#picani

The child’s name is Virgil, a name bestowed to him in one of his father’s last moments of clarity, and he tends to prefer the quieter halls of his home, roaming about silently with a black cloak slung about his shoulders. It had been quite an adjustment for the guards, to see a little child wandering about seemingly with no interest in being found. 

More than once, Logan had been called by a guard who hadn’t been sure whether to scold or comfort the child, only to find said child hanging by the scruff of his neck, his arms crossed, waiting to be let go so that he may roam again. 

“He’s a child,” he says whenever a guard brings up the issue, “would you rather he wander the back halls or get underfoot?”

And so the child had been allowed to roam. 

Now, that is not to say that he was entirely free to go where he wished. Logan had asked the King and Queen to enforce some restriction—if only so they could find their new ward when he was needed. He would stick to the upper floors of the castle, not to go out onto the turrets where the walls needed some repair, and—if he could—to let someone know the vague whereabouts of his locations. 

The child was…a peculiar one, to say the least. Not outwardly rude nor discourteous, nor was he…rambunctious, per se, but he was…odd. 

For one, he had an unerring knack of pointing out something that was wrong. Not a word misspelled or a glass spilled, but…something the guards hadn’t considered. Something the King was worried about that he hadn’t brought up at the dinner table. Something the Queen had asked him about doing that she hadn’t done herself. 

And, of course, whenever the Prince was lying. 

Prince Janus was not a dishonest man, of course. He had been raised far too well and with far too much discipline to be one. But he was fond of leading one down many paths to discover a truth, much more fond of that than to simply say it outright. His parents hoped it would lead him to becoming a greater diplomat, to be able to work his way through the words he needed in order to convince others to secretly do as he wished. This was, of course, mostly hopeful thinking, as Prince Janus much preferred toying with the other noble boys who had nasty habits of putting their hands where they didn’t belong or touting themselves a bit too much for his liking. 

Privately, they couldn’t complain much, but they did worry when it came to him making friends. 

It was a shock, then, when Prince Janus attempted to tell such a lie at the dinner table—not a large one, just that he preferred to practice sword fighting after dinner so that he had more energy—and Virgil had looked up at him. 

“You do it ‘cause then you have an excuse for being slower.”

It had been the first full sentence either the King or Queen—or Logan, for that matter—had heard out of him. Prince Janus, on the other hand, had simply rolled his eyes and said that Virgil was lucky he didn’t have to tussle with the old sword master yet. Virgil had shrugged and gone back to his meal. 

It was not long after that, though, that the King and Queen realized that the only person who could reliably predict where, in fact, Virgil would be, was Prince Janus. 

Perhaps they needn’t have worried.

2.

All the greatest stories are told in the kitchen. 

There is a special sort of story one tells in the kitchen, after all, that are not meant for the great illustrious ears of the higher-ups, meant for those who can steal away between the baking and the bubbling to snatch bits of gossip and conversation from mouths that do far more talking than tasting. It is safe, there, hidden behind the clanging of pots and pans, where you can just as easily pretend that you were speaking of something else than admit to what you were actually saying. 

So, naturally, as one of the head cooks, Patton gets to hear all sorts of stories from around the castle. 

This one had to hide in the closet from where she was trying on one of the Queen’s gowns—not that the Queen would have terribly minded, of course, she just likes to be asked first—that one had to help the gardener sneak over the wall when he’d accidentally locked the keys inside the shed. Another had to steal an apple back from the dinner platters because it had a worm inside it, another still had to leave unexpectedly because their sister had just given birth. 

And, of course, there are the stories that make their way into his ears in the quiet of night when the Prince steals downstairs for a quick snack. 

Officially, of course, this doesn’t happen. This is not how a Prince should behave, this is not proper eating habits that he should be encouraging, nor is it befitting for someone who must stand around on their feet all day take any less than all the rest they have to sleep and re-energize themselves. 

On the other hand, Patton has known Janus since he was a little boy, and he knows better than most that the heads that wear the crowns are heavy indeed and there are not many who would treat him as a growing man and not the heir to the throne. 

And so, on certain nights where Patton wakes with a certain air in his room, he tucks his apron on and heads to the kitchens to see Janus perched on a stool at the end of one of the counters, looking up at him the same way he has since he couldn’t see over the edge. 

All sorts of stories come out in the kitchen. A boy whose ball had broken a window. Another whose cat had scampered up a tree and they’d all scraped their knees terribly trying to get it down. Another boy whose sister had just been married off, and they were all sad because they’d liked her, she was fun, they wanted her to come back. 

