Rome didn’t Fall in a Day
I have written a fic that features absolutely 0 of the main characters and answers maybe 2 questions that nobody has actually asked and probably raises many more. You’re welcome. (It’s not required to understand anything unless people send asks about it, just some extra backstory for dadgon witch)
warnings: blood, injury, aggressive animals & animal injury, fighting, fae-style manipulation, mentions of death and illness, lowkey abusive parenting, lots and lots of peril & danger... Poor dadgon witch’s story is just a tragedy. Like, the whole darn thing.
Ao3 link
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The Old King of Accalia did not want his eldest son to be his successor. The man was confrontational, volatile. He demanded attention and was never satisfied. He would be a great king in war, but Accalia was not at war. He would tear their land apart.
He didn’t want his younger son to be king either. The boy (for truly, he was still a boy, barely 16) was daydreamy, flighty, irresponsible. He would be manipulated, a figurehead, and little more.
But the Old King had no other children. His illness was not getting better, and he would have to choose soon. So he devised a plan.
“A contest?! Have you gone senile too?” The eldest shouted, “I am the rightful heir, you can’t just-”
“I can and will,” the King cut through his son’s protests, calm and decisive, “As I see it, this contest will give Accalia the future King it needs. Right now, I have little faith in either of your abilities to succeed as a good King.”
The youngest’s brows pinched, glancing away. The eldest’s eyes were wild. He turned to his brother, “Tell him this is useless. You don’t seriously want to be King, do you?”
The boy laughed, his favored method of soothing away unease, “I never considered the idea in the first place. Second Son gets the best job, sit around and look pretty.” He kept up his humored look, but his eyes were distant, thoughtful. “What would this contest even entail?”
“Wh- Don’t even entertain the thought!”
“It is a test of Wit, Will, and Strength. Aspects I believe are most important to being a King,” their father explained. He looked directly at the eldest, “You either participate or lose your claim on the throne altogether. This is not a negotiation.”
“Understood,” the eldest growled, glaring at his father, “Am I excused?”
The younger frowned, reaching towards his brother, “Rudilus-”
“Do yourself a favor and shut up for once,” The man whispered harshly.
The young prince winced, looking at his feet.
“You are excused, yes,” the King said, waving off his eldest. Rudilus marched out of the room without a glance back. The younger turned to follow his brother out, head lowered.
“Romulus, stay a moment?”
The boy halted.
“Take this seriously. You have all the capabilities to be a good King, but only if you apply yourself. Do not run from this. It is as much of your birthright as it is your brother’s. I expect you at your best.”
The teen stared. He was usually an animated person (another reason the old King did not take him for a good leader, wearing his heart on his sleeve) but his expression was a careful neutral now. Undecipherable. The old King did not realize the prince could hide his emotions so well. Romulus bowed, curls of hair shadowing his face, “I will, your Majesty…”
“Good. You may take your leave.”
-
Whispers followed the princes in the months surrounding the Contest of the Throne. Words spread like wildfire. News traveled to the edges of the kingdom, and beyond.
The stadium was packed. Even the fey Courts had sent envoys. A pretty, nearly human creature (a nymph, perhaps?) with branching horns covered in moss perched herself in a booth, as if a noble. A cackling gremlin rode a flea-infested dog into the stadium. Romulus watched the gremlin snicker as it tangled a poor woman’s hair. He checked his braid, confirming to himself it was still secure and undamaged. Several solitary fey flitted around, curious. His brother and father had not acknowledged them, so he assumed most, if not all, the fey had glamoured themselves in some form or another.
His brother had spoken to him only when absolutely necessary since the announcement of the contest. Romulus glanced at him now; Rudilus’s face a stern neutral, focused. He was still angry. It wasn’t as if Romulus hadn’t considered forfeit many times. But every time he imagined doing so, he saw visions of fire and smelled the coppery tang of blood with such vivid detail. While his father’s words echoed in his mind. “Do not run from this.” He feared the visions- feared his father’s disappointment- more than his brother’s frustration. Rudilus would get over it eventually. He always did.
The King gestured broadly, silencing the crowd. Even frail and pale, the man commanded a presence. “As you all know, we are testing the Princes of Accalia’s skills to determine who shall become the heir to the throne. They shall use their Wit and Strength, and challenge their Will. These skills are the pillars of what makes a good King. A King must be wise, solving the problems of his people with creativity and intellect. He must be determined, decisive, lest he be manipulated by his enemies. He must be strong, and know when to employ that power.”
The King looked between the two princes, “A labyrinth has been constructed to test these skills. The first one to emerge from the labyrinth with this-” He lifted the flag of the kingdom, the sun and moon symbol glistening in the light of the early morning. “Will emerge the next king of our land. You will be allowed to take two items with you. Choose wisely.” He gestured for the servants to come forward. A rack of weapons and items was rolled in.
