The Dragon Maiden - 1. Chapter 1

Not so long ago, in a land quite close by, there was a kingdom of incomprehensible wonder. It boasted vast lands and proud mountains and truly sturdy cows –all of life’s important things. But those are not the things of legend and, indeed, were not the reason of the kingdom’s fame. No, the wonder of the Kingdom of Mira lay in its rulers, for a more wondrous bunch had never before been seen in one place.

The King of Mira was a tad bit silly and the Queen quite a bit mad – as God intended for all in such a taxing situation (marriage, that is). They lived among riches and slightly inbred nobility in their high-walled castle, drinking the days away. Their subjects respected them from afar (since they would not do so if they were near), and their enemies (being even farther) shivered in fear at attacking such well-loved rulers.

The King and Queen had one daughter – Princess Leona, the future diamond of Mira. Unfortunately for her nurses, diamonds take a long, long time to sparkle and at five Princess Leona was still very much a lump of grimy coal. Endearing statements such as, “Do not ride the dog, your Highness!” and, “Worms are not spaghetti!” followed in the Princess’ wake like the fragrance of roses (which happened very occasionally and only if the Princess had chosen to play war in her mother’s favorite garden). Thus, it was with great joy that the Queen learned of the birth of a Prince in the neighboring Kingdom of Swan.

“It’s either a husband or a dragon,” the Queen said, watching her daughter scale the royal drapery, “I won’t make it through her puberty.”

“Hm,” said the King, mostly to cover up the fact that he had not been aware of the Princess’ existence until about three and a half minutes ago. He winced as the child fell into a heap of blue drapes and torn clothing, managing to injure three attendants and brain her nurse in the process. The Queen turned a knowing glare in his direction and the king promptly dispatched a messenger to the neighboring kingdom.

King Alfred of the Kingdom of Swan arrived the very next week and the two set out to draw plans of their joined futures.

“Why must my kingdom’s colors be red and white?” complained King Alfred of Swan, staring morosely into the depths of his eleventh goblet of wine, “I hate red. Makes me look fat. Also, children follow me around and ask for presents come winter.”

“Change them, then. Blue would suit your eyes.” King John of Mira nodded sagely, then forgot to lift his head and fell asleep in his goblet.

“Want my daughter?” King John asked once he had been successfully rescued from drowning in his wine by one of his attendants. “We don’t really need her.”

“Maybe.” King Alfred said. “Might be good for uh, something. How old is she?”

“I don’t know, but she is about the size of a sheep,” answered King John, and reached for his goblet. An attendant slapped his hand away. King John pouted.

“Well, my boy is a bit young,” King Alfred said, stroking his white beard in thought.

“He was born ten days ago,” aided King John.

“Right,” agreed King Alfred, forgetting again almost immediately, “Well, that’s not good! Your daughter will be an old maid by the time he is marriage-able.”

“Hmm, that is true.” King John thought and thought, fell asleep and thought some more. “Let’s marry him to my next one, then!” he proclaimed, feeling very triumphant with his solution. He might have possibly forgotten the point of the meeting.

“Your next what?” asked King Alfred, not so much suspicious as confused; several hours had passed.

“Child,” said King John.

“Sure.” agreed King Alfred, “But what will you do with this one?” King John shrugged.

“Someone will kidnap her sooner or later. She is a Princess, after all.”

Happy, the two rulers toasted and passed out in their kingly chairs. The servants took that as their cue to close the meeting for cleaning.

The very next day, a document of most binding and royal significance was drawn, signed, and read by both kings to a joyous congregation of peasants. As it happened, Princess Leona had been abducted by a passing dragon the day prior (possibly during that most important meeting), so even the Queen celebrated the happy occasion.

Many years passed, uneventful. The Queen and King lived in relative peace in their respective wings of the castle. They were a bit troubled in trying to evade the increasingly desperate attempts on the side of a certain dragon to parley for the return of their daughter. The dragon eventually gave up flying menacingly over the battlements, although its mournful cries were still heard on clear nights. The Princess was evidently doing well.

