Looks Like I Gotta Do This Myself

“And a song someone sings…once upon a December…”

He tries to grasp at them, to hold on tighter, but it’s no use; they slip through his fingers as ephemeral as mist, leaving him just as lost as he’s always been.

“Hey!”

K whips around at the shout to find a pair of men standing on the balcony that’s at the far end, directly across from the grand staircase.

Kleb.

“What are you doing in here!?”

Not knowing if they’re maybe guards or some kind of authority, K takes off toward the opposite end, the way he came. He can’t find Douxie if he gets arrested.

“Hey!” Douxie shouts again, zipping down the stairs from the far balcony to take off after the boy, Jim not far behind. “Stop!”

Luug barks as the three sprint across the enormous room, though whether from excitement or in some attempt to intimidate the other two, K isn’t sure. He scrambles up the stairs, not even caring to grab his stuff—it’s not like it’s worth anything.

“Hold on a minute!” one of the young men shouts, the same one who’s been shouting.

But K can’t keep this pace up. After walking for two days through the snow, his legs just can’t keep going like this. He comes to a stumbling stop on the landing, panting hard, halting just before an enormous painting he hadn’t noticed earlier—a painting of a family, a mom and dad, four daughters, and a son.

“How did you get in he—” Douxie starts to demand, skidding to his own stop at the base of the stairs, but his words get stuck in his throat as he takes in the scene before him. The boy now looks at him, standing beside the painted visage of Tsarevitch Krel, and the resemblance is uncanny. The hair, the eyes, the face, it’s all perfect, like that image came to life and stepped right out of the painting, just aged about a decade or more—the very picture of what might’ve been, if only…

Just as Jim catches up, Douxie grabs him by the lapel of his coat, pulling him in close. “Jim, do you see what I see?”

“Huh?” Jim looks at Douxie, confused. But Douxie doesn’t look back at him, not for a moment. So, he turns his attention in the same direction as Douxie, and he lets out a gasp at the sight before him. “By Deya…”

K looks between the men who are now both gawking at him. Both have dark hair and wear blue, though the slightly shorter one with the stubble has warmer-toned hair and a long, lighter blue jacket, while the taller one with longer, cooler-toned hair has an unbuttoned dark blue vest over a white shirt. But what really strikes him are the eyes. The bearded one has blue eyes, not terribly uncommon around here, but the taller one has gold. K doesn’t think he’s ever seen a color like it.

After another moment, though, he sighs and crosses his arms. He doesn’t have the patience for whatever this is. “Look, is one of you Douxie?”

“Oh, er, that depends on who’s looking for him,” Douxie says, snapping out of it. He needs to play this perfectly. He cannot afford to mess anything up whatsoever, not when the perfect stand-in for Tsarevitch Krel has presented himself practically on a silver platter!

A snuffling and a nudge at his ankle grabs his attention, and he looks down to find what he thinks is a corgi staring up at him. “Uh, hello there, little guy.”

The corgi seems satisfied by his acknowledgement, giving a yap before going over to Jim to sniff at his pant legs.

“Well, I’m K,” the boy says, “and I’m looking for travel papers. I heard Douxie was the guy to go to for stuff like that.”

“K?” Douxie asks, now moving around the boy, getting a better look. “Like the letter?”

“Yep,” K says.

“Just ‘K’?” Douxie asks.

“Just ‘K’,” K says. “Why are you circling me? What are you, some kind of vulture?”

“No, it’s just…it’s just that you look an awful lot like—” He cuts himself off. He needs to sus ‘K’ out a little more before he can really go all in on the plan. “Well, nevermind that. You said travel papers?”

“Yes,” K says. “I’d like to go to Paris.”

“You’d like to go to Paris?” Douxie cannot believe his ears. There is no way he’s just hit a jackpot this big; there’s gotta be some kind of catch. He looks back at Jim to see if he’s hearing what Douxie’s hearing, but his friend is thoroughly enraptured by the puppy, scratching him behind the ears, doing that baby talk people sometimes do with dogs.