Rudilus stared at the weaponry, “What’s in there that we’ll be in need of weapons?”
“Strength includes combat,” the King said simply.
Rudilus frowned, and picked up a shield, testing its weight on his arm. With a moment of hesitation, Rudilus grabbed the long sword. He twirled the blade, expectantly glancing at his brother. Romulus wandered over, quickly scanning over everything. Compelled by impulse, he plucked the shiniest thing he saw, a mirror that glinted in the sunlight, and a green dancing ribbon. Rudilus snorted at his choices. Even his father, usually stone-faced, quirked an eyebrow.
Romulus nodded decisively, wrapping the ribbon around his hand and arm. He hung the mirror on his belt.
"Ready?" Their father demanded more than asked.
Rudilus gave a sharp nod.
"As I'll ever be," Romulus muttered.
The King gestured at a servant, abandoning them in the center podium. The wooden floor began pulling away from itself. Underneath, the labyrinth was unveiled. Their father hobbled to a booth that overlooked the entirety of the labyrinth. Romulus glanced at his brother. Rudilus continued to ignore his sibling in favor of scanning the paths as they unfolded underneath.
A bell chimed and the platform they had been left on was pulled back, dropping them into a pool. Romulus yelped in surprise, sputtering on water as he resurfaced. Rudilus recovered slower, struggling to swim with the shield. Romulus sighed a breath of relief when his brother surfaced. He swam forward to the nearest ledge, clambering up. He shook the water off himself. He glanced over the options of passageways. He went right.
Much of it was arbitrary turns influenced only by impulse. Walking endless corridors of rock. He idly wondered what would happen if he never found the way out. Would he be left to die in this labyrinth? Either to whatever creatures they had placed inside for them to fight, or to starvation? He turned left. A dead end.
Backtracking and turning right, he was presented with a locked door. On the ground, two stones, one engraved with a bridge, and the other, a fence. A piece of paper rested between the tiles on the ground.
Romulus picked up the paper, reading the neat scrawl of one of his father’s scribes, “You have the resources to build either a bridge or a fence. Your neighbor has been stealing from your harvest. Harvest has been small, and you can not sustain both you and your neighbor. A fence would hinder your neighbor’s thievery. Across the river is a merchant town. A bridge would bring good trade much faster. Which one do you build? Choose your answer by standing on the appropriate tile.”
He hummed. If the neighbor was simply hungry, and the bridge would bring trade- It would solve both problems. Romulus stepped on the bridge tile, and the mechanism clicked. Romulus opened the door, and it shut behind him.
A snarling hound lunged at him. Romulus’s heart jumped in this throat. He hit the wall. He unfurled the ribbon, eyes widening at the flash of teeth. He twirled, wrapping the ribbon around the dog’s muzzle. He took in sharp breaths as it writhed. He closed his eyes, magic tingling on his fingertips. Animals were always the easiest creatures to impress concepts to. He whispered soothing words, letting the magic filter the words into whatever impressions the dog understood best. Slowly, it calmed, its struggles dissolving into growls. Romulus heaved a sigh, looking up to the sky for a moment. He released the dog, slowly backing into the corridor. It watched him but did nothing else.
Romulus found and passed several more door puzzles, turning corridor after corridor. The midday sun was beating down on them from above. Painting the world in golden hues. A yell and a grunt of effort punctuated the air. His brother, he assumed. Romulus shivered at the possibility of any encounters with creatures he couldn’t calm. He frowned and kept forward.
He stared forward as the hallway floor in front of him shifted from cobble to smooth tile. The walls had smoothed out as well. He halted at the edge. He tapped a foot against the tile.
Mechanisms clicked and the row of tiles slid back, revealing a pit. He glanced around. Above him, an overhead beam that once supported the upper floor. He unfurled the ribbon again. He tied his shoe to it as a weight, and after several attempts, it wrapped around the beam. He made a running leap and swung on the ribbon. Rolling forward as the ribbon slipped from the beam.
He laid on the solid floor for a moment, taking in heaving breaths. Staring at the sun. The crowd above was a roar of sound, indecipherable. He couldn’t tell which one of them they were cheering or booing. He decided he didn’t care. He took in a breath. He put his shoe back on and picked himself up.
Left. Right. Left. Straight. Right. Right again. He walked until he was knocked off his feet. He was thrown several feet back. He coughed, catching his breath. The creature snorted. Romulus groaned and glanced at the boar. He yelped as it charged again. He rolled out of the way, scrambling to a stand. The sun glinted off the mirror. He glanced at the object, then at the boar. He scrambled to detach it from his belt, directing the reflected light into the creature’s eyes. Blinded, the creature hit the wall, crumbling the corridor. Romulus winced, running down the nearest corridor.
