyes fixed on the figurines inside the music box, swaying slightly. All Matteusz could do was watch. He bowed every now and then, smiling more brightly than Matteusz had ever seen. He looked so happy, and so beautiful, that Matteusz thought he’d have been content to remain there watching him. He had been glad they were alone; both so that no one would see Charlie acting so strangely and so that he could have that image of his smile all to himself.

Then he slowed down, his smile faltering, and the tears began to form in his eyes and run down his cheeks. When he fell to his knees, Matteusz knew he had to snap him out of it.

He hadn’t said anything since then, and it’s taken him a while to stop shaking. Now he just looks empty. Hopeless. A sadness he can’t hide behind a fake smile and a joke. Matteusz wants to ask but knows better; Charlie is in no mood to talk, at least not about…. Whatever had just happened to him.

“How soon do you think we can leave?” he asks, taking Matteusz by surprise. Charlie manages a shaky, small smile, toying with a thread on his coat. “They’re cancelling trains left and right.” Matteusz knows this all too well; every day he hears of the regime closing a new border, emptying out trains of people who didn’t have right papers. People desperately seeking a better life. Mostly aristocrats and philosophers that the regime wants rid of for good, but some are poor families and street rats like him who can’t survive in a world that isn’t built for them. No matter how much the regime claims it is.

“Soon, I think,” he says, not knowing what else to say. Charlie’s wide hope-filled eyes are too much for him; he can’t face him with that face and tell him that he doesn’t know if he can get them all out before they close every border. Getting papers is difficult, even if it’s your cousin who’s getting them as a last favour for you, and he’s trying to get five. If Charlie notices he’s bluffing, he doesn’t say. He simply holds Matteusz’s hand a little lighter and pulls his jacket closer around him.

Inside the theatre, it’s not much warmer than it is outside. They can’t turn on the heating in case someone notices, and also because it’s not like any of them know how to work it. April is sitting on the edge of the stage, banging her feet together, either to warm her up or ease her boredom, while Tanya lies on her back with Dash-the name she affectionately gave the dog after seeing him running around the place-perched on her stomach, her hand absentmindedly running through his fur, and Ram nowhere to be seen.

When they come in, April is the first to notice, jumping off the stage and flinging her arms around both of them, squeezing them both tightly.

“What happened?” she asks frantically. “We saw you go off with some officer and then Matteusz said he was going to wait for you and then we don’t see either of you for over an hour!”

“Sorry, April,” Charlie begins.

“It was my fault,” Matteusz cuts in. “We, um, we got a bit side-tracked.” April raises her eyebrows. “Not like that! We ran into some people I knew once, and then I showed Charlie the city. He’s never seen it properly.” He tried not to smile at the thought of him and Charlie standing on that roof together, his head on Matteusz’s shoulder, seeing the whole city from above, getting to tell Charlie everything about how he grew up and have him listen.

“Okay….” April says, beginning to grin. Matteusz shakes his head at her, hoping she’ll take the hint at how innocent their evening was.

“The officer,” Tanya says, coming over with Dash in her hands. “What did she want?” Dash jumps out of Tanya’s arms and rubs against Charlie’s legs by way of greeting. While he may officially be Tanya’s dog, he clearly hasn’t forgotten the boy who brought him to the Capitol in the first place. According to Charlie, Dash was the one who pushed him towards the Capitol in the first place, and their bond is almost unbreakable as Dash’s with Tanya.

“She knows. Someone went and told her everything. That we plan to cross the border, get to London, talk to the Queen Mother, everything,” Charlie babbles. “She says, she says that we have one chance to stop or she’ll….”

“She’ll what?” Tanya asks, lifting Dash and holding him close to her chest.

“She never specified,” he whispers. “But it will likely not be pleasant.” Tanya nods and chews her lip, the way she normally does when she’s thinking.

“Then we need to move fast. Matteusz, how are those papers coming along?”

“It’s a slow process,” he admits, not looking at Charlie. “Last I checked my cousin had two of them ready to go. He should have more done by now, but me hanging around there makes me look suspicious.” And endangers his cousin. Trying to get illegal travel documents could land him in prison, but trying to get them for them now that they’re under the microscope of the secret police? It doesn’t bare thinking about. “And it means nothing if we cannot get tickets.”

Ram comes through the doors just then, his head low, against the cold or out of sadness, they can’t tell. He can’t look any of them in the eye and it makes Matteusz’s gut churn.

