0:/WRITING/untitled (I), for lute

Originally posted on AO3.

untitled (I), for lute

“You shall be presented to His Majesty, King Freinag,” had said the beardless man who came to collect him. “You play several instruments, yes? And recite poetry? Have you performed for an audience before?”

The beardless man had been pleased when he nodded yes to each of those questions. The brief moment of security this success granted made what happened when he finally met the king feel all the worse.

King Freinag had been very upset with him—or no, because of him? He still isn’t sure—and he’d been afraid he wouldn’t even be allowed to gather his things before being turned out on the street. His stomach hurts whenever he remembers how the king’s face immediately fell upon seeing him. He doesn’t understand why he was brought here when everything about him is unsatisfying and wrong. Why him, why hadn’t they chosen the right type of elf? The king seems most bothered by his youth, but he can’t change how fast he grows. He can only do his best as a jester and hope he’s amusing enough to be allowed a place here.

He doubts the performing troupe would want him back, especially after he’s displeased a king. He wasn’t told which town they were traveling to next and on the morning he left he stood off to the side and watched as all of his things were piled into a carriage the beardless man sent for him. He even spotted the troupe master tossing in the clunky bits he’s never been told to pack when he’s sent away, like his sleeping mat and the winter shoes which pinched a little, but not enough to replace.

He’s alone now. If the king decides he doesn’t want him, he’ll have nowhere left to go.

Thinking about what he’ll do if that happens makes his mind go fuzzy and blank, so he focuses instead on playing his instruments perfectly, staying out of the way, and keeping a smile on his face even though he’s always hated how bad it feels wearing a false expression. He has a lot of practice, though, so he can do it.

He also knows better than to hope, but a week has passed since he was brought here and he’s starting to think they might let him stay, at least for a little while longer.

He wants so badly to keep living in this beautiful castle. He’s given a full serving at mealtimes and he doesn’t have to eat while hunched over, bracing for a hand to reach over the protective circle of his arms to steal his bread. The king’s men even brought a seamstress who measured him for an entire wardrobe’s worth of bright and soft clothing, all for himself! He was worried when his hair was cut since it’s only been done as a punishment before, but the other boys have cropped styles too, so he figures it’s okay even if his new hair feels strange and light.

The people here are also much nicer than the ones he used to live with. They stare, but tall-men always stare at him, and he doesn’t mind as long as they keep their hands to themselves. These ones usually do. A kitchen boy did grab him by the ear, but he hasn’t been bothered anymore after he responded by shoving the boy into the coals, still glowing hot from being used to cook dinner. He waited in his bed for a few tense hours after, unrepentant but certain he’d get a lashing. Nothing came of it. He thinks the boy must have kept his defeat to himself—those types are always ashamed when the silly little elf beats them.

That run-in with the kitchen boy is the worst it’s gotten and he can’t even consider it all that bad since he won. He’s happy here. Life in the castle feels like he’s entered a fairy-tale play the troupe would perform, except this dream world doesn’t end like the plays do after the curtain falls.

***

He rises early while the air is still cold and waits outside the shared quarters for the steward to fetch him and give him his day’s duties. Today he’s told he will be entertaining the king while he holds court. Ever since that terrible first meeting, he’s only played for King Freinag for an hour here and an hour there. The idea of spending so long in the king’s company is nerve-wracking, but he’s determined to do well.

Armed with several instruments and having donned his favorite new red-and-lavender tunic for bravery, he sets out for the great hall. The bells hanging from his clothes softly jingle with each movement—he bounces as he steps so he can make them ring louder. People smile as he passes by and that makes him smile too.

King Freinag catches his eye when he enters the hall. All of his nervousness from earlier rushes back. He drops his gaze and bends into a bow fast enough it makes him dizzy and keeps the pose until he feels a hand on his shoulder, firmly pulling him up. The steward ushers him to the musician’s alcove and after a few deep breaths to chase away the jitters, he takes out his lute and begins plucking a ballata which had been popular with the noble patrons he’d entertained before for the troupe master.

The morning stretches on into afternoon without a break for food. The only thing filling their bellies are petitions from the common-folk, and when the last man is nudged out of the hall he hears Freinag loudly sigh in relief. He bites his lip to stop from smiling at the king’s expense. So kings can get tired like any other man!

King Freinag listened to each and every petitioner, though, and judged them fairly. He feels new admiration for the king having witnessed how hard he works for the people, especially when he compares it to his own easy task of plucking a tune he’s had memorized for so long that playing it has become rote.

