#charmington

Charmington -> Edenwald, Snow White and Florian's Kingdom

First of all, if any of the kingdoms were going to be named "Charmington", why wouldn't it be the kingdom from Cinderella? Originally, I wanted to swap Charmington for Cinderellasburg, so naturally, the old Charmington would need a new name. I wanted the name of the kingdom to reference the Enchanted Forest in Snow White, so Eden was the first name to come to mind (meaning paradise, but also referencing the Garden of Eden in the story of Adam and Eve from the Bible, which also parallels well to Snow White being the first Disney Princess). But "Eden" felt somewhat incomplete. Eventually, adding the "wald" (meaning forest in German, which is where the story of Snow White originates) at the end gave it a much more fitting name imo.

Cinderellasburg -> Charmont, Kit/Charles/Henry/Christopher and Cinderella's Kingdom

Don't get me wrong, I love Cinderella (somehow even more now than I did before), but why would they name a region after some commoner? Yes, her story's inspiring, but not inspiring enough to rename a kingdom in her honor. Having the kingdom named "Charmington", where the Charmings rule felt fitting at first. But, the more I looked at "Charmington", the more "Charmington" felt like a clothing store or a medieval amusement park. I wanted to incorporate "Charm" as a prefix , and took the suffix from "argent" (meaning silver in French, which is the color of Cinderella's dress) and changed the e to an o.

Auroria -> Aetheria, Aurora and Phillip's Kingdom

I almost left "Auroria" alone because it sounds so pretty and ethereal and whimsical. I could believe that either Aurora was named after "Auroria" or "Auroria" was named after Aurora and I was willing to let that be that. All I did was add ia to aether, and that sounded prettier to me lmao.

Auradon -> Beaumier, Adam and Belle's Kingdom

This one is specifically for my second rewrite. In this fic verse, all of the united kingdoms are still called "The United Kingdoms of Auradon". However, Adam and Belle are not the monarchs ruling over all the other kingdoms, therefore their specific kingdom needs a name. I wanted the name to be French inspired, and the name "Beau" felt fitting given it means "beautiful" or "handsome" like "Belle". "Beau" is also a nice little callback to the writer of the original fairytale in 1756, Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont AND to one of the villages the setting is based on, Ribeauvillé. All I did after that was research names of places that had "Beau" in the name, and I came across Beaumier Hotels.

Otherwise, the wedding went well, the guests didn't witness the fight and everyone seemed to have a good time.

However one thing stuck out for those who looked a little closer.

HENRY: There was no looking back. There was only forward. Henry could save his guilt and regret and terror over the people who had died at his hands at the battle of Best Castle for his nightmares– because he knew they would visit him in his nightmares, even when Ashleigh wasn’t haunting them. (Was it terrible that he missed those hauntings? That at least they made him feel important?)

Well, that was all over. There was only one ghost that mattered to him now, Eric, and Henry couldn’t rest until this whole business of the Order was put to a stop, and Eric was finally avenged.

Admittedly, he felt a bit off-balance, having Tom at his side instead of Rose. But perhaps it was for the best. Last time, toward the very end, Henry had caught her eye and almost broken down. He needed to stay strong. To prove to Tom that he was really trustworthy now, that he had changed, that he was on the right side of all this now.

He crept through the halls with Tom, alert to any sign of the last Order holdouts who were camped out here. Funny how this place had once been the host of the Order’s grand parties, the ones Henry felt nervous attending. This was a very different kind of party.

“I hear something ahead,” Henry said in a low, clipped tone. “On your guard.”

THOMAS: Thomas was furious that he had been saddled with Henry. He would take his bloody ex-girlfriend over the backstabbing traitor. Why was he even here? If it had been up to him, Henry wouldn’t have any part of this. He didn’t give a fuck about Henry’s crusade to clear his name. Tom knew well enough that you never wiped the blood off your hands after you had killed someone. And he still believed that Henry had absolutely killed Eric. 

His only cousin on the Harrington side. And that was all he saw when he looked at him: a coward, a traitor. There was no pity. Tom had stood at the precipice of making the same decision and he had turned away from it. Turned away from all of the Order.

Henry hadn’t been strong enough to do that. 

At least there was the wolf as a barrier. The hulking thing still unsettled him. Unlike his brothers, he hadn’t ever fought alongside one and he didn’t quite trust it, but for now, it padded eerily silent next to them as they made their way through the halls.