Princes do have so much to be thankful for, as is true, but a child needs a space to complain. Patton has long since confessed that he will only tell the King and Queen of something if he feels it puts Janus in danger. Anything else and he will take it to his grave. And so he is the one who most often hears the frustrated mumblings of not being able to understand this part of the tutoring books, how to do this thing with a sword. How the other boys often won’t actually fight with him because he’s the Prince and they’re afraid of being punished for injuring him. Or how he’s hankering for more responsibility because how can he actually understand how to run a kingdom if they won’t let him?

No source of annoyance holds these late-night talks for so long as the topic of Virgil. 

Janus hadn’t wanted another child in the castle. He said so, many times. He hadn’t wanted someone else to kick at his heels or tug on his clothes, saying he got enough of that from the other boys and the dogs. He hadn’t wanted to share, to be pushed out of his places that were his places. He hadn’t understood why a child who had lost so much had to come here. 

Then he hadn’t wanted the other boys to play with Virgil. Because they had ways of playing that Virgil didn’t understand. When Patton had asked if they could teach Virgil, Janus had shaken his head. It’s not just something you can explain, he’d said, they’d just make fun of him. 

It had then become they’ll hurt him. They think he’s weird and they don’t like him and they make fun of him for hiding in the shadows all the time. I don’t want them near him. 

And slowly it had gone from Virgil annoying him to him being annoyed that Virgil wasn’t being treated well. Patton had listened patiently to each story as his hands worked, and at the end of each one, as he does every night, he hands Janus a little treat of something sweet and a hot toddy. 

“It seems to me,” he says, “that you’re more worried about Virgil than you are your friends.”

Janus had huffed that yeah, of course he was. Virgil didn’t have anybody to take care of him. So Janus had to do it. 

Patton treasures every single story Janus shares with him during these nights, but he especially loves the ones where Janus tells him of the games he plays with Virgil, the ones he smiles while telling.

3.

To many, he is simply The Chief Investigator. 

He cannot pretend that he despises his reputation, not when the mere idea that he might get involved leads most of the sniveling and quibbling lords to throw themselves at the feet of the King and Queen and confess their crimes. No, it keeps the kingdom safe, and it ensures that those who do intend to cause harm are aware of the consequences that might await them should they decide to act out. 

Now, there are some who spin wildly off into the likes of rumor and speculation, who say that he can walk through walls, he has eyes and ears everywhere, and if you so much as think of doing something to harm the kingdom, he will know about it and he will find you. He is only a man, after all. A man with a vast wealth of secrets, perhaps, but still just a man. 

That is not to say that he doesn’t indulge those rumors occasionally. He’s quite fond of concealing himself in the shadows of a given room and simply walking out to see the person flinch and wonder if he’s been there the whole time. 

But to the King and Queen, and especially to the little snake of a prince, Janus, he’s simply Remus. 

Remus had been the first to teach Janus just how crafty you needed to be to understand the immensity of the world around you, that just because you felt safe now did not mean you did not have to work to keep yourself that way. You needed to be smart, you needed to be aware, and you needed to know who you could trust. 

He had laughed when Janus had asked if he could trust Remus, and said that was the smartest question he could have asked. 

More often than not, the two of them played simple games. Remus would hide a note in Janus’s room, or among his things in the armory, and Janus would have to discover the note and leave another for Remus to find. Or Remus would place an object somewhere just out of place and it would be up to Janus to locate that object and leave it on the desk outside Remus’s official quarters. Simple things, to test and keep him sharp, and occasionally a little reminder not to get a big head. Lessons that could be taught in passing, ones that had to be sought after without directly saying what they were. 

Very rarely had Janus truly come to him for help. 

When the other boys had scared him with rumors that assassins were coming for his parents. When he’d woken up from a nightmare when all he ate and drank were poisoned. When one of his friends had mysteriously gone missing and no one could find a trace of her anywhere. 

Each time, the boy had asked not as a prince, but as a terrified child, and each time, Remus had done his very best to make things right once more. 

Because it was one thing to raise the Prince to be a clever King, it was another to torture a child that was already scared of all they did not know. 

But the one that he can remember the most vividly is when Janus had crashed into him after running around the castle in a panic, saying he couldn’t find Virgil anywhere. 

It comes out in bursts as they take off, searching for the little one. They had only been teasing. Virgil had been terrified and they hadn’t noticed. He’d run off and they hadn’t seen him since sundown. The gate was open. The guards had been rotating. No one had been able to tell where he might have gotten to. 

Remus had calmly asked where Virgil liked to go when he was upset. Janus had shaken his head wildly, saying he didn’t know, he didn’t know what to do, until Remus had taken him by the shoulders. 

“You do know,” he says in a low voice, “you do know where he goes. Do not think about what you’ve done, only what you must do now.”

Janus had closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths, before saying I know where he is. 