Boring or not, he only stops his music once the king finishes speaking with his advisors and stands to leave.

“Come along, then,” Freinag beckons, pausing at the door.

His heart picks up—is he not being dismissed back to his quarters? A change in routine is no reason not to follow instructions though, so he gathers his instruments into their cases and walks quickly until he falls into step behind the king.

“I’ll have a snack brought to us,” Freinag says. A servant waiting outside the hall bows at the implicit order and leaves to fulfill it. The king glances over his shoulder briefly. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?

“I haven’t, but—but I don’t need it!”

Freinag hums. It’s silent between them and just as he’s about to start panicking because he’s realized he forgot to use the king’s proper address and he rejected his hospitality, the king speaks again.

“For a boy your age, you did well playing so long.”

“Thank you! Your Majesty!” He bows quickly with a jingling of bells. The king looks back at the sound and laughs.

They’ve arrived in a wing of the castle he hasn’t seen before. The rugs feel plush beneath his feet, gold filigree decorates the ceiling, and paintings of men and women identical to the king line the walls as far as he can see.

King Freinag opens the only door in the hall. He slips in behind the king and gasps.

Rows and rows of tall shelves cover the walls, and the shelves themselves are buried in piles of written-on things: leather-bound manuscripts, scrolls rolled into neat cylinders, loose skins of parchment laying atop the rest. He’s never seen so many books in his life; the troupe only owned a dozen or so scripts, all dearly bought at high prices, and he recited those stories over and over until the lines they contained felt closer than his own thoughts. This room with its written abundance is fascinating, mesmerizing, the best thing he’s ever seen.

He mustn’t have hidden his curiosity well enough because the king begins to explain.

“This is my private library. Most of these,” a lazy gesture of his wrist towards the shelves, “were collected by my predecessors—I prefer other diversions to gathering dust indoors with the books!” Freinag laughs. He decides to laugh along with the king even though he doesn’t quite understand what is so funny and he’s rewarded with a hand dropping on his head and patting. He blinks and forces himself not to fix the mussed strands where the king’s hand had lain.

“I want you to play a few of those delightful tunes while I work. Your music made holding court much more enjoyable than it usually is,” Freinag continues.

Heat rises in his cheeks. He’s done well! He was helpful to the king!

“I serve at the pleasure of Your Majesty,” he says, borrowing the words from a play he has memorized.

“A well-spoken little elf, too,” the king compliments.

He didn’t think he could possibly blush harder than he already was, but he feels his face get even warmer. He hopes he isn’t making a fool of himself, turning so red.

There’s a platter of pastries sitting on the large desk dwarfing the room, magicked there by a servant before they arrived, but he’s still trying to collect himself after hearing the king’s kind words and doesn’t think to serve himself. It’s only when Freinag takes a pastry and hands another to him that he remembers he was meant to eat. He holds the pastry in both hands and nibbles carefully, savoring the flaky crust and the sharp pops of sour from cranberries hidden in the mince filling, and makes sure he doesn’t drop a single crumb.

The king hands him pastry after pastry and he finally has to reject the fourth, worried he will burst if he eats another.

“That’s alright. You don’t have a man’s stomach yet,” Freinag says. He’s staring morosely at the official-looking papers on the desk and the now-empty platter. “It’s back to work for us both, hm? You can stand wherever you’d like. Play a happy tune, would you?”

He can do that, even if he feels sleepy from the food and waking so early. He plays his flute in the corner, merry and out of the way, and allows himself brief glances at the king from underneath his lashes, searching for any frowns or other unhappy signs caused by him being here. There isn’t anything, and this whole day has been good too, so he lets himself hope that maybe he won’t be thrown out for his shameful inadequacy.

“Elf—little elf?”

The second call is more insistent than the first and it shocks him out of his performance. He inhales out of rhythm, startled from being addressed, and only just manages to prevent a sour note from squeaking through the flute. He lowers the instrument and licks his dry lips before he answers.

“Your Majesty?”

“Yes you, boy,” Freinag says. “It beggars belief, it truly does, but I’ve just realized no one told me. What is your name?” The question is abrupt but it doesn’t sound like the king meant it unkindly, and he is smiling, which is usually a good sign.

His name, though? He doesn’t have a name. He didn’t know he was expected to have one.

