#something unexpected

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“My lord,” He enters the room with a sweeping theatrical bow to the royalty before him. Overkill, of course.

The prince is silent for a moment. His polished boots click against the equally polished marble flooring as he approaches.

“Deckard,” he greets him tersely. His nose crinkles in disdain as his eyes rake over the bard.

“I am honored to be summoned into your private chambers.” Deckard straightens with a grin. “It is, of course obvious that I would be chosen to have audience with the heir, being one of the most masterful wordsmiths of this generation and all. What, that I were but a—”

“Must you subject me to the drivel that you call poetry.”

“I was under the impression that I was summoned for the drivel.”

Oliver exhales sharply through his nose. “I need you to write for me.”

“Certainly your handwriting isn’t that bad! You should have a little more faith in yourself.”

“Deckard,” he warns, his tone heavy with fatigue. “I just need a few love letters.”

“Oh? Your majesty,” Deckard gasps, as though he’s been made privy to a royal scandal. “I was unaware you were courting.”

“Don’t be trite,” he snaps, “This is a matter of duty, not frivolous courtship.”

“Ah, that’s exactly what all the romantics love to hear,” he stifles a laugh, clearly enjoying himself. “I should have brought my quill to write down all of your witty one-liners.”

“You are to remain here until your task is complete. You’ll be given quarters in the west wing.” He speaks quickly, as though his goal is to dismiss Deckard as quickly as possible.

Deckard dramatically slaps a hand to his chest.

“You mean to imprison me? To strip me of my freedom- my beloved hovel, with its delightful mildew, and crookedly hung door?”

“It’s quarters, Deckard,” The prince says dryly. “You’re being supervised, not sentenced.”

“The west wing, you say? Are you giving me my old room?” Deckard asks, the infuriating mirth stripped from his tone, this is a genuine question. The prince straightens.

“Well, it only makes sense. Unless you would prefer a linen closet.”

“The west wing will suffice,” he says, too quickly. “But oh,” his theatrical tone is back, as if it never left, “how I will miss the familiar comforts of a leaking roof, and my upstairs neighbors who would serenade the nights away with their drunken arguments. But it is my duty, to the crown.”

“I expect a letter by tomorrow,” Oliver responds, as unamused as ever.

"Do I get to know anything about your soon-to-be beloved?"

"So that you might gossip with the maid staff?" He quirks a brow.

"It's just that it would be quite the challenge to woo a subject that is entirely unknown," Deckard frowns.

“I thought you were ‘one of the most masterful word smiths of this generation’?” The prince smirks, having cornered the bard in his own game.

“Oh, clever. You might be my brother yet,” Deckard concedes, a sly, lopsided grin pulling across his features as he realizes the prince is just toying with him.

In an instant, the prince’s palm cracks across Deckard’s cheek. He staggers from the blow, hand flying to his face. His grin sufficiently wiped clean.

“You will not speak to me with such familiarity,” his voice is boiling. Lethal. “Whatever putrid blood you have flowing through your veins does not grant you the right to address me as such. You are a dog who knows tricks. And you will do your trick, or I will find another mutt who can.”

After a beat, Deckard straightens slowly. His cheek is already blooming red.

“Of course, your majesty.” His voice comes quietly. Not sheepish, but something else. Something raw, restrained.

The prince straightens. “She is a fae noble. A political pawn. Write what she wants to hear.”

“Understood,” is all he says, staring at the floor.

“I’ll have someone escort you to your room.”

And with that he’s dismissed. He follows a guard down to the west wing. It’s been ages since he’s walked through these halls. Not much has changed. The scent of fresh flowers, and floor wax still permeates the air, like it always has. The floors are still polished until you can see your reflection in them. There are still intermittent displays of art, statues, paintings. The curtains are a different color now, lighter for the spring, he would suspect. He walks in silence, down the grandiose, twisting corridors, until he comes to a halt in front of a very familiar door.

His room.

He nods to his escort before stepping inside.

It feels like he’s stepped through a portal to another time. A better time? He isn’t convinced, but it was a time when he still had hope that things could be better. That they would be better.

The door clicks shut behind him, he leans against it for a moment, unable to bring himself further into the room. Not just yet. How odd it is to feel like an outsider in a place that once you called home.

But, he was never truly home here, was he? This stone fortress, this stuffy room, with its patchwork memories woven into the threadbare tapestry of his life. Hardly something he would deem worthy of the title: home. He’s found places more like home in crowded taverns, on stages, with his real family, the people he chose as his family. He's never been on the best of terms with his brother- well, his half-brother.

They don't share too much in common. Their temperaments vary drastically, their interests aren't similar in the slightest. He supposes they have a similar face structure- strong jaw, sharp eyes, broad nose. But the similarities end there.

Deckard is taller, by about a head. His muscle is present, but lean. He could be described as "gangly", on a bad day, and if someone was being rather rude. Oliver on the other hand is not a large man, but he is more broad, solid looking, filled out. He's a man that's trained with a sword, for purposes of protection and bloodshed; not just for playacting, which is all the experience Deckard has on the matter.

