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Everybody knows his sister's story. At least, once they figure out the connection, they do. No one knows his story though, woven in and wound around his twin sister's well known tale.
Who has time for a mere sinster-side Prince when there's a beautiful golden-haired Princess to lavish attention and legends upon. He is small and dark next to her rose-lipped lily-skinned perfect beauty, and a mere Prince to boot. Most story tellers do not even remember that he is, let alone that he too has a story.
Years ago, in the beginning, once upon a time, the palace servants carried his sister shoulder high from the birthing room while his mother still panted and screamed quite un-regally to bring him forth. They had their precious blood-bonded heiress to her titles, after all. Their main concern was that this sinster-side sibling would not injure her health.
Of course, he was at that much feted christening, a second, smaller, silver crib behind his sister's golden glory. The fairies in attendance were gracious, and he too was gifted, but with second hand luck and second rate charms. At least he escaped the anger of Silerstia. Sometimes being small and second rate was useful.
It was useful throughout his childhood. It allowed him to slide through the palace without the entourage that accompanied his sister. Days could be spent in the kitchens, the falconry, the kennels, passing largely unnoticed while his sister was drilled in the stuffy classroom lore of the realm. Summer nights could be spent in the horse pastures, undisturbed, watching the stars, and winter ones curled up with the stable boys in front of the banked kitchen fires. All of these activities struck him as far preferable to the stiff formal chamber that mirrored his feted sister's grand apartments. He could never sleep there without being reminded with every breath that the furnishings were old, the damasks darned, and that the serving boys forgot to heat the water for silver bath more mornings than they did not.
There was no one too small and insignificant for the spell, though. When his giddy and glorious sister graced that snow white wool with one perfect ruby drop of her so-precious blood, every living thing : every woman, every man, every child, every horse, dog, cat, falcon, and mouse sank gently to the ground and slept the sleep of the spelled. They slept for a hundred years. Thick banks of thorns grew up around the small kingdom, and outside those natural walls time passed, fashions changed, and the world rolled along. Inside those walls all slept. All slept, and dreamed.
And Oh but how he dreamed. Such beautiful dreams. A hundred years of dreaming, a thousand lives, a million stories. And sometimes, perhaps, he shared his sisters dreams, for more and more he dreamed of rescue. He dreamed of a dry, spicy, hungry kiss to wake him, of copper curls and hopeful eyes, pale skin and a heart strong enough to find a path to this forgotten kingdom, this forgotten corner of a forgotten library where this forgotten prince lay dreaming.
He dreamed of rescue, but this rescuer was never a noble queen, or a fair warrior with her skirts swingeing. Always those lips had the bite of a little stubble along his cheek, the hands that held him as he startled awake inside his dreams were broad, masculine. Always his rescuer was a prince.
Perhaps he shared his sisters dreams, those long years. Perhaps.
Perhaps, though, his dreams were more than just his sister's shadow. For when his sister's dreams came true, and her handsome prince defied the scorn of his mother's warriors, who deemed that he was chasing a mirage, a fancy. When her prince woke her with a simple kiss, and so doing woke her kingdom, her twin lay still as always, trapped in dreams.
Amid the confusion of a court awaking to find that all had changed and a hundred years had passed, it was three days before on of the boys dispatched to the task came across the still-sleeping prince.
His parents ordered him moved, when he would not wake, to that dull thin chamber that mirrored his sister's rooms. They ordered him tended too, and several small magic workers were dispatched to try their hand at waking him. Still he slept. Preparations for his sister's marriage soon overshadowed the small mystery of the sleeping prince, and soon only the boys who fed the fire, and pressed water and blood red wine to his unmoving lips ever visited that chamber.
Only the servant boys until, one day, three week into the interminable preparations - the cleaning, the baking, the careful calligraphy of a thousand invitations ....
When he had ridden out in the hopes of finding his fortune, the prince had taken with him a handful of his mother's guards, and three young noblemen, keen to see something of the world. Kasper and Kristen, accomplished as the brothers were, made themselves thoroughly useful to their prince and his bride to be. They arranged for entertainments, assisted with any small tasks that they could, and made eyes at the younger ladies of the court, spinning tales of life outside the thorny walls.
Bracken, though, was restless.