Well, Douxie can’t exactly blame him—the dog is pretty cute.

“Let me ask you something, K,” Douxie says. “Travel papers require a bit more information than just an initial. ‘K’ has gotta stand for something, yeah? And what about a last name?”

“Ugh. ‘K’ stands for Kristoff,” K says, annoyed. “But do not call me that.”

“Any particular reason?” Douxie asks.

“It’s just…never felt right,” K says. Then he wrings his hands, his demeanor shifting. “As for my last name…well, this is gonna sound crazy, but I don't know my last name. I was found as a kid, when I was something like eight or nine years old. I don’t know exactly what age.”

He doesn’t like thinking about that time—though his memories are fuzzy around the event itself, he does remember the confusion and terror he felt waking up alone in a strange place, no idea of where he was, or how he got there, or even who he was.

“And before that?” Douxie asks.

“I don’t know,” K says. “I have no memories from before then. I don’t remember my birth name aside from the fact that it started with a ‘K’—” that’s how he got ‘Kristoff’, against his wishes “—or anything about my family or past…”

What little he remembers of then flashes through his head, an old ache igniting behind his sternum.

“They said I was found at the old train station,” K says. “No tracks in the snow, new precipitation…in the darkness and cold with the wind in the trees, a boy with no name, and no memories but these.”

The images are blurry, that old hospital…

“Rain against a window, sheets upon a bed. Terrifying nurses whispering overhead, “Call the child Kristoff, give the child a hat.” I don’t know a thing before that.”

And after that wasn’t much better. So little space, so little money, his stay was much shorter than it probably should’ve been. He’d ended up with nothing and no one and nowhere to go. He did eventually find himself at the orphanage, but before that, well…the time between the hospital and the orphanage was much too long for a child to have to endure. But endure he did.

“Traveling the back roads, sleeping in the woods. Taking what I needed, working when I could. Keeping up my courage, foolish as it seems. At night, all alone in my dreams.”

Huddled in the darkness, alone as much in his dreams as in the waking world.

Almost.

“In my dreams shadows call.”

Distorted voices from people beyond his field of vision, mixed-up syllables and words that he could make sense of if only he could get closer.

“There’s a light at the end of a hall.”

A grand hall, big and vaulted, the floor a rich carpet, the walls decorated in blurry swirls of gold. There’s someone waiting at the end for him. Is it the one talking?

“Then my dreams fade away…”

But he always walks forever, that hall getting longer and longer, and always wakes up before he can see who it is, before he can make sense of the words.

Somehow, he just knows that if he could reach the end, if he could finally see who stands there, who’s waiting for him, he’d have his answers. He can just feel it.

And because of that, he’s refused to give up.

“But I know it all will come back one day.

“I dream of a city beyond all compare. A faraway place, Paris…”

Comrade Bagdwella always said it was just because of his necklace, just because of how much research he’s done on the city over the years, trying to feel a connection, trying to figure out what his necklace could mean. But he’s certain that’s not it. At least, not all of it.

“A beautiful river, a bridge by a square, and I hear a voice whisper, “We’ll be together there, in Paris,” Paris…”

The only words he’s ever been able to decipher in these dreams, though he couldn’t tell you anything about the voice to save his life. In all his attempts to listen and remember, he can never quite grasp even an inkling of who might be saying it.

The sound of a light cough brings K back to reality, and his eyes zip to Douxie and Jim, who are standing there, watching him. He can’t decipher their expressions.

“You don't know what it’s like, not to know who you are, to have lived in the shadows and travelled this far,” K says. “I’ve seen flashes of fire, heard the echo of screams—”

These are what haunt his nightmares, the flipside to that hallway. These, and confusion and pain and this strange red light.

“—But I still have this faith in the truth of my dreams.”

He has to. Without that…without that, he’d truly be utterly lost and alone in this world. He’d have less than nothing. He’d be nothing.