On the seventeenth-year anniversary of the Princess’ abduction, the King organized a large mourning feast. It was decided the feast would be a mourning one the day of, since the King had not been aware of the date’s significance. Nonetheless the decorations were quite tasteful – the yellow tablecloths and rainbow banners had been exchanged for black brocade and dried flowers with commendable haste – and the guests were properly somber. Several even wept, albeit that was likely due to the ale. It was pretty good ale.

“How is May?” asked King Alfred, decked out in blue and white. King John thought he rather looked like a whale but said nothing for the sake of inter-kingdom peace.

“For what?” he asked instead, and sloshed some wine around in his goblet. A visiting noble had been in the habit of doing so, and King John had found it rather tasteful. The laundry maid was of a different opinion, but who asked her anyway.

“For the wedding, of course.” King Alfred laughed and clapped a large hand against King John’s shoulder. “My son turned seventeen. He can finally marry your daughter!”

“Um,” said King John, then looked around. The Queen was nowhere to be seen, so he was left to blunder through his confusion on his own. Bravely, of course. “I think she was kidnapped by a dragon. A long time ago.”

“Not that one,” King Alfred waved the thought away, impatient, “The other one!”

“Oh, yes,” said King John, vaguely remembering being told of the birth of his second child. Only child now, maybe. The dragon had been suspiciously silent lately. “Well, sure then. May is as fine as any other month.”

“Excellent,” said King Alfred, then strode away in a rather hurried manner. Unfortunately for him, Queen Beatrice – his beloved wife – had already spotted him and was moving in his direction with more ferocity than one would expect from someone of her tiny stature. King John recalled a scandal involving a maid and stockings and politely turned away from the resulting brawl.

“Dear?”

Queen Victoria intercepted King John's route of retreat, a wide smile on her powder-drowned face. “Yes, my darling?” asked the King, an unpleasant anxiousness building in his stomach at the prospect of having to endure pleasantries from his wife for the rest of the evening. Usually all he had to endure were a few plates thrown at him from across the table. A whole night of this might just kill him.

“You did not happen to see Simon anywhere, did you?” Queen Victoria asked, her smile becoming even sunnier. Terror squeezed the King’s chest.

“Simon?” King John said. “Who is Simon?” A wonderful thought struck him. “Are you having an affair?”

“No,” Queen Victoria scoffed, and ouch, her fingernails were sharp around his arm. Her smile held, however strained, and King John suddenly became aware of the herd of golden-haired maidens huddled around his wife. “I was simply hoping to introduce Prince Simon, our son, to these fine young ladies. But I see you have not –Oh!” the Queen suddenly broke away. King John swore he heard his shirtsleeves rip beneath her talons. “Simon! Simon, over here dear!”

Several paces away a youth of about sixteen turned at the Queen’s voice, paled, then smartly swiveled on his heel and made a break for the gardens.

“Not this time,” Queen Victoria muttered. “Hold this!” she snapped at King John, pushing a pair of pink heels into his arms. The Queen then gathered her heavy skirts in both hands, curtsied the startled maidens, and sprinted after her terrified son like a hound from hell after a particularly tasty rabbit. “Simon, darling, wait! Mommy just wants to talk to you!”

King John shuddered, clutching the discarded footwear. Another thought, much less pleasant than the first, had him blinking owlishly in the direction his wife had disappeared. He looked at the shoes, towards the garden, then at King Alfred’s tear-stained face (his wife also had very sharp nails) a few paces away.

“No worries, I am sure I have another child,” King John told his attendant. The man bowed and said, “Of course, Sire,” in a most dispassionate voice.

“No.” Queen Victoria did not bother to look up from their discouragingly green dinner. King John pushed a piece of broccoli around in his own plate, wondering why he had to diet along with her. He liked himself fat. It gave him character.

“Are you sure?” he glanced at Prince Simon. The youth was moodily munching on a piece of lettuce further down the table where he, apparently, had been sitting for the last sixteen years. The King resolved to limit his drinking. At some future point to be determined at a later date. Prince Simon threw King John an evil look and stabbed a tomato with unnecessary violence. “He might be a Princess. You know kids these days – could be a phase or something.”

“A phase of having a penis?” the Queen scoffed. Both King and Prince turned red and coughed loudly for a rather long time. “No, you will simply have to write Alfred of your stupidity and drop the matter.”

