“Fuck!”
Killian froze.
His brother sighed, shaking his head, “Fedya…”
At last Killian recognized what else he had heard in his voice. Regret. That distinct pang of sadness and loss that choked his words as he continued to shake his head. Then he said something else, hushed, but just loud enough for Killian to hear him whisper one more thing. Merav.
Killian bit his tongue. Of course. That’s why he recognized that sound in his voice, that tremor of longing for something that would never be yours. At the mention of Merav’s name, the pain etched deeper on Fedya’s brother’s face.
Fedya shoved what he had taken out of his pocket into his brother’s hands, and it glinted for just a second. It was the ring from before.
At last Fedya stopped moving, his last shout ringing with a note of finality. He stood shaking, watching his brother stare quietly at the ring in his hands. They were silent, and Killian’s stomach turned. He swallowed hard, feeling sick.
A piercing whistle trilled through the air, and Killian flew back from the hedge, almost tripping. His heart skipped a beat as he looked up, the sound slicing through to his bones. This was it. Somehow it was already noon.
The ceremony was about to begin.
Six carriages. Twelve horses. Hundreds of eyes. Killian stood at the very end of a row of five others. He didn’t dare look to see how many of them were men. One of them was going to be his future husband. One of them, a stranger whose name his mother had never even dared to utter for fear of bad luck, would forever be legally bonded to him after this day. He forced his gaze straight ahead. Did his future husband know who he was? His name? What he looked like?
A woman stepped in front of them. He recognized her as the same tall woman who had shown him the sunrise the other morning. Apparently she did a lot more than lead tours around the castle. She glanced at the crowds gathered behind them, practically swelling in unspoken excitement. Then she dropped her eyes and met each of their gazes, one by one. But when she reached Killian’s her eyes dropped, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was merely out of professionalism, or rather the desire to avoid the sad stare of someone who dreaded their impending fate. He sort of hoped it was the latter.
She gave exactly one piece of instruction. “Please, take to your carriage.”
They all did as they were told. Killian’s legs moved without thought, carrying him toward the carriage, where a footman awaited him to help him inside. There was nothing left to do but fall in line.
The inside of the carriage was plush and warm, but Killian’s body ached with stiffness as he stared at the box of dried fruits and cheese that had been set out for him. Outside, the woman had continued talking to the crowd, but he blocked out her voice, and leaned his head back. They all already knew what was going to happen.
The carriages took off, the ride smoother than Killian expected. He kept his head back as he watched the castle towers fade from view, the thick redwoods swallowing them whole. They traveled down the narrow road into the heart of Thale, a sprawling city at the base of the mountain, nestled among evergreens and still far too much snow.
When the music started up, he closed his eyes. Did his future husband hate the Procession of Peace as much as he did? Was Maman proud of him, holed up in her room amidst her hundreds of blankets and pillows, counting the hours until his return? What about Fedya?
Killian cracked his eyes back open.
They had reached the inner city. All other vehicles and carriages had been removed for their procession, and hundreds of eager and excited bodies lined the cobblestone streets, trying to sneak a peek inside the golden carriages that drove by. No one was at work today, the mines shut down on national holiday and all around flags of green and white fluttered in the sharp breeze.
Killian stared at the crowds as they gathered. They looked so much like the people of home, with their dark woolen caps, sharp suits, and full skirts. Except all of the snow quickly ruined the whole illusion. Still, his lips twitched upward as a gaggle of kids waved fervently up at him, and from the carriage ahead of him an arm stuck out enthusiastically to wave back.
Just like the castle, all of the buildings were protected by iron statues or pots of betony, dill, and rue. As they rode deeper into the countryside, he spotted thick brass bells clanging from the necks of livestock. From here the mountainside cast a deep shadow over everything, but every so often he spotted the sparkle of a gemstone glinting from an intricate window.