“In my dreams, it’s all real, and my heart has so much to reveal. And my dreams seem to say, “Don't be afraid to go on, don’t give up hope, come what may,”…

“I know it all will come back one day.”

And perhaps the key to that is in Paris.

“So, can you help me or not?” he asks Douxie.

“Jim, the tickets,” Douxie hisses. Jim gives the dog one last pat before standing and pulling them from the depths of his coat to hand them over.

“What’s the plan here?” Jim asks, keeping his volume low.

“Just follow my lead,” Douxie says.

He takes the tickets and turns back to K. “You know, we sure would like to help you. In fact, funnily enough, we’re looking to head to Paris ourselves. And I’ve got three tickets—”

“Really?” K says, hopeful.

“Yes, but,” Douxie says, “the third is for him—” he motions toward the painting, toward the small boy sitting down in front next to his twin sister “—Tsarevitch Krel.”

K looks back at the painting, eyes catching on the boy in front. Tsarevitch Krel, huh?

He’s heard the rumors of the tsarevitch’s potential survival—who in Russia hasn’t?—but he’d never given the royal family or the prince much thought. Well, much thought beyond the fact that he quite likes the name, far more than ‘Kristoff’. He couldn’t exactly go around calling himself the same name as the lost heir to the throne, though.

“See, Jim and I have a plan to reunite Tsarevitch Krel with his twin sister and grandmother once we find him,” Douxie says. He slings an arm around K’s shoulders to start guiding him up the stairs. “And you, K, you resemble him quite a bit.”

“The dark eyes,” Jim says.

“The face shape,” Douxie says.

“The tsar’s smile,” Jim says.

“The tsarina’s complexion,” Douxie says.

“Even the dowager empress’s hands,” Jim says.

“And you’re the same age and the same physical type,” Douxie says.

“Are you saying that you think I am the lost tsarevitch?” K scoffs.

“All I’m saying,” Douxie says as they come to a stop before another painting, this one of only the twins, “is that I have seen thousands of men all over the country and not one of them has looked as much like the tsarevitch as you. Just look at the portrait!”

K scoffs again, shaking his head. “And here I thought I was crazy, but you’ve definitely got me beat.”

He turns to walk away, but Douxie circles around, blocking his path back down the stairs. “Come on, you don’t remember what happened to you.”

“And no one knows what happened to him,” Jim says.

“You’re looking for family in Paris,” Douxie says.

“And his only family is in Paris,” Jim says.

“And you did say that you know your birth name started with a ‘K’,” Douxie says, turning K back around, making sure he really looks at the portrait this time. “Have you ever thought about the possibility?”

“That I could be royalty?” Krel says. “I mean, it’s kind of hard to imagine yourself as the tsarevitch when you’re sleeping blanket-less and hungry on a damp floor…though, I suppose every lonely kid has wished at least once that they were someone so special…”

Douxie makes a show of checking his watch and then says, “Well, really wish we could help, but the third ticket is for Tsarevitch Krel, and we’ve gotta get going. Good luck.”

He then grabs Jim, and they start off back down the stairs, leaving K alone under the painting.

“Ok, what are you up to?” Jim asks as they descend.

“All he wants to do is go to Paris,” Douxie says. “Why give away a third of the reward money?”

“Douxie,” Jim says, his tone disapproving.

“I know it’s a little underhanded, but it’s far from the worst thing we’ve done,” Douxie says. “And it’s not any worse than lying to the empress.”

Jim’s not much a fan of that either. But he made a promise a long time ago to a lost little boy to look out for him no matter what, and he refuses to break it, even for a hairbrained scheme he finds deeply questionable at best.

“Please, Jim. You’ve played along this far, yeah? Just trust me,” Douxie says.

“I don’t like this,” Jim says. “But…I’ll trust you.”

“Thank you,” Douxie says.

“So, why are we walking away so soon then?” Jim asks.

“Patience,” Douxie says. “And walk a little slower.”