The libraries were crowded with genealogists composing the correct wording of each invitation, the scriptoriums with writers speeding to present the happy couple with the best and most beautiful commemoration, the stable women and falconers had little time for a visiting lord getting under foot, and once the Chancellor had heard his spare account of the politics and history of the past century, he was turned loose to wander the castle, unfettered by duties or pleasures.
He spent many hours exploring the castle, choosing his path on a whimsy : a left turn because the tapestries that way had dragons, a right because there was a breeze in the stairwell, and so forth. One day, some three weeks after his arrival in this lost citadel, Bracken found himself in the open doorway of the prince's chamber.
He had been shooed away from the princess's apartments in the other tower, tutted for being in the way in the kitchens, crowded out of the library, the kennels, even the ballrooms. Here, though, there was no one. An open door, a small fire, two goblets on a scuffed side table, and the sleeping figure of the prince.
Bracken moved carefully, quietly, into the room. The sleeping man did not wake. Something about the sleeping face, the high cheekbones, the red lips, the small frown above those closed eyes, their long lashes brushing the freckles on his cheeks. Something about the prince, small and alone amid the frantic castle, touched Bracken. He pulled a footstool over from the window, and sat, taking the princes unresisting hand in his own, and settled down to watch him.
Some hours latter a serving boy clattered in, startling Bracken, but not disturbing the prince. A few minutes conversation made it apparent that the care of the prince was one chore too many for the young lad to whom it had been delegated, and Bracken was glad to have found something useful he could do at last. The boy promised fire wood, more wine, more ice, and food for Bracken himself, and then fled to his other tasks with relief.
Another week passed. Bracken was assiduous in his care of the young man who lay so firmly asleep. He moistened his lips, in the hope that the prince might drink. He stroked the fine skin of the princes arms and hands, in the hope that it might bring comfort. He combed gently the long dark hair that fell over the darned pillow, in the hope that the prince might be eased. And always he watched.
He watched the small movements of the dreaming prince. He watched when the small frown eased, and when it deepened. He watched those fine features toss and move, as though restless to escape. He watched those red lips form soundless half words, as though he could translate them by effort alone. He watched the fingers of the prince's hands tighten about his own, and tried to imagine what dreams they were that made his prince move so.
The more he watched, the more he onserved both the prince, and the court that bustled so uncaringly past the open chamber door, the more he felt for this little prince. The stories he imagined that the prince might dream were full of monsters vanquished and fame and love. He imagined that his prince might dream of being raised high on the shoulders of the court and feted for one great deed or another. He rather imagined that the prince might be the scholarly sort, famed for some invention that would save the kingdoms, or a tomboy, ready to ignore the laughter of the ladies, and take to the saddle and the sword and surprise them all with some deed of daring.
He began to imagine that he might love the prince.
On the morning of the marriage of the Princess and the Prince the court was a frenzy of perfectly tailored activity. Every corner of the castle was a bustle, and the roads were thronged with people : citizens eager to get a glimpse of these outlanders from their future, and foreigners eager for a glimpse of this mythical city made real. Everywhere was frantic, except the small room where Bracken sat with his prince, both of them forgotten, and at least one of them glad of the fact.
The prince, though, was trapped in a nightmare. He tossed, he turned, his movements were frantic, and the small noises that escaped his sleeping throat were harsh and desperate. Bracken was worried. He smoothed his Princes forehead, held his hand in his own, and whispered words of strength, of love, telling his own stories to a sleeping ear, in case that might vanquish the story that so distressed his Prince. The prince calmed a little, but when Bracken tried to move away to the small bed he had made himself in the window seat his Prince would not relinquish his hand, and once again became feverish and unhappy.
Bracken signed, and pressed a kiss to the Prince's troubled forehead. He glanced at the empty corridor outside the open door. He steeled himself to be caught, to be banished from the presence of the Prince, and then sighing, climbed on to the bed to lie alongside his prince.
The sleeping prince moved closer to him, the frown easing, the small noises becoming calmer, quieting, the red lips curving into a small smile.
Bracken smiled, looking down at the sleeping prince. He whispered in the silent room.
"Sweet dreams, my prince, and I shall guard them."
At the other side of the castle, in the Great Hall, three priestess's and three priests, in robes of gold and jewels, were pronouncing wedding vows. The Princess took her prince by the chin, turned his face, and kissed him. The assembled guests cheered.
And in a small and silent room, Bracken dropped a gentle kiss onto those wine-red lips.