“What is it?” April asks when he comes over to them, running her hand up and down his arm. Matteusz isn’t sure he’s ever seen Ram this upset. All the time he’s known him he was either false cocky swagger or dry, sarcastic anger. Here, he just looks defeated.

“They closed another train station,” he says. “That was the last one left except Gallifreyan…” The words hit Matteusz like a bullet square in the chest. April looks like she’s about to puke, and Tanya simply falls to the floor, clutching her knees to her chest.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Charlie asks. He looks at each of them in turn and none of them have the heart to tell him that the one train left is the one they can’t take.

“That station’s way too expensive,” Ram explains, collapsing into a chair. “The trains that go from there take aristocrats and intellectuals. Everyone that the government wants rid of. It’s ridiculously expensive specifically so none of us ordinary citizens can leave.”

“We… we have to,” he says. “How much do we have? You all said you had stuff saved up, April you said you’ve done work this whole time-”

“Even with all that there’s not enough,” Tanya says. “I’m sorry but it’s over.” She lifts Dash and runs away, through the stage door and they hear her footsteps above them, all the way up in the upper galleries. There’s only one reason Tanya would go up there on her own; she doesn’t want them to see her crying.

April and Ram look at each other and slip away to a corner together. In the shadows and darkness, Matteusz can just about see them clasp hands and April put her head in his lap.

And he’s left alone with Charlie, who isn’t even trying to hold back his tears.

“I’m sorry,” Matteusz whispers. “I thought that I could get the exit papers before they cancelled all the trains. I thought I could get us out.”

“We could try to-”

“There’s no point,” he explains. “By the time we got the money together, they’d have shut down that station. I’m so sorry but it’s over.”

“I trusted you,” Charlie says, sounding angry and heartbroken. For a fleeting moment, Matteusz is angry too. He’s the one who’s been working his ass off, and frankly it’s not his fault the government decided that none of its citizens can leave without their permission.

“That is not fair,” he tells him. “I said I was sorry.” He storms past him and leans on the seats, clutching them until it hurts, needing the release.

“But do I trust you enough?” Charlie asks, barely audible. He knows he’s not asking him. He feels Charlie tapping on his shoulder and turns to face him, his eyes unreadable and his hand in his pocket. “Now you close your eyes.”

“What for?” he asks, half laughing. Charlie smiles shakily.

“Trust me?” he asks, and Matteusz decides that he does. So, he closes his hand. “Hold out your hand.” All he hears is Charlie’s shaky breathing until he feels him place something in his hand. “Okay open them.”

Matteusz’s jaw hits the floor. He’s sure he’s dreaming or hallucinating or something because there is no way Charlie just placed a diamond in his hand. It’s tiny, smaller than a pebble, and glitters when it catches the light. He looks up from the stone to a hesitant Charlie and back to the stone.

“The nurse in the hospital found it sewn into my shirt,” he explains. “And she gave it to the Matron when I went to the orphanage. It’s a miracle they didn’t sell it.” Charlie’s eyes never leave the stone in Matteusz’s hand. “She kept it from me until they night before I left. She sat me down and told me about how I had had it one me. She told me never to tell anyone about it until I was absolutely sure I had to. I had to know it was someone I can trust.”

“And that’s me?” he asks, half joking. Charlie gives a quick nod. Matteusz looks over at April and Ram, who are too far away and wrapped up in each other to hear them. “You’ve had this all the time and you said nothing?”

“It’s all I have,” he replies. “Without it, I’m nothing.”

“Then why give it to me now?”

“Because if it can get me home… If it can get me to where I should be then it has to be for something, right?” he asks. Matteusz isn’t sure if he is looking for an answer. He’s also not sure to hug him or roll his eyes at him for holding onto the diamond the whole time he’s been with him.

He opts to hug him tightly. Charlie takes a moment before he responds and Matteusz wonders how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this. He laughs slightly breathlessly.

“Guys, I think we need to leave,” Tanya says, appearing on the stage. “We can’t stay here, not if they know what we’re going. They’ll send in soldiers to raid the palace soon enough…” As she keeps going, Matteusz presses a finger to his lips at Charlie before reaching up and holding diamond above Charlie’s head, making sure it got some of the light. “We should take the money we have and go to the shopping district, if we all got jobs there we’d-mother Mary!” Tanya’s eyes at least double in size when she sees the stone. Her surprise brings Ram and April over; April stops in her tracks at the sight and Ram nearly trips over her.

