[story] a kiss for you to wake

[ib_archive]

author: n. kaouthia

artist: cruzle (cruzle)
email: leanna.cruz [at] gmail.com



Three months after Weaver Acro resigned from his position as Crown Prince Luther Salvador's bodyguard, Kingdom Ophidio fell to pieces.

Queen Hannah and King Dev died within hours of each other. They were found in their adjoined chambers, black with a mysterious decay. The Crown Prince's reign began immediately, and it was soon obvious that even after years of schooling, the young man was unprepared for the challenges of the monarchy.

Weaver cared little for the politics of Kingdom Ophidio. He preferred to live quietly on the land he had inherited from his late father. As a bodyguard, he had warned the Crown Prince of the difficulties he would face, particularly from the lords of the principalities. The Crown Prince had only laughed. "I study," he'd said. "I know the protocols. I am also the Blood Crown Prince. The people will love me."

But the people rebelled against the Crown Prince's rule. He wasn't strong enough to keep the country together. He stumbled over words in his addresses; he lacked the eloquence of his father, the grace of his mother.

Just like that, Kingdom Ophidio fell into silence.

Weaver didn't think much of it. He believed that the Crown Prince had finally settled down, and that the silence meant merely that there was no news to report. It was only when Horace, a courtier from the kingdom, came to his small hut to speak with him that he learned of Kingdom Ophidio's current state.

"There has been a problem," Horace said. Weaver was surprised to see the normally calm man wring his hands and frown.

"Ah," Weaver said, standing in his doorway. "Has Kingdom Ophidio undergone another crisis?"

"Yes." Horace cleared his throat. "Do you remember when the Crown Prince was born?"

"Very well." Weaver had stood next to the crib as the Crown Prince's fairy godparents had blessed him with beauty and verbosity (which Weaver had always felt was more a curse than a gift). "He was given a gift and two curses."

Horace frowned. "Two curses?"

Oh, Weaver thought. That was right. Only he would think of the Prince's long-windedness as a curse. After all, for the whole of the ten years he had worked with the Crown Prince, only he had had to listen to the young aristocrat ramble on and on about nothing in particular. "Two gifts, one curse," he corrected himself. "The apple curse." He rolled his eyes. "How could an apple..." Weaver trailed off when he saw Horace's face twist.

Weaver stared at Horace. "He can't be," he said, feeling his heart pump against his chest in heavy, hard beats. "No, no, he can't be."

Horace hung his head in shame.

"No," Weaver said, and then he went to the back of his house - to the stables - and prepared his black horse for the journey back to Kingdom Ophidio. "The Crown Prince is alive."

"W-wait," Horace said, holding out his hand. "That's not - that's not - he's not--"

But Weaver was already gone.

"You cannot leave," the Crown Prince said. He pouted and crossed his arms over his chest. "I forbid it! You are supposed to be here! You are mine!"

"I have overstayed my welcome. You shall be fine without me."

"I will never be able to rule the kingdom alone!"

"You won't have to rule the kingdom alone," Weaver said. He stared down at the Crown Prince. God forbid that such a frail, thin boy rule the kingdom alone. His body would break under the pressure before his reign had even begun.

"I want you to rule with me!" The Crown Prince clenched his hands into fists. "You cannot do this to me! Weaver, you're to stay here! It's an order from the Crown Prince of Ophidio!" He stomped his foot on the ground. "If you leave, I'll banish you from the kingdom."

Weaver sighed. "Banish me from the kingdom, then, my Crown Prince. I am leaving."

The Crown Prince's face twisted into an ugly look of horror. "You cannot! I need you here with me!"

"You do not need me," Weaver said, and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Take care."

And then the Crown Prince said, "I do not want to be King!"

Weaver blinked. "Being the King is an honor."

The Crown Prince bit his lip. "I need you more than honor."

Weaver wished there were faster methods of transportation. By the time he'd covered half the distance between his home and Kingdom Ophidio, his horse was exhausted. It refused to gallop any further and Weaver was forced to lead it to the nearest stable so that it could rest for the night.

Weaver, on the other hand, was not tired. His nerves were tight coils of rope. His hands were red and raw from squeezing the reins. He was disheveled, his hair a disorderly mess across his face, his cheeks red and cold from the winter breeze.