He took a moment to catch his breath. He looked up. To his left, another door. He groaned. He made his way towards it.
It was different from the others. Inscribed in the door simply was “Once you open this door, you have 10 seconds to decide who to trust, lest the ground give way under you. Choose well.”
He steeled himself and opened the door, running forward. In front of him were 4 statues. A horse, a knight, a weaver, and a noble. Romulus glanced between them all, frowning. Trust? Trust?! His father didn’t trust anyone. That’s why they were here in the first place. Why would he make a puzzle based on trust? His eyes landed on a center pedestal. The same stone as the 4 statues. He rushed forward, and, feeling the ground drop under him, he leaped. His own stomach dropped in the moment of weightlessness. Clinging to the edge of the center pedestal, he heaved panicked breaths, watching the other statues fall with the rest of the floor. He climbed up to the center of the pedestal, a mechanism clicking. A section of the floor raised back up to the door. He closed his eyes for a moment and walked forward.
The sun had disappeared behind the castle, leaving them in shadow. The room was nearly empty, with the exception of a flag on a pole and a door across from him. Romulus stared. He felt as if he was floating, not walking, as he reached the flagpole. The fabric was soft in his hands.
He stood there, staring, brushing his fingers over the raised embroidery of the sun and moon symbol. His heart was pounding. A million thoughts at once fought in his head to create coherency and none of them succeeded.
Metal collided against his head. He collapsed as if he was a puppet cut from its strings, vision spotty. Rudilus stood over him, panting, sword in hand.
“Rudy-”
“Don’t take it personally,” Rudilus said, “But I need that.”
Romulus swallowed, standing. His throat was so dry. His mouth felt like cotton.
His brother swung his sword towards him. Romulus ducked, stumbling over his own feet. He could feel the whoosh of the blade above his head. “Are you trying to actually kill me?”
Rudilus seemed to think that question didn’t need to be dignified with a response, pressing forward. Romulus spun, trying to keep the sword in sight. Strangely enchanted by the silver of the weapon. The shield bashed against his face. Blood dripped from his nose over his lip. Copper taste on his tongue. His heart pounded in his ears. Romulus went wide-eyed. He scrambled back, unwrapping the ribbon from his wrist.
“What’s that gonna do?” His brother scoffed. He slashed forward, cutting the ribbon in half.
He flicked the remainder of the ribbon in his brother’s face, an act of pure spite. All it succeeded in was enraging the man even further. Rudilus made a sort of battle cry and swung the sword wildly, forgoing technique and finesse. It sliced across his jawline, forcing him to scramble backward. He hit the wall, heaving panicked breaths. Each breath felt sharp, fracturing. His chest hurt.
He grabbed the mirror, holding it like a weapon. He danced around his brother, spinning into the center of the room. The sword clashed against the metal frame of the mirror. The mirror fractured on the impact, splitting Romulus’s reflection in two. He pushed back, knocked the sword back, and kicked.
Rudilus took a breath, winded. The brothers kept each other at a distance, matching each other’s movements. Romulus shifted uneasily. Could he run? No. His father would hate it if he ran. He could just hear the old man demanding they finish the fight properly. Rudilus followed his glance towards the doorway, raising an eyebrow.
“Ha! Are you going to run? That’s just like you. Always running as soon as it gets too hard.”
He frowned, grip on the mirror tightening.
“You’re not fit for the throne if you can’t even face me head on!” Rudilus grinned, but it was sharp, all teeth.
“I don’t want to fight you, Rudy. You’re my brother.”
Rudilus shook his head and his expression hardened again, brows furrowed. “That shouldn’t matter. You’re too soft.” His older brother rushed him. Romulus ducked, kicking his leg out to trip him.
Rudilus barely managed to keep himself steady, and spun back to look at him. Romulus hit him in the face with the back end of the mirror. Romulus’s reflection shattered entirely. A dozen versions of his face stared back at him with panic. The shards fell to the ground. A gruesome gash tore across his brother’s cheek.
“Lucky hit,” his brother snarled. He swung his sword against Romulus’s leg.
Romulus swore, falling back against the floor. The sword swung down and Romulus shrieked. He gripped the blade’s edge as it dug the tip under his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut. Blood dripped from his palms onto his face, mingling with tears. The fabric of the flag wrapped around his hand grew wet, sticky. He hissed his breaths, straining. With a solid kick to the chest, his brother went tumbling. Swordless. The blade jerked with the motion, slicing up across his eye and eyebrow. His eye stung. His palms were numb. The sword remained in his grasp, blade digging into his hands.
He stumbled to a stand, gripping the hilt of the sword. Rudilus turned, only to be faced by his own blade. Romulus kicked him down again, boot on his chest. His hands shook, grip on the blade wobbly.