Oliver's features are more fair- lighter hair, hazel eyes. He favors his mother, all things considered. Deckard's hair and eyes are both dark as night, favoring his father, much to the chagrin of everyone. It is unmistakable, undeniable who sired him.

When they were younger his bond with Oliver was amicable, but over the years they split apart and the air between them soured. It's not like Deckard ever posed a threat to him. Even as a spare, his claim to the throne is wildly unlikely. The situation would need to be dire, and even then, they could probably find someone else.

He wouldn't want the pressure of it anyway. Leave him with his wine to drink, his songs with which he may earn his coin- for more wine- and his rotating cast of strangers warming his bed. He's content with this life. He doesn't need the weight of a crown on his head and the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.

He can understand why his family has so much contempt for him. He himself being a messy blot of ink on a crisp white sheet of parchment. He is the smudgy fingerprints on an otherwise clean window. Through no fault of his own, he’s an embarrassment to the crown. His great crime of being born has made him a disgrace. He is a mistake serving as a reminder of other mistakes.

Welcome home.

The room has been left untouched, aside from the routine cleanings to keep the dust at bay.

His cheek throbs, hot and angry. You just had to run your mouth, Deckard. Prodding at things that you know very well are to be left alone. He sighs, chastising himself. Well. That’s all I know to do. He responds in kind.

He glowers at the stillness, the silence already creeping under his skin. He was not made for isolation, he was made for busy streets and crowded rooms. He turns, opening the door. There is no guard posted outside his room; Oliver knows him well enough to not give him a captive audience. But he does know that guards will be roaming the halls at regular intervals. So, taking stock of the situation, He has no one to talk to, but also, nowhere to go. Brilliant. Devious.

He sighs, entering his childhood room once more. He crosses the threshold fully this time. Boldly crossing the room and throwing open the curtains. The morning sun has crested the walls and is spilling a honey-gold light into the courtyard. Lovely view. It almost makes him forgive the day for making him participate so early… almost.

He turns away from the window and approaches his desk. It’s exactly where he left it. Not that anyone would want to move that beast of solid dark wood. His chair sits tucked neatly in front of the desk. It still has that rickety lean to the left about it. It is an odd sight considering how grand and sturdy the desk is. If he thinks about it for too long, he can start waxing about the symmetry of his life and this furniture. Poorly matched but left unchanged… Best not to let himself think on it then, he decides.

There is a stack of papers, quills and ink supplied for him. He’s been well stocked for his assignment. He settles himself at his desk, shifting until he finds the balancing point in the wobbling chair.

Oh, what a noble task to burden his shoulders! The heavy fate of… the crown prince’s love life. Important, the stakes are high. Who but himself can capture the heart of… of some nameless fae noble.

Well. It’s not that names matter all that much. Considering how well things went for him with… Katarina? Claire? …What was it?

Then, he sees a letter resting on the top of his stack of parchment.

He reads:

To His Royal Highness, Oliver Reihan Alendreas, Crown Prince of Xelith, I am writing to you because I must extend my well wishes- in accordance with the terms arranged for us by our courts. May this correspondence find you in good health. Respectfully, Princess Larkspur Aveanna, Daughter of the High Fae

He reads the letter again. This isn’t just a “fae noblewoman” as Oliver had suggested. This is a princess. There are already court arrangements. Possibly a treaty between two kingdoms on the brink of war? Securing alliances? Well, now that he thinks about it, that doesn’t seem important at all, hardly something worth mentioning. Just writing a love letter. Deckard frowns down at the parchment. Though, now he understands why Oliver allowed him to stay here. He wouldn’t trust himself with this knowledge either.

Despite the helpful information, there is not much to go on. It is rather disappointing, as far as letters go. Just the barest amount needed to please the court, and nothing more. Words scrawled in a swirling script and sent off without a second glance. No emotion. Just the icy hand of another stuffy noble.

Well. If that is the case, then she and Oliver deserve each other. They can both sit together miserably and plot the machinations of their courts. What a match that will be. The future is bright. He huffs bitterly.  

His poetic heart wants to believe there is more. Perhaps… Instead of an emotionless noble, here we set our stage with a princess, stripped of her power, left with no voice. And she is cold not because of her callous heart, but because she is afraid.

He can understand that, and more importantly, he can work with that. Now, he has found a direction. He cracks open a bottle of ink and begins to write.

Princess Larkspur Aveanna, Daughter of the High Fae, I hope this season has treated you with greater kindness than the circumstances in which we find ourselves. Much like yourself, I write to fulfil the obligations laid at my feet by others. I was told: “This is duty. Not courtship.” It is a tidy phrase, isn’t it? It is neat, clinical. It is altogether lifeless. I for one, cannot help but lament on how painfully unromantic that is. You must forgive me, dear Princess, but I have always had somewhat of a poet’s heart. It tends to make a mess of such cold, courtly tasks, such as this one. This idea that I must, by rite, go through the motions- sending you shallow sentiments, and heartless niceties- I find frankly abhorrent. If I may be so bold to say, I suspect you might share the same opinion. Your letter was beautifully restrained. Courteous. A well-polished model of diplomacy. I would not be surprised if it passed through a dozen hands before reaching mine. I fear my reply may be less elegant; it is certainly less succinct. My letter, however- and I pray you will forgive me for saying so- is more honest. And so, I offer you simply, the truth of the matter: I do not know you, but I would like to. I will not ask for more than you wish to give. If you are content following the structures set before us- fulfilling the measure of our duty, and nothing more- I will bide. However, if by some chance, you find that curiosity should stir your hand... I would be honored to have earned a reply. Not one sent out of duty, but one written from your own choice. Yours in honesty,

He pauses, with a scoff. "In honesty."