Tom hadn’t said anything to Henry as they moved through the familiar house. Tom had spent many Christmases of his childhood at Thornton Hall, many summers. He had memories in almost every wing and room. And by the end of the day, it would be burned to the ground. There was something pensive and sad about it. As they moved from room to room, clearing them to make sure no one was hiding, Tom saw each one, memories dancing like ghosts.

He closed the door on each one and moved on, shutting it out. 

As they came to the turn that would lead further into the house, Tom heard the telltale scuff of someone’s shoe. It echoed clumsily down the hall and he drew up. The wolf stopped, ears twitching, next to them. 

“I don’t need you instructing me, boy,” Tom said, readjusting the sword in his hand. He was the senior soldier here. The seasoned warrior. He stepped out into the hallway, ready to face whatever or whoever it was there. 

The man turned on his heel and shouted. “Oi!” The alarmed had already been raised when they entered, so Tom wasn’t worried about calling attention to them. The man rushed him. It was a boy really. Tom felt his heart squeeze. One of the Hightower boys, if he remembered correctly. Every face here would be a familiar one. Tom was glad that he had been given a blood oath. 

Not to kill.

It hadn’t said anything about injuring. 

The boy left his side entirely, easily open and Tom slashed against it. The boy crumpled as he reached Tom’s feet. For good measure, Tom hit him over the head with the side of his sword, knocking him out. 

“Come on,” he barked quietly in Henry and Toulouse’s direction. “Plenty more where that came from.” 

HENRY: Henry had no blood oath preventing him from killing. All he had was a complicated personal hang-up about it. 

Part of it was the same squeamishness he’d always had around blood, of course, the horror he felt when he realized this wasn’t training anymore. Four years out from his Blood Hunt, and Henry still hadn’t gotten over that. Part of it was the familiarity of the enemies, people Henry had grown up with and trained with and, in some cases, looked up to.

And part of it was the knowledge that, very easily, he could be one of them, fighting Tom, glad to die for the good of the Order. And maybe a part of him had died for the Order when Eric had died, and that was why he was so different now. He had thought there would be more glory in it. There was only darkness. These men– some of them boys– they didn’t know that yet. And so they offered themselves up to die for their cause, and when Henry killed them, he would be fulfilling that prophecy.

It made him sick to think about.

He waited, sword drawn, in case another appeared– and cringed when he heard the dull thunk of the sword against the boy’s head. He had to snap out of this. He had to be a warrior. He didn’t have time for complicated moral ponderings. He didn’t deserve them, either. Those were reserved for good people.

Henry nodded and followed Tom, weapon at the ready, trying not to show how nervous this werewolf made him. But the werewolf was on their side, he had to remind himself. Funny how that had happened.

The next pair to appear were older, in armor. Henry recognized them vaguely. He had been hunting with them before. Henry gritted his teeth and swung his sword, but missed, which made the older man smile as he easily dodged.

“Oh, a Charming,” he said. “They never do change, do they?”

THOMAS: There were not many of the Order left. 

Some had died. Tom had stopped keeping track after Percival. He didn’t want to know the toll. All the people he’d grown up with who were dead now, due to their own bloody stubbornness. Many had fled. That was for the best. Without England, they didn’t have their stronghold anymore. Sure, there were a few families scattered in other countries, like the de Chateaupers, but they had never been as much of a threat. The Order has been pulled out by the roots and now it was suffocating. 

That didn’t mean it wasn’t hard. These men had been his peers, his mentors. Not that his peers had necessarily been kind to him. As a child he’d been bullied, pudgy and soft; as an adult they’d envied him because he’d grown up handsome and strong and, most importantly (which he hadn’t realized until later): kind. 

It was because of that kindness he had allowed himself to be blinded by the Order. 

They had stripped that away from him too. All he had left was his anger. His sense of vengeance, leading him like a compass into the fray. He confronted their next enemies with nothing but that hatred etched in his heavy brow. Clashing swords with his own adversary, he knocked him back and into a wall easily, the breastplate he was wearing clattering awkwardly as he slid to the ground. 

Tom turned then, hearing the taunt. 

“Oi, back off,” Tom snarled. 

At his hip, the wolf growled low.  