I should have prepared before coming, he thought, making his way to the inn. I should have brought a coat. A sword. A message. Money, gold. Anything else along with myself. But what use would those things be against death? A death that had already come.

Weaver sighed as he pushed the inn door open. The brightly burning candles inside did little to lighten his mood. The men around him were swinging their mugs with elation, oblivious to the kingdom-in-pieces that lay just a half day's ride away. No throne, no heir. Nothing.

Weaver sat down at the bar and ordered himself a brandy.

If only I had stayed, he thought.

It unnerved Weaver to learn that he had been wrong about the tavern. Despite its cheerful first impression, once he had settled in to drink, brood, listen, drink, brood some more, and listen some more, he found that all of the conversations led back to Kingdom Ophidio.

"I heard that King Luther died of stress."

Stress? Weaver thought. The Cro--Luther--The King was stronger than that. As talkative as the Crown Prince had been, Weaver knew that the boy had been cut out for great things.

"I heard that he died of a broken heart."

Weaver sighed. A broken heart? How could one such as Luther die of a broken heart? Certainly, the loss of his parents had been tragic, but even that couldn't have been enough to break his spirit. Aside from his parents there was no one else: he had had no lovers.

"I heard that he couldn't go on without his bodyguard."

That brought Weaver up short. He had no excuses for that. The Crown Prince had told him time and again that he needed Weaver, but Weaver had chosen to leave his side for something - something else. Weaver hesitated to think 'better.' Was it better? The Crown Prince was no longer around to babble on at him, but there was nothing left now.

Only silence.

Weaver couldn't bear to hear more. He went upstairs to his room.

Weaver was out early the next morning, riding towards the kingdom on the shortest, easiest path. It was a slower pace than yesterday: he had worn out his steed the day before.

Even at this rate, Weaver could feel his horse dying beneath him.

Four hours later, the Kingdom drawbridge came into view. His steed heaved. It slowed to a trot, and Weaver slid off it. "I'm sorry," he said, and patted its neck. He knew that later, he would regret what he had done to it. "I'm sorry."

His steed whinnied in pain. Weaver sprinted toward the Kingdom without looking back.

Weaver's legs shook as he approached the drawbridge. He slowed to a walk, then sighed. The drawbridge was lowered, but the flags on the towers were dyed black in mourning. Weaver felt his eyes water as he stumbled across the wooden platform and into the city.

Silence welcomed him with open arms.

The Kingdom was gone. The markets were empty when he passed them by. The pig pens, the chicken coops - all silent. No horses. No people.

It was like the townspeople had all up and left without a trace. Weaver swallowed and kept moving. It was too late to stop now. The castle was close. The Crown Prince's body - Luther's body - would still be in the castle somewhere.

Somewhere.

Weaver felt his hands shake as he passed through richer markets. There was nothing to greet him: Not even a ghost wind. He wiped ineffectually at his eyes. This was impossible. Such a wealthy kingdom could not be this silent. Not like this. It had never been like this. Never.

The quiet surrounded Weaver like a fog. He took the wrong turn down the wrong alley, backtracked to the wrong street, the wrong way. The castle blurred in his vision. In the silence it shrunk down to the size of an ordinary house. Weaver's palms started to sweat.

The castle is nearby, he thought. It is near. He had walked these roads before. Who said that he did not know the way? Who said that the way was not the same?

Weaver stopped and took a deep breath. The silence did not make the streets a maze. It only made them silent. This was a type of confusion that could easily be remedied.

Weaver constructed a map of the city in his mind, filling in its details, and then slowly began to walk forward. He relocated himself on his mental map.

The castle came into view again several minutes later. Weaver stopped at the front steps.

There, in front of the castle gates, were the bodies of soldiers, dukes, pages, councilmen - all of them, fast asleep.

When the crash sounded from the main hall, Weaver immediately grabbed his sword and his shield and ran out of the library. Something had gone wrong in the Ceremony of Blessings, and he had to be there to help fix the problem.

Weaver tore down the stairs to the main hall, lungs heaving, and there, in front of the crib, was a figure dressed in black - cloaked like a shadow. The figure held in its hands a staff, around which was curled a snake, as dark as the figure itself. "Such a lovely child," the figure hissed. "So sad that he will die so young . . ."