King John sighed heavily and threw one more hopeful look at Prince Simon. Upon finding him still very much male and clutching the butter knife meaningfully, the King sighed again and motioned for a scribe.

The reply came the very next afternoon, in the shape of King Alfred perched on a miserable-looking horse. The king was red in the face and panted as if the horse had ridden him all the way across the border instead of the other way around.

The guards made all haste in helping King Alfred dismount (mostly out of pity for the horse), then led the distraught ruler into the Great Hall. King John, not expecting the visit, was otherwise engaged (sleeping) and almost fell out of his throne (upon waking) in surprise at seeing his heaving friend.

“Alfred! By God, what is the matter?”

“It’s awful!” cried King Alfred, collapsing in a chair an aide helpfully supplied, “War, John! War!”

“With whom?” asked King John, sympathetic. Wars were a lot of work – main reason his own foreign policy was so peaceful.

King Alfred lifted a heavy hand and pointed at King John. “You! Do you know what you have done, John? She is going to rip off my head with her bare hands, she will!”

“Me?” the King pointed at himself, eyes wide. “What did I do?”

“The marriage!” King Alfred slumped in his chair, tired of all the activity that had been forced on him today. “The marriage, John! What are we supposed to do with James now?”

“Your son?” King John guessed.

“Yes, my son!” bellowed King Alfred, neck a healthy red. He quickly ran out of steam and slapped two large hands over his face. King John remembered the party of a few days ago and winced, hoping the other king would not start crying. “She’s going to murder me!” King Alfred moaned instead, much to King John’s relief.

“It will be alright, Alfred,” soothed King John, “Just find another princess for him to marry.”

“There are no other princesses!” sobbed King Alfred. King John sighed and lifted himself off the throne to go and pat his friend’s shoulder. “That idiotic son of mine has…despoiled every princess in travelable radius!”

“Well, a Count’s daughter, perhaps…” King John supplied helpfully.

“Count? Count?” King Alfred’s laughter was a tad bit hysterical. “I’d be lucky to find a merchant in this land whose daughter he hasn’t tumbled! And now you tell me there is no princess—” King Alfred broke off with a pitiful moan and buried his head in his arms.

“I do have a son,” said King John, mostly in defense.

King Alfred stopped sobbing. Indeed, he halted all movement that wasn’t breathing. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at King John, desperation shining in blood-shot eyes.

“Well,” he said. “Well.”

In the distance, a dragon’s roar shook the mountains.

Prince Simon was having a pretty average day.

He had woken around dawn to his mother dumping a sack of perfume-heavy letters over his bed – he, of course, being still in it. How she kept getting through the chains, he had no clue.

After dressing and gleefully burning all of the day’s correspondence, the Prince had made his way to the Armory, intent on working off his ire on the Royal Knights. Of these Mira boasted two, both about fifty years too old to hold a sword. Upon entering the dilapidated shack that also doubled as a granary, Prince Simon was immediately made aware of two things: one, they were down to one knight – either that or Sir George was so good of a soldier he slept with his eyes open; and two, his sword was most definitely missing. The second observation was quite easy to make, since Prince Simon’s sword and chainmail were about the only things in the Armory. Prince Simon decided the crime was an insult to his honor and thus needed immediate attention, even if said attention came at the expense of his French lessons. Especially if it came at the expense of his French lessons. And if the matter stretched into violin recital well, vengeance came at a price.

The Quest of the Sword ended unexpectedly at about noon, in the kitchens, where the Prince decided to stop for a lunch break. Both French and violin had been evaded, and he was starting to feel pretty lenient towards the unknown burglar. As luck would have it, it was the exact moment he gave up looking for his sword that the thing materialized out of thin air.

“Marie, what is it that you are cutting the salami with?”

Well, maybe not thin air.

Marie apologized profusely and handed the sword back, smelling vaguely of innards. Apparently all the kitchen knives were too dull and Tommy was too lazy to sharpen them. The Prince was more intrigued by the ease with which Marie handled the heavy blade. Cooking apparently did good things for upper-body strength. Maybe it was all the pig-gutting.