“Where did that come from?” Ram asks, his voice a whole octave higher.

“Would you believe he’s had it the whole time?” Matteusz laughs.

“I didn’t trust any of you with it!” Charlie adds.

“I don’t blame you,” Tanya says, but she’s smiling.

“I could hug you,” Ram says.

“I will hug you!” April exclaims and she does so. She turns to Matteusz. “I know a place to fence it, a good one. I know the owner, they won’t con me. I can fence the diamond.” Matteusz nods and hands it over to her. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Do you mind if I come with you?” Charlie asks. “It’s the last thing I have and I….” He doesn’t need to finish.

“Of course,” she says, taking his wrist. “Come on, we need to go now to beat the crowds.” She can and Charlie bound out, looking more like two friends racing home and less like two convicts fencing a diamond.

“Matteusz, how are the exit papers?” Tanya asks.

“I’ll go and see my cousin now,” he says. “Hopefully they’re done soon.” For the first time in longer than he can care to admit, Matteusz feels like this plan might just work.

“We take the train from Rhodia to Paris, and then we can get a boat Calais to Dover. Then we go to London from there,” Tanya explains. “From what I hear, it’s a pretty short train ride. Compared to the train from Rhodia to Paris anyway.”

“Tans, how would you have funded this if he didn’t have that diamond?” Ram asks.

“No idea, but thank god he did,” she sighs, breathlessly excited. Matteusz can feel it; it’s real. No more dreaming of what it will be like when they finally cross the border. A few weeks at most and a train journey and they will be out. Free. In London. Where he can sleep in a hotel and take a shower in a real bathroom.

                                                                                               *****

Just over two weeks later, the five stand on the platform in the Gallifreyan station. It’s not what Charlie pictured when Ram said it’s reserved for aristocrats. What he imagined was sparkling marble floors and butlers carrying suitcases around while ladies strolled around in fur coats and men in tight black suits and overcoats and elegant looking steam trains pulling into the platform. What he saw instead was stained red walls and a grey stone floor. Women still wore fur coats, but they were matted and dull and they shuffled around with fearful eyes and a tight grip on their children and luggage, like either one could be snatched from her at any moment.

Charlie stands with April, Tanya and Ram in the middle of the platform, trying not to look lost. He notices Ram’s tight grip on Tanya’ shoulder, eyeing up every man who passes them. It also doesn’t escape his notice how much they stand out; the aristocrats’ clothes might look worn out and sad, but they are still significantly better quality than what the four of them have on.

He spots Matteusz pushing his way through the crowd, he’s not difficult to spot in any case. He elbows his way through the sea of people; the majority don’t put up a fight, they’re too preoccupied in their own business to notice him. He catches up to them and begins handing out pieces of paper with the stamp of the Republic in the upper left hand corner.

“It’s a special train,” he explains. “We’ll be travelling as ‘members’ of the National Rhodian Ballet Troupe. Apparently they’ve taken London by storm.” Matteusz wears his feelings on his sleeve and Charlie can see how much this whole part of their escape upsets him. He remembers how he said that he tried to stay on the right side but survival made it harder. He wants to take him aside and tell him that none of this makes him a bad person.

“Thanks,” is what he says instead, studying the page.

A man passes his field of vision; small and dark haired with soft cheeks and a young face hidden behind a dark red scarf. There’s something about the way he moves and it’s nothing like Charlie has ever seen; he moves like he’s in his own house party, and not the tacky house parties that families held in the houses down from the orphanage. He looks like a character from a storybook, regal and elegant and proud. He could easily imagine him striding across what used to be the grand gardens of the palace.

“That’s Count Ianto Jones,” April whispers.

“A philosopher and an aristocrat,” Ram continues. “A dead man either way. No wonder he wants out.”

Count Jones turns and takes in his surroundings, his eyes passing the group without thought before he suddenly tenses and turns back to them. Charlie panics and looks back at his paper, forcing his shoulders to drop and look relaxed.

He hears tentative footsteps coming towards him and despite his better judgement, looks up to see Count Jones’ mouth half open, his eyes wide, just in front of him. In the cold of the station, he sees his breath coming out slowly, his mouth forming words no one can hear.

Then he drops to his knee and grabs Charlie’s hand. Before Charlie can even think to try to protest, he kisses the back of it and looks up at him with eyes half horrified and half amazed.

“God bless you,” he whispers reverently, like he’s praying.