The procession carried on until every last citizen of Thale had the opportunity to collect to the roadside and wave, pride of their homeland etched into their faces. Maybe they couldn’t all attend the summit themselves, but everyone knew the honor in hosting it.
By the time the sun reached the middle of the sky, Killian’s stomach was roaring and his back began to ache. Little by little he pecked away at the box of dried tangerines and oranges, trying to take away the gnawing sickness creeping into the pit of his stomach. It wouldn’t be much longer now.
Soon enough, the farms transformed back into cities, and from the cities a forest of redwoods. Killian avoided the window as the familiar road leading back to the castle came into view, hands clasped between his knees, head down. Long shadows coated the inside of the carriage from a low-hanging sun. Then he heard the horse’s hooves transition from dirt to marble, and at once a thick curtain fell across his window, casting Killian in complete darkness. This was it.
The sound of clopping hooves grew louder, and the carriages swayed differently; they were no longer outside. A flash of excitement sparked through the air. Killian shivered, his heart beginning to pound as if on cue. He tried to inhale deeply, but he couldn’t.
The silence ticked in his ears, loud, and he reached for the door. It swung open before he could even touch it. Carefully he stepped out and instantly had to squint against the brilliant light, almost holding up a hand to shield him from the blinding white rays.
The ballroom had been completely transformed, an enormous chandelier hung from the direct center of the ceiling, glittering in thousands of multicolored gemstones. Long rugs of emerald green and white stretched across the floor, the windows all inset with even more dazzling jewels. The light from the chandelier pooled in the middle of the room, and the walls moved with hundreds of bodies pressed in tight in fervent anticipation.
He wanted to find Melchior or Annette. Anybody who would smile at him, let him know he wasn’t alone. But their faces were all awash in dark shadows, and there was no one left to smile now.
King Ambrose stood directly in the center of the light. Circled in front of him, the five others already waited, like smudges of shadow against the streaming lights above. He couldn’t see their faces, like hallucinations on the horizon.
“Prince Killian.”
Who was calling him?
But he walked forward, his feet moving without thought. It felt like he was floating. He focused on King Ambrose. He looked so much younger than Killian remembered. Too young to be a king. Thin. Blond. King Ambrose smiled and Killian knew he was supposed to smile back, but he wasn’t sure if he did.
There was no music. No clapping or voices. That would all come later, and for now the room was only filled with the shuffle and clicks of boots and heels against the marble floor. His knees buckled with each step. How long had he been walking? He refused to look at the five others, at the face of his fiancé. Not yet. Just a little bit longer.
Killian stopped walking. He’d finally reached the group. King Ambrose smiled, and on anyone else, at any other time, it would have been gentle and kind. But now it just looked twisted and cruel.
“Welcome to Thale.” King Ambrose spread out his hands as he spoke, as though he were some kind of saint. “We are proud and pleased to host this year’s annual Union Ceremony…”
The sound of Killian’s rushing blood filled his ears, his ragged breathing tearing through his throat. Not yet. Please. He los
t track of King Ambrose’s words.
Just a little bit longer.
“…Killian.”
Killian blinked. Twitched.
What?
He heard clapping, soft at first until it grew into a deafening roar. He looked around, dazed. What were they clapping for? King Ambrose’s lips moved, speaking, but Killian couldn’t hear him above the applause. But then a name shot out above the rest.
“Prince Dmitri.”
Dmitri. So that was his name.
A warm hand slipped into his own and Killian’s eyes widened. He looked down, but it felt like he was looking through a window, at someone else’s life. But the hand gave a small squeeze, and he felt it, strong and steady. He looked up at the person beside him, inhaled sharply and stared into the eyes of Fedya’s brother.
T
he music began. He almost didn’t hear it at first. Dmitri held out his hand and Killian broke from his stupor. It was time for the First Dance. The audience held its breath, leaned in closer.