They had found the little ball of black fabric curled up in the old closet of the bedroom nearest the turrets. Janus had reached in and pulled Virgil into his arms, the two of them twisting around and around each other, muttering frantic apologies until they’d both started crying. 

Remus had watched over them, that night, draping blankets and placing cushions so they wouldn’t be sore as they awoke. 

The Prince had two shadows after that night. One that lurked just out of sight, the other clutching his cloak.

4.

It is a wonder to watch a child grow up. 

For a doctor, especially one who is charged with taking care of the royal family, there is no shortage of knowledge you must accrue to treat things that may happen. Simply understanding what you are doing is not enough. For children that spend several of their formative years under your care, you must prepare yourself for a lot of questions. 

Why your hair grows in so many places, why your nose works the way it does, why grown-ups look a little bit different, why you don’t quite look like a grown-up yet. 

Of course, there are only so many things children will have the patience for, and so you must also take after the innkeeper and learn to become a storyteller. Thankfully for Picani, his sister is an innkeeper and passes along her best tips for him to use when he must talk to the Prince about why he has to eat and drink all the time and not just once a day. 

He hears the King and Queen had been quite grateful that their child had been more willing to sit and stay during meal times after he’d explained. 

But for another child to come in, it can be difficult. Understanding a complete history for a patient is easier when you’ve quite literally watched them grow up before your eyes. For a new chid, especially one that doesn’t trust you, it can be difficult. 

Virgil had been about two years younger than Prince Janus when he first became the King and Queen’s ward. He hunched more, slumped a bit as Picani tried to examine him, avoided answering certain questions as though they’d get him in trouble. It had taken many tries and many more assurances to finally get Virgil to relax a little and be comfortable with coming to ask for help. 

This had been accomplished with, Picani is not too proud to admit, no small amount of help from Janus. 

I’ve grown up with him as my doctor, he remembers Janus saying, he’s a good one. He’s nice, he won’t hurt you. He actually knows what he’s doing, not like all the other doctors. 

He had guessed that was because he actually took the time to answer and explain when Janus asked him a question, due more to his own patience than the inexperience of other doctors. But Virgil had relaxed a bit at that, even allowing some more examinations if Janus would stay in the room. Of course, there comes a time where privacy becomes more of a concern and so Janus would wait outside the room for Virgil’s exam and then Virgil would wait outside for Janus. 

And so it went as the boys grew from children to young men. 

It became an excuse for them to skirt some other tasks, Picani is sure, and yet he never dissuaded one from taking comfort in the presence of the other. It certainly made his job easier, not having to run around looking for them to come and ensure a clean bill of health. And with that the questions became more personal. 

Why this was happening now, why this thing that used to happen isn’t working anymore, and what on earth was happening here?

He answers them as best he could, even regaling stories of his own youth, and more often than not it comes down to don’t worry about that, it’s natural. It will stop in time. 

Until, of course, there comes a day where Prince Janus comes alone, fretting that he’s sick. 

Picani has him hop up on the table, fetching his instruments, patiently asking him to describe his symptoms. He listens to his heart, his lungs, tests his reflexes, he cannot see anything obviously wrong. 

It comes and goes, says the Prince, just—my chest will begin to hurt. And my stomach will feel weird and I’ll get hot all of a sudden. It feels like I can’t talk without being sick. 

Have you noticed, he asks, when these seem to come on?

That’s the thing, it seems to be random. I can’t pick out anything they have in common except—

…except?

When the Prince had shyly confessed they all happen around Virgil, and asked if it would go away in time, Picani had simply smiled. 

“You’re in no danger, dear boy. Though perhaps this is something you should ask your parents.

5.

They’ve just gone to sleep, many parents say to their children when they ask why their elders family members won’t get up anymore, they’re sleeping now. 

It is not often said that they will never wake up again. 

Remy is aware that his presence is not a cheerful one in the kingdom. No one calls for an undertaker during a pleasant time. It is always the sign that something has happened, something that will mean fragility in a community where sore spots need to heal and people need time to come back together. More often than not, this has led to a few…chilly welcomes. 

No one is unkind, of course. He is not responsible for the grief himself; they must call him, after all, it is not as if he is unexpected. And, for the simple fact that everyone wishes only the best for their loved ones, he is treated with a love of respect that even the most uncouth of passers-by will not disrupt. In return, he does not mince words with what must be done, but neither is he unkind about the nature of what has happened. 

All things that wake must go to sleep, after all. 

It is one thing, though, to pass by for a single house. It is another when the King himself is the one who must be taken. 

For a child to grieve his father, it is not uncommon to find him lashing out in pain. He has lost his father, after all, it is natural to be scared and hurt about what has happened. It is another entirely for a Prince to lose his King, and for an entire swarm of nobles to turn to him as if they expect him to effortlessly shoulder the crown he has now been given. 