Weaver didn't wait to hear the rest. He lunged forward, sword in hand, but he passed right through the figure - a ghost - and crashed to the floor, his sword sliding across the palace tiles.

"Your guardian angel," the figure said quietly. "Oh, how tragic. Dear, dear Luther."

It leaned down toward the crib, and Weaver struggled against an invisible force to get up off the floor. "The Fruit of Knowledge," the figure said, and from underneath its cloak it brought forth a scarlet apple. "Eat it, and you and your kingdom shall die." The apple disappeared, fading into smoke. "Let someone else carry the burden of wisdom upon his shoulders."

The figure turned to Weaver. "We will meet again under better circumstances." The figure disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, and Weaver surged up off the ground, face red.

"Calm down."

Weaver turned to see his father and gritted his teeth. "You are his protector! You're supposed to--"

"Everyone is born with a curse," his father said. "And yours will be the burden of knowledge."

Weaver burned with fury. He left without hearing the rest of the Ceremony. He hadn't planned to witness any of it in the first place.

Weaver picked his way through the sleeping bodies of the palace servants. He picked up a sword from one of the unconscious guards, a good light one. The Crown Prince's fairy godfathers must have changed the curse, he thought. He had heard some kind of rumor to that effect: that the kingdom was safer now that they had fixed the curse.

Weaver shouldered open the doors to the castle and froze.

Thorns.

The black vines slithered across the floor, wound up the stairs - littered the walls and surrounded the throne. Weaver took a deep breath. Only the darkest magic could have created this, and Weaver wouldn't risk coming in contact with the thorny plants.

Weaver started slicing through the vines with his sword, clearing a path for himself as he made his way across the front hall. He would look in the Crown Prince's chamber first. That was where the body would be - hopefully. If not, Weaver would tear the castle down to find it.

The Crown Prince couldn't be dead.

Not like this.

Slashing away at every vine within reach, Weaver reached the stairs and dashed up. The door to the Crown Prince's chamber was so close - so near. He has to be here, Weaver thought. He has to be. Alive. Breathing.

His death was just a terrible, terrible dream.

Weaver flung the door open.

Empty.

Weaver dropped his blade and lunged for the bed. He ripped the sheets off, ran his hands along the mattress. He pulled open the closet and tore the clothes off their hangers. Nothing. Only empty clothes without a body to support them.

When Weaver turned back, the vines had claimed his sword. It was nowhere in sight. He yanked open one of the Crown Prince's drawers and removed his prized weapon, a decorated and ornate falchion. With a heavy swing, Weaver cut through the vines and darted down the hall. Perhaps - oh.

Weaver felt foolish.

The Crown Prince no longer had a reason to be in his old chambers.

He would reside in the King's room now.

Weaver kept the falchion low to the ground, at a constant angle to cut through the vines that grew in his way. His chest hurt from the strain. He had to find the Prince and escape with him before the enchantment swallowed the last of the bloodline.

The moment Weaver laid his hand on the doorknob to the King's door, he heard the melody.

The song was soft, gentle. Just the way Weaver remembered it. It was being played, not just by someone with talent, but - by someone who knew. Someone who knew the way that Weaver had played the song to the Prince, to lull him to sleep.

Weaver re-gripped the falchion and retraced his steps down the stairs. The vines he had cut on the way up had not yet had a chance to regrow, so he was met with no resistance as he made his way down to the music room.

Weaver's lungs gave out just he arrived in front of the room. The melody was now so loud that it was nearly ear-splitting, and Weaver winced as he pushed at the door.

Locked.

The melody faded away. Weaver slammed his hands against the door.

It clicked open.

There, in the middle of the room, was a bed surrounded by vines, and in it was the Crown Prince. The King. Luther. Weaver staggered over to the bed, chest tight as his hand tightened on the hilt of the falchion. "Luther," he sighed. "Luther, Luther, Luther, please--"

Weaver froze in his steps when he heard the crack, crack, crack behind him. He slowly twisted his head around to face the creature and raised his sword to block his face--

--and gazed straight into the blood-red eyes of a gigantic black serpent.