The smirk wiped off the man’s face as he turned to see Tom. Who he didn’t know was sworn not to kill. Who was known to be one of the best soldiers of his generation. The two scumbags glanced nervously at each other but then raised their swords. 

“Never, traitor,” they hissed, in the same voice they used to call him names as a child. In the same way they had said “Charming.” 

The hallway was filled with the clashing of swords. 

HENRY: The word was meant for Thomas, but it hit Henry too, the way a blast from an explosion hit everyone in the vicinity. Traitor. Once, that had been the worst thing Henry could imagine being called. And for a moment, it stung.

And then he thought, oddly enough, of Eric. The greatest traitor he had ever known. And maybe the greatest person he had ever known.

Sometimes, being a traitor was an honor.

Henry advanced toward the men, a new, gritty determination in him. It didn’t matter how he felt about this. He could deal with all of that later, the guilt and grief and terror of battling to the death with the people who had raised him. And, later, maybe he could even try to talk to Tom again, who was saving his life right now despite the fact that Henry had ended his cousin’s. None of that could matter right now. What mattered right now was winning. Putting a stop to this whole thing, once and for all.

Henry grunted in pain as he was knocked against the wall, but managed, in his opponent’s splitsecond celebration, to slip out of his grasp and reverse their positions. With a slam against the wall, Henry knocked him out. “Alright, Tom?” he called.

THOMAS: There was a twisted part of Thomas that had missed this.

Growing up, Tom had been told he was only as good as the swing of his sword. So he’d made sure to be the best. He had wanted so badly to prove to his father that he was worthy of the Harrington name. And when his father died, he wanted to prove to everyone else that he was capable of taking care of his mother and sisters. He trained every single day and he’d never lost a melee tournament. A sword was an extension of his own arm. Even after all this time, picking it up again was just like riding a bike. 

He danced and he knew exactly what to do. Where to strike next. Where his opponents would move. The flow of the fight was something he understood. He was confident. Poised. In a way that he wasn’t in the rest of his life. Not as a friend. Or as a father. Or even as a lover. He was clumsy all the time. Never knew what to say. 

But he knew how to fight. 

It was as easy as breathing. It didn’t take long for the two men he was fighting to be knocked out, one with a slashed Achilles tendon and the other with a dented breastplate. He was panting slightly, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. 

“Fine, you?” Tom said, giving the lad a once over. For a moment, he forgot that he hated Henry. He was just a comrade. He was just the boy that Tom had watched grow up. Before he could say anything else, he heard a growl from down the hall. 

Toulouse was standing at the stairs, his ears back. 

“Er, we should probably get a move on. We don’t want to be stuck in this place when it goes up.” They still had to start their own fire too. 

HENRY: Tom had made quick work of the men he was fighting, because of course he did. He was Thomas Harrington III. One third of the Golden Trio. Even after he had sworn off the Order, he hadn’t forgotten what they had taught him, and he fought as fiercely as ever. Once, Henry had watched enviously, wishing he could be like him. 

Now, he only saw Tom’s skill from the cold eye of a warrior. He was an asset, a weapon, something that brought them closer to victory. Maybe later, he could unpack how he really felt about Tom. But for now, he was just focused on the battle at hand.

He grunted in assent, following Tom and the wolf down the hall. He kept his sword at the ready, just in case another foe leapt out of a dark corner. But the castle was unusually quiet, except for the sound of some kind of struggle happening up ahead. “We’re lighting the east wing, yeah?” Henry said, confining his talk with Tom only to logistical questions. That was all they were right now. Maybe all they would ever be. Comrades. Fellow soldiers. Henry didn’t need Tom’s forgiveness (even if he kind of wanted it). He just needed to be able to work with him.

THOMAS: “Right,” Tom assented with a firm nod as they made their way to the stairs. Tom knew these halls almost as well as his own home. He had memories of swordfighting with John and Phil and Phil’s brothers in these corridors. Of chasing his sisters and Primrose, or scaring them as they came around the corners. He had slept in these rooms. Had his first whiskey in the study. Lost his virginity at one of Phil’s parties here when he was sixteen. His whole life was etched in these halls.

And soon, it was all going to be ash. Tom was glad for it. He hoped that burning it down would also burn it out of Tom’s soul. So he wouldn’t care anymore. He could start new. 

