Some time ago.
…
Despite what his demeanor may imply, Prince Finnean of the Eastern Woods has many friends.
Friends made of wood, friends full of stuffing, friends of plastic and sticks and bone. Friends in the trees, in the grass, friends with exoskeletons and feathers, friends in the river that runs by his house. Prince Finnean has many, many friends.
He is surrounded by such friends now, loyal subjects of the kingdom mapped upon the paper spread before him, lines drawn in meticulous colored pencil and marker. A frustrated huff escapes him, evident only in how it flicks his messy blonde hair. The affairs of state have him bored, today, as a wooden peasant with painted eyes bothers him about some banal argument about a fence.
“Couldn’t you just settle this between yourselves?”
…sigh.
“…oooof course not.”
Prince Finnean has had a long day fighting invaders and navigating cutthroat politics in the greater courts, the courts run by Kings and Queens, like his siblings. Alas, the elder heirs to the Wood are gone on quests, battling the dragons of the distant lands of…he sounds out the word in his head.
“You-niv-ver-sit-ee.”
Thus, he had been left in charge of their sprawling lands, with almost no clue how to manage it. He’s done well, aiding construction efforts and watching the population grow steadily. The flower crown weighs heavy on him, but it must be done. He must go on, for the sake of his little kingdom.
He opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a voice not his own, instead rushing to the ramparts.
“FIIIIIIIIINN!?”
…
Finn Nightingale doesn’t have many friends. However, he is at least tolerated by two of his classmates, the same two who stand below him. He places his hands on the wooden railing of the treehouse, giving them a blankly surprised look.
The louder of the two waves her hands. Her sleek black hair is tied into a loose braid that falls near her waist, and her sundress is simple, white, and already stained at the hem with grass. Knowing her, she fell three times on the way over here and yet still showed up first. Finn normally doesn’t like loud people, but Yuki somehow managed to grow on him.
Finn waves. “Hi, Yuki. Hi, Archie.”
Archer’s name is, to be honest, kind of unfortunate, considering how passive and softhearted he is. Finn once saw him cry over a moth whose wing he accidentally stepped on, and then cry harder when he was told it’d likely die in the wild. Archer is wearing his usual soft sweater and white beanie hat. It’s barely autumn and the leaves haven’t really started changing, and yet he already looks ready for November. He waves quietly.
“Your mom sent us, cause you were late!” Yuki begins to scale the ladder.
“She said you were coming at twelve-thirty!”
“It’s one in the afternoon, Finnie,” she retorted, “Also, what’s with the flower crown? What’re you doing up there all day?”
“Um…”
He feels a familiar, embarrassed warmth crawl up his face. Even for a kid of his age, the amount of time and effort he spent in his little world was…concerning, especially for the kind of nice guidance counselors who’d take him aside and ask him questions at school. They didn’t know that his family was cursed, nor did they believe Finn when he told them he knew it was all real because his big brother went there and never felt the need to return. They always gave him the same smile with the same sad eyes, writing down something in their notebook or whatever, but he knew. What Finn lacks in social skills, he makes up for in observation.
Yuki snaps him out of his thoughts. “Hellooooo? Didja hear me?”
“Y-yeah, I’m- um. Running the kingdom. Y’know.” Finn’s frazzled brain, caught mid-thought, blurts out the truth instead of the lies people would rather hear from a normal kid.
“…the what-huh?”
“You know, the woods, someone’s got to run them.”
“…like…a game? You’re playing a game without us?!”
Archer perks up at this. “Can we play with you?”
“Um…I suppose so…?”
…
Prince Finnean is not used to entertaining guests. The closest thing he ever got to that was when his siblings came back from their questing for the summer, regaling him with stories of distant lands and the affairs of nobles afflicted with the madness of young adulthood. It reminded Finnean of why he had, years prior, decided he would never allow himself to be infected with the disease of maturity.
Princess Yuki giggled at the table, twittering about the sort of epic adventures she got up to in her ample free time. Finnean found her stories of expeditions into fae territory and her face-off against the siren queen fascinating. Prince Archer quietly spoke of how he preferred to stay in his home territory, sorting out scholarly debates during long stretches of peace. Fitting, considering his kingdom was surrounded by a protective layer of snow and mountains. Finnean, in turn, told tales of the dragons he’d slain or befriended, of daring rescue missions, daily battles against invaders on the borders, and snickering nobility who’d hide their violent intentions behind the veil of verbal sparring. His guests exchange glances, and the princess speaks up after a moment.
“Is…that why you have so few friends?”
“…No? I prefer to be alone.”
“Why?”
“It keeps my kingdom safe, if nobody knows about it.”
Prince Archer considers that for a moment. “But…we know. That’s why we’re here. Are we making your kingdom be not safe??”
“…I am aware of the danger.” Finnean stretches the limits of his princely vocabulary to mask the pleading tremor building in his voice. “…please do not make me regret this.”
“Whyyyyy would we do that? The other kids- um. The other nobility don’t particularly like us either.” The princess shrugs, smiling.
“Yeah, besides, this is really cool. You’re real good at making flower crowns.” Archer smiles.
Prince Finnean resists the urge to wipe his eyes. “…you mean it?”
“Yeah!” Yuki pumps her fist in the air. “You’re our friend, silly!”
She sticks her hand out over the middle of the table, and the two boys place theirs over it before they all throw their hands up, laughing.
…
Fynn the Orphan sits up, breathing heavily. He draws his blanket up around his shoulders, stifling his tears. He’s been having strange dreams for weeks…still, the aching, hollow feeling persists. He’s misses his friends. He misses his siblings. He misses his parents. He misses his little kingdom. Exile grates on him like a festering wound.
Something inside him protests, screams at himself and at the world, raging pitifully against the odds. He grits his teeth. Now is not the time for a tantrum, it’d just make him even more pathetic than he already is. He forces himself to his feet. Maybe Verie will still be awake, or Joy, or anyone else.
Fynn the Orphan had many friends, once.