When Weaver was ten, he learned the history of Kingdom Ophidio and committed it to memory. It consisted of a long, romanticized tale of man's battle with the serpent-people - the half-man, half-serpent deities who had long claimed the land of Kingdom Ophidio.

Even against the power of deities, man had won, using sheer numbers and a talent for novelty and wit. Eventually all of the serpent-people had been driven back.

But despite the victory, the land of Ophidio was not free from interference. Every king came with a curse - a curse of death that would come if the king did not exercise caution. Several kings had died this way, though to be fair they had all left heirs, people who had been able to ascend to the throne without problem.

Weaver thought it was nonsense. There was no such thing as a curse. Death could not be certain. It was not written in the stars.

Then Luther came.

"The monarchy is over," the serpent hissed, without moving its mouth. Its scales glittered in the sunlight pouring through the windows, black as the night of a new moon. It flicked its dark tongue out, and Weaver flinched back, stepping away from the bed. "This land is finally Naji's again."

Weaver put the tip of the falchion to the floor as he advanced. The vines gave way to the sharp edge, and Weaver began to weave a path back to the bed. The serpent approached at the same time, and Weaver was again forced back.

"You cannot save your King."

Weaver didn't know if he could defeat a serpent-deity. It was one thing to fight a man, another to fight a god. An angry god, at that.

But the monarchy couldn't end now. Weaver glanced behind himself. The bed was only a few feet away. He just had to cut the vines away, grab Luther - run. "He's not dead," Weaver said.

Weaver turned and slashed through the vines, dropping the falchion to lunge for the bed. He would snatch Luther's body, come out on the other side of the bed and take the long way out of the castle, just as long as he made it out onto the streets...

It was a foolish idea. The snake's tail wrapped around his leg and jerked him away, tossing him like a doll across the room. He smashed into the far wall arm-first, and felt his bones crack under the pressure.

Weaver struggled to get up. He managed to get to his knees, but his body resisted.

"I was here all along, but you had eyes only for your king."

That wasn't the snake, Weaver thought, and looked up.

"No," Weaver said, feeling very cold now, like someone had woken him up from a nightmare. At the piano was the man - the serpent-man, Weaver thought - who had begun the curse. Luther's curse.

The shadows pooled around the man's feet as he stood and approached Weaver. With nowhere to move, Weaver was trapped. The shadows wrapped around Weaver's ankles and bound him. Weaver could only look up now.

"Good afternoon. How are you after all these years, Weaver? Come, Caecus." He tapped his staff against the floor, and Weaver watched as the large serpent that had so easily attacked him shrank to the width of his arm and slid up the staff. "Unfortunately, I must say I'm disappointed in you. The knights of the Acro family line have never failed so miserably before."

Weaver swallowed. He had't failed, he thought. This was just a setback. He still had time.

"Do not bother," the serpent-man said. "It is too late."

It can't end here, Weaver thought, as the serpent-person turned and walked toward the bed. "Don't touch him," Weaver whispered.

The serpent-man chuckled. "And what will you do if I touch him? You cannot kill Naji, the Serpent-King." He stopped by the side of the bed and reached out a long, skeletal hand, tracing a path up Luther's arm. "Come, Weaver," Naji said, and the shadows released him. "Try to protect your king now."

Weaver's whole body ached. He lurched over to the bed, and every part of his body protested with pain. Naji watched coolly as Weaver half-sat, half-collapsed onto the mattress, and Weaver let out a gasp of pain as his broken arm shifted under the fall.

"Give up," Naji said.

Weaver ignored him. He looked at Luther and felt his throat begin to hurt. I'm sorry I failed you, he thought, and stared at Luther's face - quiet and soft in sleep, instead of laughing joyously at the edges.

How had this boy ever become king? How had he survived? Weaver reached out with his good hand to stroke Luther's face. He couldn't remember why he'd left in the first place now. Luther had been annoying, but Weaver could no longer remember what he'd done that Weaver had had to leave.

Was it just his wordiness? Weaver pulled Luther into his lap. When Naji started to speak, Weaver interrupted him. "Just let me," he said. "You'll get your chance to kill him."

"You had your goodbyes," Naji said.