Charlie freezes. He should ask what he means. Instead he watches as reality seems to settle on the Count as he stands and backs away from him. His eyes never leave him and even when he disappears around the corner, he can still feel his eyes on the back of his neck, hear his words in his mind.

None of his friends even have the time to ask what just happened before an announcement comes over the PA system, echoing off the walls.

“Paris on platform three,” a thin voice announces. “Paris via Zürich on platform three.”

“That’s us,” Tanya says. “We should go.”

All four of them nod, but not one of them move. They take another look at their homeland for the last time and it just now hits Charlie that this is real. That he’s never actually coming back. It hasn’t been pleasant in the slightest; nine years of blank memories and eight years of uncertainty, cruelty and coldness. And yet he feels like he’s betraying his country by leaving it behind. He can’t remember, but he knows it wasn’t always like this.

“How can I desert you?” someone sings, and when he turns to find who, he sees it’s Count Jones. “How to tell you why? Coachmen hold the horses, stay I pray you.” He doesn’t recognise the song at all, but he can guess that it’s from before the revolution. One of the many works of music the regime has banned. It’s slow and sad and melancholic, yet oddly beautiful. “Let me have a moment, let me say goodbye.”

“How to break the tie? We have shed our tears and shed our sorrows,” he continues as people begin singing with him. He’s surprised to see that his friends sing too, tears shining in their eyes. And he’s the only one who can’t sing because he doesn’t remember this song. “Let me have a moment, let me say goodbye. Harsh and sweet and bitter to leave it all. I’ll bless my homeland till I die.”

“I’ll bless my homeland,” Charlie sings under his breath in the same tune as he turns to board the train. “Til I die.”

                                                                                                               *****

Their carriage is packed to full, which isn’t surprising, but it’s still uncomfortable. They push their way through the crowds of people, their backs already beginning to sting with sweat, until they find enough seats so all of them can sit together. The baggage car was already full so they take their have their bulging rucksacks with them, apologizing as they hit people on the head while they pass before collapsing into seats near the front. Matteusz lets Charlie have the window seat and finds himself wedged between him and Tanya, and then just realises one of the terrible disadvantages of being so tall. Dash whines on Tanya’s lap and jumps across all of them, pressing his paws against the window.

“With all that diamond money you couldn’t pay for first class?” Ram sighs.

“There is no more first class,” Matteusz reminds him, rubbing his temple. “Everyone is equal now.”

“You don’t need to sound so damn happy about it,” he sighs.

“It’s just a 10 hour trip,” Tanya sighs. “And that is plenty of time to discuss what we do when we get to London.”

“You mean we can’t just go to the Queen Mother?” Charlie asks.

“Just stroll up to one of the richest and most hunted women in the country and say, ‘Oh hello, we have your not-dead grandson’?” Tanya asks, half laughing. “No, no. No one gets to the Queen without going to her lady in waiting, Lady Clara Oswald. Anyone and everyone who wants to see the Queen Mother goes to her first.”

“So how do we get to her?” April asks, pulling her hair into a ponytail. Tanya winces, looking at each of them sheepishly.

“I haven’t worked that bit out yet,” she confesses. “Frankly, I thought something would come to me at some point.” She frowns when Ram rolls his eyes and Matteusz hopes he won’t have to break up a fight. They can already be thrown off at any moment, they don’t need any extra attention. “It’s not like I didn’t do my homework.” She looks up before pulling them all into a sort of huddle. “She and other Rhodians frequent the Coal Hill Club in London. I say we intercept her there and ask for a meeting with the Queen.”

“And if she says no?” Charlie asks. Tanya looks up and smirks.

“That’s where you come in,” she says. “Just stand there and look sad. And regal, don’t forget regal.”

“Of course,” he sighs. “I need a minute.” He gets up, handing Dash over to Tanya, and walks up the now-settled carriage.

“Is he okay?” April asks, looking at Matteusz.

“He’s fine,” he says. “Probably. Maybe.”

                                                                                               *****

Charlie hoped there would be space to breathe at some point, but the carriage seems to get smaller and smaller as he went through it. He could not panic now. His hands shake, his heart thunders in his chest, his breath starts getting rapid.

Royal prince? More like royal mess.

He finds one place with less people, near the end of the carriage. It isn’t ideal, but he can press himself into a corner for a moment and block everyone else out, focus on getting his breathing down and his smile up and most importantly, banish all thoughts of why exactly he agreed to this in the first place.