Killian stared at Dmitri’s hand, and slowly took it, everything numb. Dmitri’s hand was warm, his fingertips surprisingly soft, smooth. Taking control, Dmitri pulled him in just so, moving with the music, and without thought Killian fell into step beside him. He knew the steps by heart and his feet moved without him. Yet all he could think about was his hand in Dmitri’s.
The six of them began to dance, a stiff, overly practiced waltz they all knew. They spun and twirled and held hands. No one laughed. He glimpsed a smile here and there, but they felt hollow. They glided in and out of Killian’s vision like ghosts, and all he really saw was Dmitri.
“Killian?”
Killian twitched, his eyes jerking up. Dmitri was only a hair taller than him, but he suddenly felt remarkably childish. Dmitri already had tiny lines around his eyes, extra years on this Earth he’d already shared with somebody else.
“It will be alright.”
His face was just like before, out in the garden. Lips pulled tight, a clench in his jaw. His voice was still burdened with the sadness of a love lost, and the responsibility of a leader.
“What?” Killian whispered, his voice dry, clawing against his throat.
Carefully Dmitri spun Killian before clasping both his hands tight. His grip was firm and steady. “We are doing this for the good of our people,” Dmitri murmured. “We’re doing what is right.”
“Right...”
Killian nodded, repeating Dmitri’s words in his head. He had to hold on to them, clinging to the reassurance that this would all be worth it in the end. His mother would be happy, their nations united, stronger than ever before. There was no downside; everything was exactly as it should be. But despite it all, Dmitri’s words already began to slip away.
How could he not have known who Dmitri was? Certainly Dmitri did…that night they met outside Fedya’s bedroom, he’d said his name. And Dmitri had stared at him, putting the pieces together, already knowing what was to come. And Fedya.
Killian stopped dancing.
Fedya had known too.
Dmitri tensed as Killian ceased to move. His hands squeezed once, willing Killian to continue, his brows furrowing in panic. “Killian?”
He didn’t answer. The numbness was gone, and his heart began to pound. Fedya knew this entire time. He had known everything. His name. Who he was. He had handed Fedya his very own wedding ring, and Fedya had said absolutely nothing about it.
Killian’s hands began to tremble, and he tore them away from Dmitri, folding them into white-knuckled fists. He skimmed the crowds, finding hundreds of gaping eyes staring back at him, but not the one pair of rich mahogany and glittering gold.
“What are you doing?” Dmitri’s voice was tight, and he reached for Killian’s hand again.
Killian pulled back. A low murmur erupted all around, worming its way through the crowds. The others had stopped dancing, caught in various stages of bows and spins, but his gaze merely slid over them, scattering through the faces, all painted and glittered like portraits. He saw Melchior and Cosette. He saw Annette. He swept past them all, looking, searching.
Then he spotted Fedya. He wasn’t sitting among the others, but stood by the double doors beside the coordinators and servants. His eyes were wide, panicked, and as Killian locked eyes with him, he froze. Killian couldn’t let this end, not like this. He stepped away from Dmitri without another word, and started walking straight toward Fedya.
The crowd was growing louder, but Killian only quickened his pace. His pounding heartbeat shook his temples, his vision warped as he focused on the only person who mattered. Fedya’s entire body coiled as Killian approached, like prey gearing up to bolt. Killian shook his head, but before he could open his mouth, Fedya turned and fled out the doors.
“Killian!” Dmitri called after him, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t lose Fedya. Not again.
He broke into a run, pushing through the attendants, ignoring their cries of protests. They grabbed his arms, pulling him back. Voices shouted his name, but he didn’t know any of them. He tore away from their grasp, blocked out their angry protests and raced out the door to the garden.
The setting sun momentarily blinded him, and he shielded his face as he looked down at the sprawling estate. Fedya sat on a bench, head in his hands, but he jumped to his feet the moment Killian burst through the doors.
“Go back inside,” Fedya ordered, voice tight.
“You lied to me.” Killian stormed down the steps toward him. He could still hear them inside, but he didn’t care. “You knew about everything, but you lied.”