They moved quickly and quietly, but they met another two assailants who engaged them right away. The hall was filled with the familiar sound of swordsong again. It rang in Tom’s ears. He dispatched his opponent relatively easily, but he was so busy with him that he didn’t notice the third man who had appeared down the hall until it was almost too late.

The wolf barked once in warning. Tom turned, lifting his blade, but he could tell it was already too late; he hadn’t heard him in time…

HENRY: Henry was also occupied by his own opponent, clashing swords and dodging hits, trying not to irritate his wound from the last battle as he twisted and slashed. He had a slightly better vantage point than Tom, though, and saw the third attacker coming. He would have warned him, too, but he thought Tom saw him. He thought Tom had it covered.

Tom was, after all, one of the Order’s best. Henry was following his lead. Mostly, he was trying to keep up, trying not to make a fool of himself. But when the Prince went right for Tom, two against one, Henry realized– it was going to have to be more than that. 

Henry spun around, not the smartest move when he was in the middle of a fight and was leaving his back open, but Tom was in danger. He had to think fast. Without hesitation, Henry plunged his sword into the assailant’s neck, sending him crashing to the ground as blood spurted from the wound. He had no time to think about what he’d done, though, as the other Prince he had been fighting hit him on the back of his head with the blunt side of his sword, hard.

Yelping in pain, Henry spun around, forcing himself to focus even as the room spun. He gritted his teeth, moving more slowly than he would have liked– but at least he was keeping up.

THOMAS: One moment, Tom was bracing for a sword to slice him through.

The next, hot blood sprayed against his face, making him jerk back in surprise as he watched his would-be assailant's eyes go glassy and he fell to his knees like a morbid tinman. Tom shook his head slightly and wiped the blood from his brow before it could fall into his eyes. 

Henry had just saved him. 

Tom was…surprised and then, guilty for the surprise. Henry was a good kid. He had sent Tom’s cousin to his death, but--he was a good kid. Tom had once been a good kid too, but war made terrible men out of even the best of boys. The Order had twisted every single thing in Tom’s life. They had praised him for killing a person. Had sent him to kill other people, innocent people. To take loving parents from their children. They had wanted him to kill his cousin too. So maybe he had woken up before Henry. Maybe he had always hated it deep down. He hadn’t had a father breathing down his neck, just a ghost. And a ghost’s expectations could only have so much weight.

All of this happened in an instant before the clash of swords jerked him out of his contemplation and he sprang forward to assist Henry. They finished the assailant off and stood, bloody and panting in the hallway. Smoke had started curling along the staircase below them. 

“Er, thanks,” Tom said, unsure what else there was to say. He wasn’t sure there was anything else to say. Tom could think about that later.

“We gotta move,” he said. “We are close now, here.” Tom handed over one of the enchanted lighters. He flicked one on himself and held it to an oil painting in the hallway next to him. The gold frame began to melt and dripped onto the floor, the canvas was eaten in moments. 

“C’mon.” 

HENRY: Henry took the lighter solemnly, like he was initiating some kind of sacred ritual. He knew the weight of what it meant. Burning down Thornwood Hall would, with luck and maybe some divine intervention on their side, end the Order for good. It was the last holdout. The last hiding place of anyone who hadn’t already fled or been killed. So they had to destroy it.

It made Henry ache a little, but he forced himself to feel that all the more strongly. No more running from things. If it hurt, it was supposed to hurt. It was his punishment, for still feeling any fealty to this wicked organization at all.

He held his lighter up to a tapestry on the wall and didn’t wait to watch it burn. Instead, Henry followed Tom– and as they continued down the hall, Henry started to hear a commotion in an adjoining corridor. 

Phil’s voice. Rose’s name, in a strangled kind of cry that made Henry’s heart drop. No. No. It couldn’t be, no, Henry couldn’t lose anyone else, he couldn’t lose Rose of all people, not when she– not when he–

Not waiting for Tom’s signal for once, Henry ran ahead, and when he rounded the corner–

A flash of blonde hair. Phil, crouched over someone. Blood, everywhere.

You’re not fucking dying on me.

Henry stumbled backward, and he couldn’t tell if it was the smoke that was starting to pour into his lungs or the scene in front of him or probably a combination of both, but he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t even let out the cry of panic and grief that was clawing its way out of his throat.