Stars, help this poor princess.

Luisa started coughing and Isabela just stared back at her, her eyes wide, her head shaking the tiniest bit.

“Mirabel…?” Alma started hesitantly.

Julieta felt her heart racing. Surely, it couldn't be her baby girl, right– 

Mirabel choked on her sip of juice and Camilo patted her on her back so hard it sounded like all her organs did a flip inside. “What?!”

Alma wanted to repeat the question, it was clear, but at the same time Dolores slammed her both hands on the table, yelling “It’s tía!” and Bruno’s eyes went shining green at the same second.

Julieta was fairly certain her heart stopped. The wine glass dropped from Agustín’s hand and broke into three pieces on the table, spilling the remaining wine onto the surface.

But otherwise, there was silence. 

The only sound anyone emitted was heavy breathing coming from Bruno as he grasped the edges of the table and leaned over it to blink quickly a few times just a few seconds later, getting rid of the shiny glimmer that had just lit up his eyes.

Then he looked around, a little confused, smacking himself on the head lightly, and a small smile appeared on his lips. “Congratulations Juli, they're adorable.”

Silence.

Camilo was the first to recover. “They? As in more than one?”

Bruno opened his mouth to answer but Dolores beat him to it. “There are three new heartbeats.”

Pepa thundered. “Three–”

“Triplets?!”

“Santa Maria–”

“Bruno, Brunito, hermanito, what did you see?!” Pepa asked loudly.

All people at the table looked at him. He chuckled nervously. “Ah-uh, three babies?”

“Three babies!”

“Well, no babies, more like toddlers but yeah–”

“Girls, boys?! Two and one, like us?!”

Bruno smiled, his eyes wide. “Three cute girls.”

“Three new sobrinas!”

“Three hermanitas...”

“Three nietas...”

“It looks like Julieta’s doing your part of the job, hermanito,” Pepa laughed out loud. “Three! Three girls! Three oopsie girls!”

“Mami, what’s going on?” Antonio asked after giving the table a wide, confused look.

Pepa turned to him and grabbed his chubby cheeks between her hands. “Your  tía Julieta’s going to have three babies! You’ll have three little primas!”

“Three?! At the same time?!”

“Yes!”

“But I asked for one!” he exclaimed, looking in shock at Julieta. “Three?! You’re the best, tía Julieta!”

Julieta blinked and her gaze flickered to Antonio. “Mhm,” she mumbled and laughed suddenly. She covered her mouth with her hand and ignoring concerned glances sent her way, she reached for a glass of water. Her hand shook terribly and half of the liquid spilt on the table. “Dios mío...”

Agustín grabbed her other hand suddenly, his palm sweaty and his fingers trembling as he squeezed her left hand. She squeezed back, trying to root herself in place and took a sip of water. 

The silence lasted for a five more seconds. 

Then Isabela turned to them, both eyebrows raised. “That’s it? That’s your reaction to the whole situation?”

“Hey, they look shocked...”

“Shocked! They have children, they know how to make them, they shouldn’t be shocked!”

“Pa?” Luisa asked in a pitchy voice, her eye twitching. “You okay? You seem... Pale.”

“Mhm,” Agustín squeaked, his hand around Julieta’s toghtening even more, his other hand drumming on the table. “Absolutely. Perfectly okay. I’m fine.”

“Mira’s a more subtle liar,” Camilo shot them a pitiful look for what he was smacked on the back of the head by Mirabel. “Ouch! What was that for?!”

“For being stupid,” she hissed to him, before turning to look at her parents. “You’re awfully quiet mamá, are you feeling alright?”

Without any word, Julieta shook her head slowly. 

“Your heartbeats are very, very quick,” Dolores piped in quietly. “Too quick, I’d say,” she added, looking between her aunt and uncle. “I think you should go and rest...”

“A wonderful idea,” Agustín shot out of his chair and the piece of furniture fell to the ground. Julieta didn’t ever flinch but let herself be pulled to her feet. “We need a moment,” he said and took her hand, both of them walking out of the kitchen on wobbly legs. 

“I’d say no funny business but the damage is already done!” Isabela called after them.

There was silence. Then–

“Félix, help me prepare some drinks. Strong drinks,” Alma looked around the table and sighed, getting up. “We’ll make ones for Camilo and Mirabel too. We all need it–”

“Yes!” both mentioned cousins bumped their fists in triumph.

Antonio pouted. “Can I have a drink too?”

“No!” screamed everyone at the table. 

Pepa patted his head. “You’ll let some orange juice. Your tía’s absolute favourite!”