He doesn’t know how much time passes when he opens his eyes, but he knows they’re still in Rhodia, somewhere out in the country, judging by the fields and trees with brown leaves. He wants to press his hand against the glass, but he can’t, not from where he stands in the aisle, so he settles for looking.

He’d be mad to back out now. Other than the fact he physically cannot leave, this is his one chance to get to London and find… Whatever it is he’s been looking for this whole time. If he is Charles, then he finds his family. And if he isn’t then… Well, he can improvise when he gets to that point. It’s what Tanya’s doing and she seems to be doing pretty well.

So he plasters on a false smile, pretends his heart isn’t about to give out and heads back to his friends.

                                                                                                               *****

“Hi,” Matteusz greets when Charlie reaches them again and awkwardly shuffles past to get to his seat. Dash barks and jumps back onto his lap.

“Hi,” he replies. He lifts Dash into the air and rubs his nose against his. “And hello to you too.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks, lowering his voice. April has her eyes shut and her head on Ram’s shoulder, Tanya has her head in a book and Ram’s face is covered with his coat. Just the two of them it seems. Three, counting Dash.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’m just not good in tight spaces.” Up close, Matteusz can see the hint of fear in his eyes which is slowly working it way up to panic. Matteusz reaches out to touches his knee, stroking gently.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures him. “We’ve only got nine and a half hours left.”

“Is that all?” he asks. Their gazes turn to the window, watching as fields and trees and the occasional house pass. “What was that song you were all singing at the station?”

“Stay I Pray You,” he answers. “Back… before the Revolution, when the royals were still in charge, it was sung when people were leaving the country. Wishing them safe travels.” Matteusz had never sang it before today, he’s never left Rhodia before, never had the need to, but they still taught it in school. Kids used to sing it as a joke when friends left their houses.

Charlie only nods.

“Harsh and sweet and bitter to leave it all,” he says quietly. “They got that part right.” Matteusz keeps looking out the window, thinking about everything that happened since he arrived in Rhodia, the good and the bad. The harsh and the sweet. He should be overjoyed and yet… He’s not. Not completely.

They’re made to turn around by the sound of the carriage door opening on the other side. April squirms into wakefulness when Ram, discarding his coat, shakes her. Matteusz can see over other passengers, the red caps of the police, and looks at Tanya with wide eyes and a pit in his stomach, immediately thinking that they’re done for.

“Papers!” the solider orders and they all scrabbles to get theirs out. His hands shake as he pulls theirs out of his coat and hand them out, reading the false information on it. His cousin assures him it’s nothing, they won’t look twice at a group of travelling performers, but he doubts it. Fake names, fake jobs, fake identities.

A solider stops at them, tall and dark haired and broad shoulders.

“Papers please,” he says sternly at Tanya, who freezes. With her wide eyes and muttering, Matteusz remembers how young she is.

“Problem officer?” Ram asks, handing over his exit paper. The officer casts a look at Tanya before taking Ram’s from him.

“We’re searching for someone illegally leaving the country,” he explains. The colour drains out of Tanya’s face and all Matteusz can taste in his mouth is metal as his hands shake.

“Didn’t have the right papers?” Ram jokes. Matteusz wonders where he learned to hide his panic so well, behind a charming smile and light voice. The only thing that might give him away is the white-knuckled grip on April’s hand.

“He had the right papers with the wrong name,” he explains. “Real name is Count Jones. He’s leaving with papers that don’t carry his real name.”

Before any of them can think of a reply or even hand over their papers, a gunshot rings throughout the train, the train jerks to a halt. Matteusz feels it in his chest and he’s not even the one who was shot. The last time he heard a gun being fired was eight years ago, but it was in the distance, streets away and he could block it out when he put his head under his pillow. This is close, far, far too close. The thought crosses his mind that a bullet could be shot through his heart at any moment. Even Dash freezes and curls up in himself, whimpering.

Charlie seems to be the worst affected. He lets out a blood curdling scream and immediately buries his face in Matteusz’s shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists and sobbing into his chest, his whole body shaking. Matteusz wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. He feels like his blood has turned to ice, his organs have stopped working except for his lungs.

“I’ll go see what happened,” Ram says quietly, moving to get up, but April clamps a hand on his arm, not even looking at him, just starting straight ahead, her face tinted green.

“You know what happened, Ram,” she whispers. Ram nods but gets up anyway, stumbling and pushing his way through the crowd. April waits for a minute, frozen like a statue, before jerking to life and following him.