Still by the painting, now with Luug in his arms, K can’t help but look a little closer at the boy on the right, Tsarevitch Krel. He must admit, Douxie and Jim do have a point about the similarities.

But it’s the girl on the left that really gets him. She wears a dress to match the suit the boy wears, and though her physical features couldn’t be more different from the boy’s, he can see something there. They’re siblings, he’s sure of it. This has to be the sister, the tsarevitch’s twin.

Potentially, maybe…his twin…

His fingers go to his necklace, lightly running over the words and detailing, over where it’s supposed to attach to—

Its missing half.

Its missing half in Paris.

At the bottom of the stairs, before Jim can ask another question, Douxie holds up three fingers. “Three, two, one…”

“Douxie!”

Douxie shoots Jim a grin.

“Douxie, wait up!”

He turns to see K rushing down the steps.

“You need something?” Douxie asks.

“If I don’t remember who I am, then who’s to say I’m not the tsarevitch or whatever, right?” K says.

“Go on,” Douxie says, nodding along.

“And if I’m not Krel, then no doubt the sister and the empress will be able to tell right away, and it’s all just an honest mistake,” K says.

“Sounds plausible to me,” Douxie says.

“And,” Jim tacks on, “if you really are the tsarevitch, then you’ll finally know who you are and have your family back.”

“He’s right,” Douxie says. “Either way, it gets you to Paris.”

“Right,” K says. He sticks out a hand, which Douxie takes, and gives a far firmer shake than Douxie had expected. It actually kind of hurts. But that doesn’t matter! Because they’ve found their tsarevitch!

At the banister, he sets down the picture and buries his head in his hands, only held up on his feet by the stone beneath his elbows.

He doesn’t know what to do now. What can he do now? Where does he go? Without this…without this, he has nothing. Without this, he is nothing. He’s spent his entire life working toward this single goal, and without it, he’s left floundering in the darkness, the water threatening to pull him under.

And like Aja did earlier, he finds himself looking up into the heavens at the twinkling Evening Star.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this.

But he doesn’t exactly have any other option at this point. All of his hard work, it wasn’t enough. So, all he’s left with is that star far, far above him.

He picks up the picture, presses it to his chest over his heart, closes his eyes, and wishes with all of his might. He wishes to somehow find the money he needs, or for that guy who outbid him to change his mind, or anything.

He’ll take anything.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s taken aback by the sudden appearance of a frog.

What are the odds?

This has to be some kind of cosmic joke. How does a frog get all the way up here, anyway?

Especially one that looks so unique. He’s heard that sometimes, very rarely, traditionally green frogs can be blue, a gene mutation or something, but he never thought he’d see one. This frog is quite a pretty shade of blue, too.

He leans against the banister again, staring at the frog. “So, what now? I suppose you want a kiss?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” the frog says with a flirty smirk.

Krel shouts and unleashes a stream of colorful curses as he backs away as fast as he can until he runs into one of Aja’s shelves. He crashes to the ground in a heap of old books and dolls and stuffed animals that hadn’t moved from that shelf in years.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I did not mean to scare you!” the frog continues saying, hopping down from the banister and into the room.

“Oh God, I’ve finally lost it,” Krel groans as he hauls himself up off the floor. Looks like learning his dream is dead broke more than just his heart.

“No! I’m real!” the frog says, hopping up onto Aja’s stool and then onto the vanity. “Allow me to introduce myself.”

The frog stands straight on his hind legs in a way he doesn’t think frogs should be able to do, and says, “I am Prince Hisirdoux of Camelot.”

“…Yeah, I’ve definitely lost it.”

“No, I promise you, I am real!” the frog says

Krel cannot believe he’s even entertaining the thought, but…

“If you’re the real prince…then who is that waltzing with Aja on the dance floor?” Krel asks.

“I have no idea, my head’s been all jumbled. I only know that one moment, I’m a charming prince playing with the street bands and having a good time, and the next, I’m tripping over these,” he says, sticking out a webbed foot and then falling over.