He could see his brother calculating his chances as he stared up at him. His gaze met Romulus’s for a long moment. Rudilus flopped his hands against the cobble. Resigned. “Well?” He asked as if he was waiting for judgment.
Romulus giggled. He couldn’t stop himself. He laughed and it almost sounded like crying. He laughed and it sounded almost like he thought it funny. He must sound deranged. He felt lightheaded. He laughed and tears and blood tasted the same.
Rudilus stared at him. Expression impossibly hardened.
He swallowed, calming himself. He flung the sword as far away from both of them as he could. It clattered on the wall, the sound echoing and reverberating like a bell.
He opened the door. He barely thought about the soft fabric of the flag wrapped around his hand. He barely thought at all as he climbed up the stairwell. He heard his footsteps echo, unsure if it was his brother following him or the echo off the walls. He winced into the bright light of the sun from the stadium platform.
He didn’t hear the cheers. He couldn’t properly listen to his father’s speech. He barely registered the royal physician fussing over his hands and face. All he heard was the ringing in his ears. All he felt was the pounding of his heart and head. Rudilus was looking at him. His steely gaze was focused on him the entire time. He was starting to feel like he preferred being ignored.
-
It was well past midnight and the crowd had long since left. Romulus had been pulled back into the castle and his room. When he was finally alone, he ensured his door was locked and climbed out the windowsill. He had only reliably mastered shapeshifting into a wolf thus far. (He would never tell anyone about the experimental shape changes. The ones that left him half covered in scales or with a tail for a week or more. When he had to pretend he was ill to hide it.) He transformed under the cover of darkness and leaped into the night.
It was one of the truest freedoms he had left. The wind in his hair, running through the woods. Listening to the secrets of the age-old trees. His paws stung with each step but he didn’t care. An unusual smell hit his senses. Like wet moss and ash but not. It smelled like… fae.
She looked as if she was waiting for him. The mossy nymph. She was there, just at the edge of the castle grounds, standing in her white dress like the silver moon. She was watching him. She didn’t scream or run. He circled her, hackles raising. Green eyes watched her back, waiting for her to make her move.
“This is a rather rude greeting for one of your neighbors, future King of Accalia,” she said, voice soft like summer rains and foxglove.
He huffed and shook his transformation off. Human, he stood, taming his hair with a frown. “So you know?”
"It was rather easy to spot the markings of a witch. A pleasure to meet you directly. You may refer to me as Moss. Would you be so kind as to give me your name? I'd be afraid to mix you up with your brother."
"You can call me whatever you like," he said, "I'm not picky."
She quirked an eyebrow and nodded, "Very well... I saw you out there. I didn't expect one of the King's children to use magic."
Romulus shrugged, eyes flickering across her face.
Moss leaned forward, gingerly taking his hands into her own, fingers ghosting over the bandages. "Who taught you?"
"...No one. I taught myself."
Her gaze flickered up to his face, "Really? Does no one know? You poor thing." She moved to unwrap the bandage and he flinched away, frowning.
He gripped his own hang, looking away. "Everyone knows of my father's... suspicion of magic. He would not want his child playing with it."
"You're a strong Witch despite that…” Moss noted. She hummed, “You could be stronger. I could teach you."
"Teach me? Would your court even agree with that?"
"You would be king. You think the court wouldn't want a human king who was connected to them?"
Romulus stared at her. His eyes flickered to the castle, where his brother and his father would be. Then back to her enchanting eyes. "...What would you expect in return?"
The corners of her mouth twisted, like she'd won something already. Like a cat that had caught its prey.
"Only what a country expects of its King."
"A country expects many things..." He took in a breath. An overwhelming amount of things.
"Don't worry too much about it," she soothed, shifting closer. She took his hands again. He didn’t know why he let her. "I see a very promising Witch and a very promising King in you. It shouldn't be too hard to fulfill the expectations."
He stared. “When would I even have time for you to teach me magic? I’m expected to take up my brother’s old role.” He sighed heavily, "I apparently need even more etiquette classes."
The nymph hummed and pressed a smiling kiss to his knuckles. Energy seemed to rush across his hands. Romulus shivered. “At night- instead of your midnight runs, you’d come to me.”
He hesitated, eyeing her hold on his hands. “What did you just do? ...How did you even know- how long have you been watching me?”
She chuckled, “A little boon, an act of good faith.” She unwrapped the bandage on his hand, revealing a scab where a fresh wound should’ve been. “Something you could learn."
The second question went unaddressed, ignored, but Romulus didn't find himself caring. He traced a finger on the healing injury. "When can I start?”
“We shall begin when the moon is full, little Wolf Witch.”
Romulus frowned, “Amendment to my previous statement. Call me anything but ‘Wolf Witch.”
She laughed, “Only when you provide me with a better option.”
He smirked, "Challenge accepted."