Weaver pressed Luther's back to his chest. "No, I didn't."

The Prince had already set up his sleeping things in the music room. He was curled up in his thick blankets as he watched Weaver in the darkness. "Will you stay?"

"I am leaving," Weaver said, and the Prince scowled. "I have to leave."

"Will you come back?"

Weaver placed his hands on the piano and began the song gently, one foot pressing down on the pedal. "Just go to sleep," he said.

Weaver continued playing long after the Prince fell asleep. He watched the moonlight in the windows and thought, I'll never see this place again. This place won't be home anymore. Without stopping his fingers, he turned to watch the Prince.

I'll never see the Prince again.

The thought startled Weaver out of the song. His hands clenched into fists on top of the keys, and he stood immediately, the bench scraping the floor. He glanced over to see if the Prince had awoken, but he was still fast asleep.

Weaver packed his things and left.



Weaver closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Luther's neck. "I never said goodbye. I'm sorry." He gently turned Luther's face toward his. "Forgive me, my king," he said, and only barely saw Naji's serpent rush toward them as he kissed Luther's cheek.

The snake pulled Weaver's legs out from under him, and Weaver skidded across the floor and through the vines.

Weaver closed his eyes. Oh god, he thought. Oh god.

"I'll kill you," Naji said. "This is our land."

Go ahead, Weaver thought, and shifted onto his side to raise himself up, even as he felt the thorns dig deeper into his skin.

"This land was won fairly. You cannot take back what you have lost."

Weaver's arm almost gave out under him. That wasn't Naji's voice. That was - that was - Weaver almost laughed when he opened his eyes and saw Luther - Luther, the King - standing between him and the serpent-man, looking taller and more defiant than ever had before.

"Foolish, foolish human," Naji snarled. "This has been our land for centuries." He raised the staff and slammed it down into the ground, and his servant Caecus came to his side, hissing angrily at Luther. "You cannot take away our birthright."

"Then do not take away mine," Luther said, putting a hand to his chest. Weaver gazed at him with wonder: for someone who had just woken up, Luther seemed amazingly aware, amazingly awake. It was as if he had never been asleep at all.

The earth rumbled beneath them, and Weaver winced as his arm gave out and he landed on his back. "I will not be spoken to that way," Naji roared, and his cloak and staff fell away, revealing his true body: the body of a snake, the upper torso of a man-creature. "Not by an ignorant youngling! We are the gods of this land!"

Luther jumped onto the bed as soon as he saw Naji's tail swipe towards him. The bed posts broke and crashed under Naji's weight, and Luther scrambled over to the piano. "Not very strong gods," Luther said dryly, and frowned as Naji's shadows darted toward him. "This is my land now."

The earth shook, and Weaver flinched as part of the ceiling came loose and smashed the bedroom. They both needed to get out of there. Weaver managed to push himself onto his feet even as the room spun. "Luther," he said, wiping the blood from his mouth. Even to himself his voice sounded too quiet, too little. "Luther, stop."

Luther looked up at Weaver. "Alive," he said, and he relaxed. "You are alive. I thought - I thought--" His eyes focused. "You're injured." And then he clenched his hands into fists. "He hurt you?"

Naji approached Luther like a lion stalking its prey, and Weaver coughed into his hand as he pushed himself away from the wall. With the last of his strength, he pushed Luther out of Naji's path.

Luther could only watch and stare as Naji engulfed Weaver beneath his coils.

Night after night, Luther excused himself to his old chambers and sat down next to Weaver's ravaged, pale body and tightly twined their hands together.

He would talk for hours. About anything. The weather. The current state of the kingdom as it repaired itself little by little.

Anything except the night Weaver had almost died.

He still dreamed about it. In his dreams he watched Naji almost tear Weaver apart. He watched himself stand by, helpless, until the troops came in - not his troops, but King Aves's. They tore away at Naji and his serpent and then, as Luther stood to the side, began to tend to Weaver's wounds.

As he did nothing but stand and stare.

The dream was not always the same. Sometimes Weaver did die. Sometimes no one came to rescue them. Sometimes Naji took Luther's throne and smashed Weaver into a bloody mess on the floor.

Sometimes when he sat by Weaver's side, Luther couldn't even say his name.