Krel rubs his temples, trying to wrap his head around what’s happening right now, when a book at the top of the pile he just pulled himself out of catches his eye, one of Aja’s most requested books when Mama used to read to them.

“The Frog Prince…”

“Eh?” The prince looks in the same direction and lights up when he sees the book. “Oh! I know that story! Y Tywysog Broga! My mother had the servants read this to me when I was a child.”

He leaps down, knocking over some of Aja’s perfume bottles, and with some effort, pushes the book open to the page where the princess kisses the frog. He flips back and forth between that page and the next, where the frog has turned into a prince. “Yes, yes, yes! This is exactly the answer!”

The frog turns back to look at him. “You must kiss me.”

“Excuse me!?” Krel splutters.

“The kiss might turn me human again, like in the story!” Prince Hisirdoux says, moving back up onto the vanity.

Krel just stares at him for a moment, and then says, “You know, I’m just gonna go find Aja—”

“No, don’t leave!” Prince Hisirdoux says. “Please, I beg you for your help. Look, look, my family is wealthy, so perhaps I could offer you some type of reward, or there is a wish I could grant, maybe?”

Realization comes over Krel, and he looks over at the picture he dropped when he was scrambling away from the frog, that old illustration of the jazz club he and Papa dreamed of, that fell through his fingers when he was so close.

The star…

Once again, he can’t believe he’s really about to do this.

But…he put in all that work for so long…so if this is the star taking him the rest of the way…

“Just—just one kiss,” Krel says.

“Just one,” Prince Hisirdoux says.

So, Krel takes a deep breath, forces down all the protests and reservations bubbling up inside, closes his eyes, and before he can chicken out, he quickly plants a kiss on the frog’s lips (do frogs have lips?).

There’s a burst of light all around them, and when it fades, Douxie excitedly looks himself over, only to find he’s still a frog.

Serves him right for getting his hopes up—of course the answer is not so simple as kissing a prince or princess.

The prince.

Douxie looks around and realizes he’s nowhere to be seen. He hears a rustling, peers over the side of the vanity, and his heart nearly stops at the sight of the pile of blue clothing on the floor, underneath which something is moving.

When the something emerges, Douxie gasps. “Bleeding balroths…”

“You don’t look any different,” Krel says, his head a little fuzzy. For a moment there, it felt as if there was this blip in his senses, like everything was turned off and then back on again. “But how’d you get way up there, and I got way down here in all this…”

Krel picks at the fabric, covered in lace patterning that looks like the coat Aja gave him, and freezes at the sight of his hand—his webbed hand, now blue-green in color. He looks over into Aja’s floor-length mirror and screams at the image of a frog looking back at him, springing back. However, his legs function a little differently than before, so when he springs back, he launches himself upward and lands on the vanity beside the prince.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic, it’s ok—”

“What did you do to me!?” Krel says, struggling onto his feet—Prince Hisirdoux really wasn’t kidding about tripping over his own feet. “Is this some kind of magical STD!?”

“No! At least, I don’t think so,” Douxie says. He really hopes not. “I did not know this would happen, I swear!”

“Oh, Seklos and Gaylen…ok, come on, Krel, think! You’re smart, you’re resourceful, you can figure out how to fix this,” the prince, Krel apparently, mutters to himself, starting to clumsily pace across the vanity.

And Douxie sees it before Krel does.

Krel trips over one of the perfume bottles Douxie knocked over, his webbed toes catching on the lid.

Douxie, already in motion, tries to grab him before he can fall.

But he’s not fast enough, only managing to snag Krel’s wrist just as he tumbles over the side of the vanity, and so Douxie is pulled over with him.

If it weren’t so humiliating, what happens next would be downright comical.

As the last notes fade into the morning air, Douxie carefully takes Krel by the shoulders and turns him around. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

Before their very eyes, the first rays of the sun burst forth. They bathe San Angel in their glory, and San Angel in return glistens and gleams as if it were a dream.

“It’s beautiful,” Krel says.

“What you’re feeling,” Douxie says, “that’s what I feel every time I’m with you.”