********************************************************************************************
Originaly posted 4th May 2003
Who has time for a mere sinster-side Prince when there's a beautiful golden-haired Princess to lavish attention and legends upon. He is small and dark next to her rose-lipped lily-skinned perfect beauty, and a mere Prince to boot. Most story tellers do not even remember that he is, let alone that he too has a story.
Years ago, in the beginning, once upon a time, the palace servants carried his sister shoulder high from the birthing room while his mother still panted and screamed quite un-regally to bring him forth. They had their precious blood-bonded heiress to her titles, after all. Their main concern was that this sinster-side sibling would not injure her health.
Of course, he was at that much feted christening, a second, smaller, silver crib behind his sister's golden glory. The fairies in attendance were gracious, and he too was gifted, but with second hand luck and second rate charms. At least he escaped the anger of Silerstia. Sometimes being small and second rate was useful.
It was useful throughout his childhood. It allowed him to slide through the palace without the entourage that accompanied his sister. Days could be spent in the kitchens, the falconry, the kennels, passing largely unnoticed while his sister was drilled in the stuffy classroom lore of the realm. Summer nights could be spent in the horse pastures, undisturbed, watching the stars, and winter ones curled up with the stable boys in front of the banked kitchen fires. All of these activities struck him as far preferable to the stiff formal chamber that mirrored his feted sister's grand apartments. He could never sleep there without being reminded with every breath that the furnishings were old, the damasks darned, and that the serving boys forgot to heat the water for silver bath more mornings than they did not.
There was no one too small and insignificant for the spell, though. When his giddy and glorious sister graced that snow white wool with one perfect ruby drop of her so-precious blood, every living thing : every woman, every man, every child, every horse, dog, cat, falcon, and mouse sank gently to the ground and slept the sleep of the spelled. They slept for a hundred years. Thick banks of thorns grew up around the small kingdom, and outside those natural walls time passed, fashions changed, and the world rolled along. Inside those walls all slept. All slept, and dreamed.
And Oh but how he dreamed. Such beautiful dreams. A hundred years of dreaming, a thousand lives, a million stories. And sometimes, perhaps, he shared his sisters dreams, for more and more he dreamed of rescue. He dreamed of a dry, spicy, hungry kiss to wake him, of copper curls and hopeful eyes, pale skin and a heart strong enough to find a path to this forgotten kingdom, this forgotten corner of a forgotten library where this forgotten prince lay dreaming.
He dreamed of rescue, but this rescuer was never a noble queen, or a fair warrior with her skirts swingeing. Always those lips had the bite of a little stubble along his cheek, the hands that held him as he startled awake inside his dreams were broad, masculine. Always his rescuer was a prince.
Perhaps he shared his sisters dreams, those long years. Perhaps.
Perhaps, though, his dreams were more than just his sister's shadow. For when his sister's dreams came true, and her handsome prince defied the scorn of his mother's warriors, who deemed that he was chasing a mirage, a fancy. When her prince woke her with a simple kiss, and so doing woke her kingdom, her twin lay still as always, trapped in dreams.
Amid the confusion of a court awaking to find that all had changed and a hundred years had passed, it was three days before on of the boys dispatched to the task came across the still-sleeping prince.
His parents ordered him moved, when he would not wake, to that dull thin chamber that mirrored his sister's rooms. They ordered him tended too, and several small magic workers were dispatched to try their hand at waking him. Still he slept. Preparations for his sister's marriage soon overshadowed the small mystery of the sleeping prince, and soon only the boys who fed the fire, and pressed water and blood red wine to his unmoving lips ever visited that chamber.
Only the servant boys until, one day, three week into the interminable preparations - the cleaning, the baking, the careful calligraphy of a thousand invitations ....
When he had ridden out in the hopes of finding his fortune, the prince had taken with him a handful of his mother's guards, and three young noblemen, keen to see something of the world. Kasper and Kristen, accomplished as the brothers were, made themselves thoroughly useful to their prince and his bride to be. They arranged for entertainments, assisted with any small tasks that they could, and made eyes at the younger ladies of the court, spinning tales of life outside the thorny walls.
Bracken, though, was restless.
The libraries were crowded with genealogists composing the correct wording of each invitation, the scriptoriums with writers speeding to present the happy couple with the best and most beautiful commemoration, the stable women and falconers had little time for a visiting lord getting under foot, and once the Chancellor had heard his spare account of the politics and history of the past century, he was turned loose to wander the castle, unfettered by duties or pleasures.