“I don’t lie,” Fedya growled.
The doors clattered opened once again, and the red-haired coordinator from before breathlessly staggered out. “Prince Killian! What do you think you’re doing?”
Fedya’s eyes instantly widened as the crowd bloomed around her. He abruptly turned on the path, racing deeper into the gardens. Killian immediately followed. He could hear the woman shouting, followed quickly by a rush of clamoring voices, people demanding to know what was going on and tense servants struggling to keep everything in order. A burst of hot tears stabbed Killian’s eyes. This wasn’t what his mother wanted. This wasn’t what anybody wanted.
The stone path was slick and slippery with melted snow. Killian didn’t know where it led and he didn’t care to figure it out. It didn’t matter. He just needed answers. Fedya rounded a corner and the trail faded away, nothing but sludge up ahead. Fedya immediately stumbled, spinning around as Killian approached. The voices had stopped yelling. Killian’s head rushed, each inhalation of frozen air stabbing at his throat. ”You knew who I was this whole time, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did,” Fedya scoffed, his voice suddenly rising. “Everyone knows who you are, Prince Killian. As if anyone could possibly survive without knowing your name.”
The poison in his voice stung, each word dripping with a sudden venom that pierced itself deep inside Killian’s heart. He flinched, but he didn’t back away. Not yet.
“You kept the truth from me.” He continued, “Who you really are, and Dmitri...why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because your incompetence is not my responsibility,” Fedya snarled.
“Incompetence?” Killian finally cleared his lungs and stood upright. “You didn’t even give me the opportunity. You’re from Eskor, not Tuskidor. How was I supposed to figure anything out when you were never straight with me from the beginning?”
The humorless smile on Fedya’s face slowly fell away, leaving behind only a cold, stony stare. ”Tuskidor was the name of my country before the revolution,” he said icily as he took a small step forward. “But you wouldn’t know that. You wouldn’t know anything about my country, my home. You don’t even care about the people you are going to rule. MY people. You’re a disgrace.”
Killian fell silent as Fedya’s words sliced into him. His fingers unfurled from their fists, and a warm sense of sh
ame bubbled up from the pit of his stomach.
“Turn around,” Fedya growled, pointing back at the castle. “Apologize to my brother. He doesn’t deserve to be humiliated, especially not by someone like you.”
Killian’s mouth was dry, the anger gone, stolen away by Fedya’s seething demands. He glanced around. What was he even doing here? What did he really think he could accomplish with any of this but more embarrassment? He flicked his gaze to the ground, unable to meet Fedya’s piercing stare, and he nodded. Fedya was right. He turned, heading back to the trail, and with every step he could still feel Fedya’s eyes stabbing his back.
The moment he stepped onto the path, the ground began to shake. Killian spun back around to Fedya just as the earth gave a violent lurch beneath his feet, propelling him forward. They both stumbled, and Killian threw his hand out, catching himself on a vase. The sound of terrified shrieks instantly shot through the air, followed by a deafening crash.
“Move!”
Fedya shoved Killian out of the way as an enormous stone trellis came toppling down, crashing into the snow with a roaring boom. He could barely hear anything above the rumbling of the earth. The shaking was even worse than before. His knees buckled, and he swung his hands out, trying not to fall.
He heard something begin to crumble, and he turned his head just in time to see a large pillar begin to split.
“Look out!”
Killian snatched Fedya by the wrist, and burst into a sprint. This time Fedya kept up easily. But the swaying ground rocked beneath their feet, and they staggered against the hedges, sharp brambles slicing their hands and faces. Killian gritted his teeth and kept going. A powerful rumbling rose up from deep in the earth, hairline cracks splintering across the ground. Statues rocked and tumbled.
The path snaked in front of them, twisting and turning, and Killian lost sight of the piercing castle towers. This wasn’t right; they were going the wrong way. He slowed down but Fedya pushed him to keep going.
FAIRYTALE Page 8