Krel turns back around and his breath hitches as Douxie gets down on one knee.

“I can’t offer you a fancy ring like Seamus can,” Douxie says. “I have nothing to give but my love.”

“Douxie…”

“I may not be the town hero, Krel,” Douxie continues, “but I swear with all my heart, I will never, ever stop loving you.”

Krel kneels down and takes Douxie’s face in his hands. “And I will never stop loving the man who plays from the heart.”

Douxie could swear his heart is about to beat right out of his chest, bursting with more joy than he thought possible that wells up inside him. He wants to run through the streets of San Angel, to crow from the rooftops, to tell the whole world that Krel chose him!

But before either can say anything else, a hiss cuts between them, and they look to see a snake slithering through the grass.

“Douxie!” Krel shouts, pushing him away.

“Krel, no!”

The snake sinks its teeth into Krel’s ankle. There’s an awful moment where Krel stands there, slightly swaying, his eyes clouding over, and then, he crumples like a ragdoll.

Douxie lunges forward to catch Krel before he can hit the ground.

He frantically feels for a pulse, fingers pressing along Krel’s neck—venom takes a few minutes to take effect, so Krel should be alright, alright enough for Douxie to get him back into town and to someone who can help.

But he finds nothing.

He hugs Krel close, tries to listen for a heartbeat, begging anyone who’s looking down or listening that he’s wrong, telling himself over and over that it’s impossible for venom to act so quickly—

But again, he finds nothing.

It’s too late.

“No…NO!”

She frantically pulls out all her bits and bobs, throwing on shoes and ripping the now wet towel from her mostly dry hair. Varvatos holds up her sash for her—even though he’s a grump, he still cares—and she takes it, hastily tying it around her waist before jamming her tiara on her head. She looks around frantically and spots the bag as she hears her mother approach. There’s no sign of Varvatos, so she figures he must have made himself scarce. She kicks the bag underneath her vanity, behind the step stool, just in time for Papa to open the door.

“I’m ready,” she says with an awkward curtsey, trying to conceal her heavy breathing. As she bends, though, her tiara falls from her hair and gets caught in the tangled mess that is her hair.

Papa smiles fondly and comes over, sitting her down in her vanity chair and picking up her brush after carefully removing the tiara. “I think you might need some help.”

As Papa starts to run the brush through the strands, she hears the door open again and looks over to see Dad has popped his head in.

“Bad hair day?” he asks. “I know all about those.”

“So, are you here to help fix it then?” Papa asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Unfortunately, I’m playing host,” Dad says. “Unless you’d rather be doing that, in which case, I’ll happily take over things here.”

“No way,” Papa says.

“Thought so,” Dad says.

“So, why are you up here?” Papa asks. “Is there an issue?”

“I’m just popping in to remind you that I’m stuck by myself entertaining a lot of people who are all waiting for the party to start,” Dad says.

“Just give us a few minutes, we’ll be right down,” Papa says.

“Alright,” Dad says. “Just, please, don’t leave me alone down there much longer.” He then closes the door behind him.

Papa carefully brushes through her hair, working some sort of magic Cori’s yet to figure out to get all the knots to loosen and fall out. She watches in the mirror, and her mind returns to what she heard. Why does she even bother?

“Just put down the brush,” she says. “It’s hopeless.”

“You look wonderful, Cori,” Papa says, placing his hands on her shoulders and crouching to her level so they meet eyes in the mirror. Papa then returns to working on her hair, pulling it back to start pinning it up.

“Do I have to do this?” she asks. “Everybody thinks I’m weird.” And that’s putting it lightly.

“Everyone has trouble fitting in at your age,” Papa says. “I did. I still do. I’m a regular fish out of water.”

Well…she can’t exactly argue with that one. She’s seen how Papa interacts with the court. He’s not exactly blessed with people skills.