He spent many hours exploring the castle, choosing his path on a whimsy : a left turn because the tapestries that way had dragons, a right because there was a breeze in the stairwell, and so forth. One day, some three weeks after his arrival in this lost citadel, Bracken found himself in the open doorway of the prince's chamber.
He had been shooed away from the princess's apartments in the other tower, tutted for being in the way in the kitchens, crowded out of the library, the kennels, even the ballrooms. Here, though, there was no one. An open door, a small fire, two goblets on a scuffed side table, and the sleeping figure of the prince.
Bracken moved carefully, quietly, into the room. The sleeping man did not wake. Something about the sleeping face, the high cheekbones, the red lips, the small frown above those closed eyes, their long lashes brushing the freckles on his cheeks. Something about the prince, small and alone amid the frantic castle, touched Bracken. He pulled a footstool over from the window, and sat, taking the princes unresisting hand in his own, and settled down to watch him.
Some hours latter a serving boy clattered in, startling Bracken, but not disturbing the prince. A few minutes conversation made it apparent that the care of the prince was one chore too many for the young lad to whom it had been delegated, and Bracken was glad to have found something useful he could do at last. The boy promised fire wood, more wine, more ice, and food for Bracken himself, and then fled to his other tasks with relief.
Another week passed. Bracken was assiduous in his care of the young man who lay so firmly asleep. He moistened his lips, in the hope that the prince might drink. He stroked the fine skin of the princes arms and hands, in the hope that it might bring comfort. He combed gently the long dark hair that fell over the darned pillow, in the hope that the prince might be eased. And always he watched.
He watched the small movements of the dreaming prince. He watched when the small frown eased, and when it deepened. He watched those fine features toss and move, as though restless to escape. He watched those red lips form soundless half words, as though he could translate them by effort alone. He watched the fingers of the prince's hands tighten about his own, and tried to imagine what dreams they were that made his prince move so.
The more he watched, the more he onserved both the prince, and the court that bustled so uncaringly past the open chamber door, the more he felt for this little prince. The stories he imagined that the prince might dream were full of monsters vanquished and fame and love. He imagined that his prince might dream of being raised high on the shoulders of the court and feted for one great deed or another. He rather imagined that the prince might be the scholarly sort, famed for some invention that would save the kingdoms, or a tomboy, ready to ignore the laughter of the ladies, and take to the saddle and the sword and surprise them all with some deed of daring.
He began to imagine that he might love the prince.
On the morning of the marriage of the Princess and the Prince the court was a frenzy of perfectly tailored activity. Every corner of the castle was a bustle, and the roads were thronged with people : citizens eager to get a glimpse of these outlanders from their future, and foreigners eager for a glimpse of this mythical city made real. Everywhere was frantic, except the small room where Bracken sat with his prince, both of them forgotten, and at least one of them glad of the fact.
The prince, though, was trapped in a nightmare. He tossed, he turned, his movements were frantic, and the small noises that escaped his sleeping throat were harsh and desperate. Bracken was worried. He smoothed his Princes forehead, held his hand in his own, and whispered words of strength, of love, telling his own stories to a sleeping ear, in case that might vanquish the story that so distressed his Prince. The prince calmed a little, but when Bracken tried to move away to the small bed he had made himself in the window seat his Prince would not relinquish his hand, and once again became feverish and unhappy.
Bracken signed, and pressed a kiss to the Prince's troubled forehead. He glanced at the empty corridor outside the open door. He steeled himself to be caught, to be banished from the presence of the Prince, and then sighing, climbed on to the bed to lie alongside his prince.
The sleeping prince moved closer to him, the frown easing, the small noises becoming calmer, quieting, the red lips curving into a small smile.
Bracken smiled, looking down at the sleeping prince. He whispered in the silent room.
"Sweet dreams, my prince, and I shall guard them."
At the other side of the castle, in the Great Hall, three priestess's and three priests, in robes of gold and jewels, were pronouncing wedding vows. The Princess took her prince by the chin, turned his face, and kissed him. The assembled guests cheered.
And in a small and silent room, Bracken dropped a gentle kiss onto those wine-red lips.
********************************************************************************************
Originaly posted 4th May 2003