“I can’t stay here,” Tanya mumbled, tears in her eyes. She casts a worried look at Charlie and then back over the rest of the train. “Calm him down. Any tears will give us away.” She gets up and moves through the crowd like a small mouse, and Matteusz is left to deal with a panicking Charlie on his chest.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers as he starts caressing his hair. “We’ll be safe soon.”

“That’s what Mama told me when we were running,” he whispers. Confused, Matteusz tilt Charlie’s chin slightly to look at his face. It’s the same look he saw when they were in the street with that damn music box. He might be physically here but in his mind he is god knows where. “She told me just to keep running, there was a car waiting for me with decent men. They’d take us somewhere safe. The soldiers were outside, they were trying to break down the door. I was so tired, I didn’t know-”

“No one is breaking down anything,” he tells him, turning to check if anyone is looking at him. If he’s still playing along, he’s going too far. “Charlie I need you to calm down.”

“Matteusz what if I really am-” Matteusz covers his mouth before he can say another word, every nerve in his body screaming. He keeps his eyes on him, silently begging him to calm down. He can’t say that, not here, not with every soldier here having orders to shoot him if he says such things.

He watches as clarity comes back into his eyes. He takes his hand off his mouth but Charlie’s hands stay wrapped around his wrist, still shaking.

“You’ve been putting these ideas in my head,” he whispers. “I’m beginning to think they might be true.”

Matteusz freezes. Charlie said it so quietly but he feels like he screamed it in his face.

He believes it might be true.

He doesn’t know whether or not he wants him to believe it.

The train begins moving again as Ram, Tanya and April come barrelling down the carriage towards them, their eyes wide, all out of breath, Ram having something scrunched up in his fist.

“Three officers came on board with orders to arrest two girls and three boys,” Tanya says.

“That could be anyone,” Matteusz tells her.

“Could it?” Ram asks, unrolling the paper in his hand to reveal a wanted poster with their names faces on it.

They’re done for, Matteusz thinks as he looks at the poster, seeing their faces in shaky pictures, taken while they were walking down the street, not suspecting a thing.

“What do we do?” April asks, looking at each of them in turn. They can’t answer, of course.

Until Charlie turns and looks at the window.

“I have a plan,” he says. The first thing he does is lift Dash and place him in the bag, closing it tightly but as comfortably as he can around him. Then he stands up on the chair and begins tugging at the latch on the window and Matteusz wonders what will kill him first; the soldiers or the heart attack Charlie is about to give him.

“Charlie what are you doing?” he asks, feeling the black of wind blow on his face when the window jerks open.

“I didn’t come this far just to get a bullet in my brain,” he says.

“He’s mad,” Tanya says, looking back down the carriage. The soldiers are closer now again. “But he’s right.” She lifts her bag, jumps on the seat and pulls her window open.

“What else do we have to lose?” April asks.

Charlie opens the window as far as he can, but even then struggles to climb out of it. Matteusz can only watch helplessly as he pulls himself out of it and grips onto the railing on the other side, his heart nearly stopping when he sees his grip slip slightly before he clutches it tighter. His face is set in a mix of panic and determination he hasn’t seen anywhere before.

“Now or never, Matteusz,” April tells him while she has one leg on the other side.

Matteusz lifts his bag onto his shoulder and steps up on the seat. Charlie shuffles sideways to make room for him. He tries to give him a smile but it’s useless.

He takes a deep breath and swings one leg out of the window. Then the other and he’s on the outside, the wind attacking his back. He lets out a scream as he struggles to hold on. Even breathing is a trial.

“What do we do now?” he asks, not sure if anyone can hear him over the wind. He glances down for a split second and the sight of the ground moving below him almost makes him vomit.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Charlie says as the Republic officers come into view on the train. “Jump!”

And they do. Matteusz lets go of the railing and feels his body flying. He’s weightless for the briefest of moments, and he forgets about everything, Charlie, soldiers, London, Rhodia. Then he feels his body collide with the ground and it all comes crashing back to him.

“Is everyone okay?” April asks. They hear, more than see, the train go rushing past.

“Fine,” Matteusz pants.

“Great,” Tanya says. Matteusz smiles, despite everything. If she has enough energy to be sarcastic, she’ll be fine.

“Yeah, great,” Ram sighs.

“I’m okay,” Charlie says, sitting up and holding a whimpering, shaking Dash close to his chest. “So is Dash.”