“And if they think you’re weird, they’re worth no more of your time than it takes for a polite hello,” he continues. “It’s hard, but you’ll find your people. Look at me—I’ve got the social skills of a clam, but I have your dad, and Uncle Jim and Aunt Claire…” He trails off for a second, eyes sad and hazy in the mirror. “Yeah. If I can do it, you can do it. You’ll find your people, and they’ll love you for exactly who you are, awkward parts and all.”

That’s all well and good, but she’s also seen how Dad interacts with the court, and he’s amazing! And she knows he’s the one she’s genetically related to—they haven’t outright told her, but she looks too much like him not to be. So why can’t she be charismatic and likable like him?

Once Papa’s finished pinning up her bun and securing the tiara, Cori gets up from the chair and walks onto the balcony.

“I just…I’m going to make a total fool of myself, I know it!” she says. “That’s all I ever do.”

Papa walks over and places an arm around her shoulders to hug her gently. “Is there something you want to talk about? You can always tell me anything.”

She looks up at him, and the sincerity in his eyes is enough to spur her forward. Maybe she should take Stuart’s advice. “Well…I mean—”

“Please tell me you two are almost done,” Dad says, popping in again. “Lord Johnson is driving me—oh! Wow, Cori, is that you? You look beautiful.”

“He’s right,” Papa says.

“Your Aunt Claire picked the perfect color for the dress,” Dad says. “It looks wonderful on you.”

It’s a soft shade of cyan blue with darker blue trimmings and accents. It rather reminds her of the dark, deep blue of the ocean. Ironic.

“Now, let’s get going, spare your poor father,” Papa says. “We’ll talk right after, I promise. And you’re going to have a wonderful time. If nothing else, you can quietly heckle the nobles with your cousins.”

“We shouldn’t be encouraging that,” Dad says.

“Are you telling me the Lord Johnson doesn’t deserve it?” Papa says, and Cori can’t help but laugh.

Douxie emerges onto the shore of a sparkling lake. Its beauty is breathtaking, and something about it makes his magic swell in his chest, lighter than air.

But admiring it will have to wait. He’s chased this damn swan across half the forest it feels like, and he will take it down.

He looks around for the creature and spots it as it gracefully flutters from atop a rock to settle lightly on the surface of the water near the shore where he stands.

What is it doing?

Doesn’t matter.

He aims one last time. This ends here and now. Take it down. Figure out what it did to Krel. Kill it.

A louder fluttering distracts him for a moment, and at the far end of the lake, three more swans appear out of the tree cover, alighting on the water.

He turns his eyes back to the glowing swan just as pure moonlight hits the lake, turning the water brilliant silver.

The water around the swan glows cyan, and Douxie watches in awe as it starts to swirl around the swan, lifting higher and higher in a shimmering curtain until it falls away with a splash, leaving in the swan’s place…

“…Krel?”

He stands shin-deep in the lake, his pant legs soaked through and the entire now nigh unrecognizable suit in muddy tatters, covered in streaks of dirt and stains from grass and foliage, and he’s already lost weight in his frame and face, though the gauntness is exacerbated by the deep circles under his eyes and the devil-may-care state of his hair, his circlet nowhere in sight. He looks less like a prince and more like a wild, half-starved forest-dweller. But it’s undeniable—Douxie would know him anywhere, in any state, come rain or shine.

The next word, said in a hoarse, choked, desperately relieved voice confirms for him though that it is exactly who he thinks, and not his mind playing a trick on him.

“Douxie.”

His bow and arrow clatter against ancient, cracked stone.

Douxie takes off into the water, and the moment he reaches Krel, he picks him up and swings him around, his heart singing with joy. When Krel’s feet meet the ground again, Douxie doesn’t waste another second, pulling him into a deep kiss, holding him in a tight embrace.

Krel presses in just as close, wrapping his arms around Douxie’s shoulders, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

When they finally break apart to breathe, Krel says with a quiet laugh, “I never thought I’d get to do that.”

“I should’ve done that years ago,” Douxie says, pressing his forehead to Krel’s. “I’m sorry for being so stupid.”