Fortunately for them all, the Queen is there to take his place. She is a formidable ruler in her own right, but there will always be those who doubt her. Her advisors—the clever ones, at least—and those who remember how much the King admired her stick by her side, and by her sons, as they figure out what next to do. 

But still, among the diplomacy and the new responsibilities and everything that comes from transforming Prince into Prince Regent, there is still a child who has lost his father. 

Remy comes upon him quite by accident. The King has been laid in his burial chamber, where his body is to be prepared in order to pass on. It is late, well into the night, where Remy can be assured no one will disturb him as he finishes the final preparations. It is a shock, but not a large one, to find both boys huddled near the King’s side. 

He cannot hear them beyond hushed voices, nor can he see much past their dimly lit faces. He can hear sobs, though, and he can see the way a hand goes to wipe tears from a shivering cheek. He can see the way shoulders slump, a head comes to rest on a shoulder, and arms wrap around a waist to pull it close. 

There has been talk of how remarkably Prince Janus has taken the loss of his father. How he has stepped up to become a ruler in his own right, still learning as all young people must do but showing that he is more than capable. How stoic he has been, accepting condolences with grace, comforting crying mourners with a solemn acceptance that comes with maturity far beyond his years. Talk of how he will one day be just as great a King, perhaps even greater. 

And yet here, in the burial chamber, Janus is still a boy who has lost his father, and Virgil another who makes him feel safe enough to ask for comfort. 

The preparations can wait another day. 

+1. 

It is a known fact amongst most royals that once you become of age, you must marry. For Prince Roman, who had known this fact for most of his life, he has had equally enough time to convince a doubtful advisor that it didn’t matter who he married, as long as he loved them. 

For an advisor, this is, apparently, the worst thing a royal can say. For he must be smart, apparently, and marry for the good of the kingdom. 

What good to a kingdom is a discontent King?

But, as are most things, he cannot stop the inevitable and so when he hears that the prince of a neighboring kingdom has come of age as well, he asks permission to see if their marriage would be a good one. 

Then he meets Prince Janus. 

The man is…fascinating. He seems to see through Roman in many ways, many more than he would care to admit. He confesses more secrets in the first few hours spent with Janus than he has to his own mother in the span of years. He finds out things that he’d never hoped to learn, discovers truths in places he didn’t think to look, and finds himself endlessly, endlessly intrigued by him. 

He can only hope that he’s doing a fine enough job of presenting himself as well. 

They spend time in the libraries, on the training fields, on horseback through the gardens. They share stories of their kingdoms, complaints about what it means to still be so young and be trusted with so much, and just how best to ask your tutor a question that means they’ll spend the whole time talking themselves in circles instead of actually making you work. 

But there is a problem. 

And this problem is not that Roman could not grow to love Janus, but that Janus is so painfully in love with someone else. 

There is another prince of age in this kingdom after all, a ward taken in from childhood. Prince Virgil, a character that Roman has more heard about than seen, unless you count that glare he feels on the back of his neck sometimes when he’s walking down the halls. He can’t imagine he’s done anything to offend a man he’s never spoken to, except, of course, that he comes with the intention of determining whether he’s going to marry Janus. 

Was he heartbroken to discover this? Perhaps, if only that it meant he would spend less time getting to know Janus, but he was more flabbergasted that a man who could seeming split him in two in under a second could not see that he was so obviously in love. 

It had been the night before Roman left the kingdom, the night where he was supposed to propose the marriage, when Janus had suddenly blurted out that he couldn’t do this anymore. 

It’s not fair to you, he says, I’ve—I’ve been cruel and unfair and you must think so poorly of me. 

What had followed had been a stumbling and bumbling confession that he wasn’t in love with Roman, could’ve been, but wasn’t, and it wasn’t fair for Roman to keep himself here for someone that could never be his. 

And so Roman simply smiles, and has the rare satisfaction of getting to tell Janus something about himself he hadn’t known before. 

“You love him.”

Once he’d recovered from the shock—and come to the conclusion that Roman was right—he’d babbled another apology, only for Roman to raise his hand and say it wasn’t necessary. Janus hadn’t owed him anything more than a chance, after all, and he’d been the most interesting way to spend time in the kingdom Roman could ask for. All he needed in return was the promise that Janus would speak to Virgil about these feelings. 

Should you ever need it, Janus had promised, our kingdom is your ally. We needn’t marry for such a thing to be agreed. 

Roman had returned to his own kingdom without a betrothed but with an alliance, and so none of the advisors could say a damn thing about it. 

He did order them to keep an eye out for a wedding invitation, though. He wouldn’t miss that for the world. 

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