"Please wake up," Luther would say, on the verge of slumber himself. If sleep escaped him he would watch Weaver's scarred face. "I need you," he would murmur as he brushed Weaver's blond hair away from his face. "Please wake up."

After months of this, Luther felt older than his physical age. When he looked in the mirror, it wasn't a boy of eighteen but a man of thirty or forty that stared back at him, brown hair thin and brittle.

According to the doctors Weaver would never wake up. They said that Naji hadn't just torn him apart physically, but had also placed a curse on him. Now he would never open his eyes again, would never see anything.

"It would be best," Horace had said, "to put him out of his misery."

"He'll wake up," Luther had said. "Thank you for going straight to King Aves for assistance." And that would be the end of that.

You'd be proud of me, Luther thought, but he never told Weaver. Not because he believed that Weaver was not listening, but because he wanted to hear Weaver say it. He wanted to hear him say it, because if he said it, it would be true.

It had to be true.

Every night for six months Luther sat by Weaver's bedside.

"You have to stop," Horace said. "He's not going to wake up. We have a new bodyguard for you--"

"I will not accept anyone but Weaver," Luther snapped, glaring at Horace. "He will wake up. He's my bodyguard. Salvador-Acro. That's how it's always been. We rule, they protect. Why should we break tradition now? It's worked for this long, hasn't it?"

Horace sighed. "It is in your best interest," he said. "You cannot let your hope interfere with your life. Weaver would want you to--."

"I always did whatever I wanted." Luther stormed away from Horace, fists clenched at his sides. He opened the door to Weaver's room and slammed it behind him.

He couldn't take it anymore. He took his crown and hurled it across the room. "Wake up! You're alive!" He stalked over to Weaver, putting Weaver's hand between his own. "You have to wake up! You have a heartbeat, I know it--!"

Luther pushed up Weaver's shirt, pressed his ear to Weaver's breast, silencing his own breaths to hear Weaver's heart.

Luther closed his eyes. Silence. "You're alive," Luther said weakly. "You are alive. I know you are. Please, please stay. Weaver, I beg of you - I need you to be here," he whispered. "I cannot do this all by myself."

He put his head to Weaver's cold hand. "You cannot go." He slipped under the sheets next to Weaver's body and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him tightly to himself. "Naji only cursed you, you must be alive. You're mine."

Luther closed his eyes. "Weaver, I--" He pressed his forehead to Weaver's. "Please come back. I will not take anyone but you."

Luther gently pressed his lips to Weaver's. They were cold, too. "Wake up," Luther said, pulling away from Weaver. "Wake up. Wake up. Live."

Weaver was still.

Luther clutched his chest with one hand. "No," he said. "No, no, no. You never taught me this!" He slammed his fist into the bed next to Weaver. "You never told me what to do when you're like this! You - you're my guardian! I can't be King without you--"

The sob escaped his chest and slithered out of his throat like a traitor. Luther slid down to the floor, body shaking. He couldn't accept it, even if it was true. Weaver was dead, he thought. He was gone, and Luther had no one left but the courtesans and the courtiers - people whom Luther did not trust the way he had trusted Weaver.

"I need you," Luther wept, balling his hand in the blankets on the bed. "Come back, please."

"You never learn."

Luther hiccupped and bit back another sob. He raised himself onto his knees. "Weaver?"

"You make a terrible king," Weaver mumbled affectionately, eyes still closed. He reached a thin hand up to touch Luther's shoulder. "The courtiers may want to replace you."

"Weaver," Luther said, feeling his chest fill to the brim as he raised himself onto the bed, pulling Weaver into his arms, into a hug so tight that Weaver had to gently pull Luther's hands loose. "I missed you so much. I'm so glad you're back--"

"You're my king," Weaver sighed. "I will always come back for you."

"I've done so many things--"

"I know," Weaver said. "You told me." He chuckled. "I never thought you could talk for so long." His voice became gentle. "I'm proud of you, Luther."

Luther smiled. "I love you," he whispered into his shoulder.

Weaver took Luther's hands and squeezed them tightly. "I know."

Luther laughed. Even if Weaver had not returned his words, Luther was content.

Weaver was there. For Luther, that was enough.

the end