#rues wips

And there, in the midst of it all, had been the princess.

Not ‘Princess Horror’ then. Just… the princess. The youngest, he been told. A boy already towering over Nightmare and Dream, all long limbs and earnest, wide sockets. He’d been shy, hiding behind his sister’s skirts until his brother - Morún, a lanky, grinning teenager - had shoved him forward. “This is Horror,” Morún had said, the name sounding like a joke, an irony. “Don’t let the name fool you. He’s terrified of earthworms.”

The boy had scowled, his face (whole, then, smooth bone without the terrible, star-fractured wound) flushing a faint, embarrassed red. But he’d stepped forward. He’d been tasked with showing the Durmousian princes the orchards.

Dream had flitted ahead, a dart of gold, asking a thousand questions about grafting techniques and seasonal yields, his mind a catalogue of future usefulness. Nightmare had hung back, overwhelmed by the sheer, noisy life of the place.

Horror had noticed. He’d moved slowly even then, with a careful, deliberate gait, as if afraid of breaking something as sturdy as the earth herself. He’d stopped beside Nightmare and pointed a thick finger at a particularly high branch of an ancient apple tree. A single, perfect fruit hung there, blushed red and gold, catching the late afternoon sun.

The fruit had been perfect. The national emblem of Durmous, above its princes head. It hung just out of reach, a tantalising jewel against the blue sky.

Horror hadn’t said anything. He’d just looked from the apple to Nightmare, then back again. Then, with a grunt of realisation, he’d turned and braced his broad back against the gnarled trunk, his hands forming a stirrup. His meaning was clear, communicated in the silent, practical language of children: <8>Here. Climb.</i>

Nightmare, the solemn, shadow-touched prince of a kingdom of stone and suspicion, had hesitated for only a second. Then he’d placed his boot in Horror’s linked hands. The giant had lifted him as if he weighed nothing, boosting him up with a steady, unwavering strength until Nightmare could wrap his arms around the branch. The bark had been rough and warm against his palms. He’d plucked the apple. It had come away with a soft, crisp snap.

When he dropped back down, Horror was watching him, his expression a mixture of shy pride and curiosity. Nightmare had held out the fruit. A silent offering. A thank you.

Horror had shaken his head, a slow, deliberate motion. “For you,” he’d mumbled, his voice already deeper than a boy’s had any right to be. “You reached it.”

Nightmare had bitten into it. The flavour had exploded in his mouth - honey-sweet, crisp, with a tartness that made his tongue tingle. It was the taste of sunshine, of fertile soil, of a kingdom that did not know hunger. He’d never tasted anything like it before or since. He’d offered it again, and this time, Horror had taken a small bite, his smile widening as the juice dripped down his chin.

That was the memory. A fragment of sun-dappled kindness, of uncomplicated help. A giant who offered his back as a ladder.

He had not seen Horror since. The reports had trickled in over the years, charting a descent as tragic and inexorable as a landslide. The droughts. The failed harvests. The death of the queen. The sickness that took the siblings, one by one. The uprising. The storming of the castle. The wound.

The gentle boy as gone. Eaten by the same famine that had consumed his kingdom. What remained was the figure in the reports: a seven-foot-tall monument to loss, brain-damaged, limping, struggling to string a sentence together. A prince who baked because his people were starving, who gardened because the land was dying, who was here not to win a heart, but to buy grain.