NO, Henry tried to scream, but nothing came out, and he stumbled backward until he almost collided with another burning painting–

THOMAS: They were on their way out. They were almost done. All of this would be over soon. That was what Tom was thinking to himself as they jogged down the hall. It was over. Soon, he would be home with Levi. His son would grow up in a world without the Order. Tom could give him that. He could not give him much, but this felt like the most important thing he might ever do for his son. That was why he wanted to be here, despite the risk. 

And as he jogged and thought about this, thought about how as far as he knew they were going to succeed. They’d come home a bit battered, but alive, he almost couldn’t believe it. It was too good to be true. 

That was when he heard the shouting. Phil’s voice, calling his name. He heard the distress in it in a way that sent a burst of adrenaline through him. Tom hadn’t heard Phil like that in a very long time. He picked up his pace into a flat out run, careening around smokey corners until he stumbled up the scene of Phil and Rose. He came up short, his eyes wide. He almost dropped his sword and sheathed it clumsily. 

The Order boys were taught some basic first aid but healing was women’s work. Tom looked at the dark blood stain in Rose’s stomach and only saw helpless death. 

Something white shot by him and he realized it was the wolf. Toulouse. Who ran forwards and transformed in a fluid blink of an eye, on his knees in front of Phil and Rose. Tom blinked as Lou started barking orders for cloth and any water. Tom turned on his heel, glancing at Henry who was pale as a sheet. He moved back towards Rosie’s room (because yes, he knew this hall too, even filled with black smoke.) He ran to the bathroom nearby, grabbing a few towels, soaking one in water and returning. 

Tom threw one of the towels over Lou’s bare shoulders, but the man was focused on what he was doing. 

“You need to leave. We will be behind you but there is nothing for it. Go. Get the boy out of here,” Lou commanded. “Once you’re outside call 999. I don’t give a fuck about your stupid Order secrecy; she needs a hospital.”

Tom hesitated, but like a good soldier, nodded and moved to grab Henry by the collar, yanking him down the hallway. 

“C’mon, laddie. We’ve got to go.” He strong armed the boy, pushing him forward and down the hallway. 

HENRY: Henry couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. A trickle of blood ran down the hallway and Henry thought of the water on the floor of the Order headquarters back in May, tinged with red. It was happening again. And this time, Henry was powerless.

And then he was being pulled down the hallway, stumbling along and barely keeping up. “Tom–” Henry said breathlessly, the words barely more than a whisper. 

But there was nothing to say. Henry didn’t care about any of this anymore– the battle, the war, the Order. Rose was dead. The Order had succeeded in, finally, taking everything from Henry. They had won after all, even if Thornton hall was burning to the ground. They would always win. And the people who made the mistake of getting too close to Henry would always pay the price.

Henry coughed and blinked at the sun as they stumbled outside, then turned to look at the burning building they had just left. The one Rose was still inside. He wouldn’t even properly get to bury her, would he?

For some reason, that was the thought, finally, that brought Henry to his knees, choking and sobbing. He hadn’t heard Toulouse’s instructions, but he wasn’t in a state to call anyone. It was hopeless. It was all hopeless.

THOMAS: They stumbled out of the house and right into the rain. It did not come down hard, but the sky was dark and ominous. He let go of the collar of Henry’s shirt and moved to the side, coughing slightly. The smoke exposure wasn’t horrible, they were probably going to need to get checked out. Before that, though, they were going to have to leave this place. The less people here when help arrived, the better. 

He pulled his phone from his pocket as Henry sat on the steps, being entirely useless. Tom watched him as he rang emergency services, wanting to throttle him. Wishing he was him. Tom’s best friends were still inside that burning sarcophagus of the Order. And even though Rose was his ex-girlfriend, that didn’t mean he didn’t care about her too. But Tom couldn’t cry. He had cried so much that he felt as if he simply didn’t have any left. His chest was a hollow thing, as if a great inferno had burned through it as well. All he could do was what needed to be done.

The line connected and he turned away, looking up at the grey skies mingling with the grey smoke. He gave the location, all the information that would be necessary (and omitted all the information that he could--his knowledge as a firefighter coming to surprising use.) When he hung up, he looked over at his truck and sighed. 

“C’mon, laddie,” he said, putting a heavy hand on Henry’s shoulder. He gripped him again by the joint of his armor and pulled him to his feet. “We’ve got to leave before the ambulance shows up.” He pulled Henry to the car, opening the door for him and then slamming it behind him as he clambered in.