Prince Simon spent the afternoon doing Princely-things, which for the most part constituted of dodging the rest of his tutors. He did spend some time at the pond in the Royal Gardens, looking for mermaids. Disappointingly, only a few kappa swam around in the clear water, and those were so disconcertingly polite and green even boredom could not keep him lingering for long. The forced pleasantries in the face of strange creatures reminded the Prince too much of the various social functions he was dragged to every odd month. He spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between climbing and falling off trees.

All too soon the evening bells echoed in the courtyard. The Prince regarded the clock tower with despair. Another meal enduring his mother’s matchmaking and the King’s drunken stupor did not warrant much excitement. Perhaps he was not truly their son. He could have been switched with Mira's true prince at birth. His real parents could be dirt-poor farmers. It happened.

The thought comforted Prince Simon all the way to the Great Hall. Then nothing much could comfort him at all.

“I am not a princess.” Prince Simon took care to enunciate, for it must be a problem with language. Possibly with the air. Most definitely with the King’s head.

The King still looked vaguely mistrusting, but nodded. “That’s alright.”

“No,” Prince Simon said slowly, “it is not.” He turned to the Queen, who was angrily sticking pieces of paper into golden-tinted envelopes. “Mother, tell him it is not.”

“It really isn’t,” she snapped back. The candlelight glinted off her nails as she snatched yet another sheet from a pile on the chair beside her, eyes so narrowed and dark they seemed the slits of a great lizard. The Prince had never found her more beautiful. His relief was much too short-lived, however, for the Queen brusquely continued with, “But the agreement has been signed and blessed and sworn upon various mothers’ graves, so it is happening anyway.”

The Prince held onto reason and tried not to weep. The King was one thing; him he could avoid until either the issue or the Prince’s existence was forgotten. Queen Victoria, however, had spent not an inconsiderable amount of her life dealing with an evil step-mother. Prince Simon had never had the pleasure of meeting the woman, seeing as she had been ceremonially beheaded for witchcraft before he had been born, but her deeds filled not a small portion of the Royal Library: most often found under “witches,” “monsters,” and lest be forgotten, “vengeful bitches.” Prince Simon had added the last category himself; a surprising amount of folklore fit under the heading.

Point being, the Queen got things done.

“Look,” Prince Simon tried again, stepping closer to the table but mindful to stay clear of his mother’s range of motion. “I understand some sort of agreement was made. But I am not a princess. I cannot marry a prince.” He carded his fingers through his hair, twisting them a little so it hurt. “Why is no one getting this?”

“Oh, I get it,” his mother scoffed and slapped another envelope onto the table. The Prince was rather horrified to see You are cordially invited to inked on it in loopy golden script. There were very many, many envelopes and dear God, this is happening.

“No, no you do not seem to get it, because oh my God, those are wedding invitations, why are there wedding invitations?” wide-eyed, Prince Simon grasped the King by the elbows. “Father, I promise you I am not a princess, I will drop my trousers right here and prove it!”

The King shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, eyes everywhere but on his son’s frantic face. Behind them, the Queen let out a put-upon sigh.

“Pants stay on in the dining room.” She motioned with her hand, letting a nearby maid scoop the pile of letters onto a silver tray and cart them off to places unknown. Probably the pits of hell from whence they came. Prince Simon shuddered and turned pleading eyes to his mother and set to beg.

“I know I have not been very good with the princesses and the burning of their overly-perfumed letters and the running, I know, I promise I will try harder, just please don’t do this. There is no need to go to such lengths! I get it, I will shape up – lesson learned!” he let out a strained chuckle, quickly smothered to silence by his mother’s unimpressed look.

“Oh, darling, it is much too late for that. Sixteen years too late, to be precise.” She glared at King John, the heat of her stare burning all along Prince Simon’s left shoulder. “Nothing can be done about it now; a wedding was promised, and a wedding must be delivered.”

Prince Simon’s devastated face must have brought out some motherly sympathy at last, for the Queen set aside talons and glare and tried to comfort her son. Attempting to find an expression suitable to the occasion, her face went through a complicated transmutation and finally settled on a smile that bore an eerie resemblance to that found on a crocodile about to swallow a duckling.

Prince Simon’s bottom lip trembled.

“But I have a penis,” was his last pitiful attempt at logic. The Queen patted him consolingly on the cheek while the King glanced doubtfully at his lower half.

The Prince, quite reasonably, sat down on the spot and wept.