They all slowly sit up and watch as the train becomes smaller and smaller in the distance, the noise quietening until it’s nearly silent.

“So what now?” April asks.

“Now….” Tanya says, pulling herself unsteadily to her feet before her knees give out and she finds herself on the ground again. “We wait until our legs work again. Then it seems we’re walking to France.”

                                                                                               *****

Quill isn’t sure she’s ever seen Dorothea so angry. Upset, yes. Maybe sometimes she’d elevate herself to pissed. But now as she passes her office, her shoulders tight, her desk still slightly rattled from where she slammed her stapler down on it, she’s risen again. Quill is half expecting steam to come out of her ears.

“The train crossed the Rhodian border,” she exclaims. “And they weren’t on it?”

“A temporary setback,” she assures her. “We’ll find them.” Dorothea ships around to look at her, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’d better hope you do, Lieutenant,” she snarls. Quill wonders why she doesn’t go out to search for them herself if she wants them caught so badly but knows better than to ask.

“They’re just little upstarts,” she tells him. “How hard can it be to catch five little juveniles?”

“If it’s so easy,” Dorothea asks, stepping closer and closer to Quill until she is right in her face, which is currently being sprayed with spit. “Why haven’t you done so already?”

“They think they can escape us,” she tells her. “They can’t. We’ll track them all the way to London if we have you.”

“You will,” Dorothea says, marching back to her desk. She composes herself and flicks an invisible lock of hair from her face. She regards Quill with cool, brown eyes that-if Quill believed in that kind of nonsense-would make her think she was looking directly into her soul. “If he isn’t Charles, bring them back here. We’ll make an example out of them.”

“And if he is?” she asks.

“Then finish the job your father started,” Dorothea orders. “Leave him floating in the Thames with a bullet in his brain. And his friends too if you can.”

Behind her back, Quill’s hands clench together and she rolls her lips in a tight line to keep them from trembling.

“Captain,” she begins after clearing her throat. “They may be criminals but at the end of the day… They’re children. You can’t expect me to….” She doesn’t want to finish. Dorothea narrows her eyes at her.

“Why not?” she asks, rising from her chair. “Your father would have had the guts. He was willing to shoot Prince Charles in the head.”

“Did he?” she asks through gritted teeth. She’s on the cusp of discovering something that could shatter her world, rewrite everything she’s known. “Did my father and his comrades kill the Prince that night?”

Dorothea takes in a deep breath. Forget Charles, she might be the one being shot.

“Come here, Quill.” Quill steps up to the desk, her palms sweating, her heart in her throat. “The short answer is I don’t know. That day… There were so many people. People shooting, people being shot at, royals fleeing, comrades storming the palace. They tore the place apart, your father included, but there was no sign of him.”

No sign of him.

Her father didn’t kill him.

“No sign of him,” she repeats. “He escaped?”

“How could he?” she responds. “There were guards on every exit. Even if he did, someone would have found him. The palace was swarmed, the borders armed. There was no way a child could have escaped it.” She doesn’t sound sure. “But no, your father did not get his chance at shooting him. So make sure you get yours. For your father if not for your country.”

Quill fingers the gun on her belt, biting her lip, her heart and mind conflicted. Dorothea lets out a sigh and comes over to her. She reaches over and lifts Quill’s gun from her.

“It’s really very simple,” she says, pointing the gun at her. Quill feels irrationally afraid; Dorothea is many things, but she would never shoot down one of her own officers. “You merely point the gun. Then pull the trigger and job is done.”

“When do we leave?” she asks, her mouth dry.

“Tomorrow morning,” she orders.

“I can’t, I need time to find somewhere for Kat,” she explains. “My mother won’t take her for more than a few days and-”

“I hope you’re not asking me for childcare, Quill,” she jokes. “Take the girl with you. If you do your job right, you don’t need to spend more than a few days there. And you always do your job right, Quill.” Quill nods. If it wasn’t clear her Captain understands nothing of people, it is now. Still, if the job is done in a few days, maybe there will be time to take Kat sightseeing. Admittedly, she knows little to nothing of English history, but they could visit Big Ben and Westminster and the London Eye, narrowly avoiding Buckingham Palace, naturally. All she has to do first is… kill or capture five children. Children her daughter may well grow up to look like. “Prince Charles. Alive or dead.” She slips the gun back into Quill’s belt. “It’s up to you.”