He swallows heavily as a memory rises, unbidden—one holiday, the troupe master gave him a new costume after he outgrew the set he wore the last few years. The new clothing was exciting and he tried his best putting it on without help even though the laces and panels were confusing and wouldn’t fasten how he expected. He remembers feeling certain he put the costume on correctly, but the roar of laughter from the troupe after he emerged from behind the dressing curtain set him straight.

The trembling, helpless embarrassment he felt back then threatens to overwhelm him again as he’s faced with this question which he has no good answer for.

“I haven’t any name, Your Majesty,” he says. He doesn’t bother making one up—people can tell when he lies and it always gets worse for him after they catch him in one.

“How can that be?” Freinag exclaims. “Everyone has a name. You must have been called something by, erm,” he waves his hand in a circle, “whoever had you before.”

“I was called ‘you’, or ‘elf’, or ‘boy’,” he lists, trying to keep his voice steady in the face of the king’s blatant shock. “If I had a role in the play we were putting on, then sometimes they’d call me the character’s name, once or twice. Y-Your Majesty.”

Freinag leans back in his chair and looks at him as if he’s unfathomably strange.

“No name,” the king mutters to himself. “Unbelievable. How can such a thing be?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he says. He’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, but he feels so sorry and bad that he’s upset King Freinag again. Here is another mark against him—the king will never accept him if he keeps failing like this! Tears well up in his eyes and he blinks frantically to keep them from spilling.

“Don’t fret, it’s easily fixed. I’ll just give you a name,” Freinag says.

Give him a name?

Such is his shock at the idea that he’s struck dumb. He stands with his mouth agape and his flute clutched tight to his chest, staring at the king, feeling something enormous welling up inside.

Can the king do that? If it’s so easy, like idly picking up a fallen apple, why didn’t anyone give him a name before? Is it something only kings can do?

Freinag rests his chin on his hand. The amusement on the king’s face makes his ears flush once more from the whirlpool of embarrassment, shame, and hope mixed up inside him.

“Would you like that? A name?”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” he rushes to say, afraid the chance will be taken away if he is slower.

“Eager, aren’t you! I’ll think one up now. A name, a name…a name for a little elf…” Freinag ponders. He’s looking at him very intently, fingers stroking his beard in thought while his eyes move from the top of his elf’s head to his flushed ears and face and then down to the flute he’s holding much too tightly.

A horrible thought ignites. What if the king sees something in him that is so awful he refuses him a name? Losing this chance because of that seems like the worst thing that could ever happen to him. He can’t let it happen. He has to hide it. He freezes up even more and stands straighter. He keeps himself so still that he stops blinking. The king has locked eyes with him and he crushes the instinct screaming at him to look away.

“Thistle,” Freinag says at last, sounding out the word. “Thistle, Thistle…yes, I think this is the one! Thistle, like your eyes.”

“My eyes?” he asks breathlessly.

Freinag rises from his chair and motions for him to stay where he is. He watches as the king putters around and looks through the shelves, flipping through manuscript after manuscript until he pulls out a large leather-bound volume with a triumphant, “Aha!”

“Look here, Thistle.” There’s a loud thump when the king places the book on his desk and opens it. He taps his finger against the page he’s stopped on and sounds very pleased with himself. “This is a thistle. Don’t the flowers look just like your darling eyes?”

Anticipation races through him in a full-body shiver. He shuffles closer and stands on his tip-toes so he’s tall enough to see over the desk.

The book is open on a beautifully illuminated page. Letters he can’t read are set in neat rows from top to bottom and there is a miniature painting of two great armies clashing beneath a golden sky. The king’s finger, however, rests on the border where painted plants are woven together wreath-like around the page’s contents and where every few inches a vivid purple flower peeks out of a prickly stem.

“It’s the same color as my eyes,” he says. He feels lightheaded with giddiness. A thistle plant. He’s never seen one before.

Freinag pulls him into his side with one arm. He stiffens, and then relaxes as he’s simply held.

“That’s your namesake, Thistle. Do you like it?”

“I love it, Your Majesty!” Thistle says, voice wobbling. Slowly he leans into the embrace. King Freinag is soft and his clothing even more so. The king’s hand on his arm is warm instead of frightening. Thistle has never felt so safe. “Thank you. I love it!”

Somehow, the king has grown to like him. Knowing well what baseless optimism earns you, Thistle nearly rejects the idea, but he can’t imagine any other reason for being treated so nicely. Tucked into Freinag’s side and feeling unbelievably warm inside and out, Thistle believes with all of his heart and all of his trust that he’s found a home.