I have done wrong, you build your tower
But call me home and I will build a throne
And wash my eyes out never again
But love the one you hold
And I'll be your goal
To have and to hold
A lover of the light
-Mumford & Sons, Lover of the Light
When Sir Charles finally arrived at the tower to save the Prince, he was kind of expecting a damsel in distress who needed to be saved from a dragon. After all, the Prince's father had made very clear the fact that his son had been kidnapped and was being held against his will and that whichever brave knight could slay the fire breathing dragon and rescue Prince Edwin would get his hand in marriage. Sir Charles is not exactly in want of the hand of the Kingdom- actually seems like a bit too much responsibility to him, especially when it involves marrying someone who can't offer their own opinion on the betrothal- but he can't bear the idea of someone being locked up against their will. He knows a thing or two about what it's like to be terrified and unsure if you're ever going to survive the person who raised you.
(It's why he ran from home, after all. Why he went to try his hand at being one of His Majesty's knights. Charles wanted to protect other people as he had never been protected himself. To prove that there could be something noble about being a knight beyond the shiny armor.)
Sir Charles knows that other knights have tried their hand at the glory of saving the prince and lost- not just their quest, but their very lives. So Charles isn’t expecting something easy. He's not expecting the prince to just throw himself at Charles for rescuing him.
Charles just wasn't exactly expecting to see this .
The Prince- or, at least, Charles is assuming that this boy is the Prince, because even though the boy is wearing nothing more than a white buttoned tunic, dark trousers, and the associated braces, he holds himself with a rather regal posture and has the sort of face that the bards write sonnets about- is sitting perched at a desk, a giant tome of what looks like magical creatures laid out in front of him. There is a dragon, yes, but it's not breathing fire in Charles' face or trying to strike him down. No, the dragon is curled up in the rafters of the loft like the birds did back in the Rowland family barn.
"Holy shit," Charles says, and the Prince whirls in his direction. The dragon turns its head, too, its almost human wide brown eyes training themselves on Charles and its maw twisting just slightly, as if preparing itself to bite.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The Prince demands, but Charles can't blame the prince for his confusion. It's not every day that you look out the window of your four-story tower and see a knight hanging from a rope, staring at you like you're a sideshow at the circus.
Green magic crackles across Prince Edwin's hands as he stands from his seat. The dragon's wings spread, high and glossy and black as midnight itself, until they dominate nearly the entire ceiling, blotting out the stars painted across the walls.
(Though, it must be said, the effect is slightly less intimidating than it is a little bit sad. Because the dragon is just small enough that he fits inside of the tower, but he's just big enough that there is no possible way for him to fit into this room and spread out to his full size. The effect is to make him look more like a caged bird unable to fly than a monstrous menace.
Charles almost wonders if the dragon has ever flown. And how, even if the dragon is a killer, well, Charles is, too. And how absolutely terrifying the idea of being trapped, of being stripped of his freedom, would have been. He never would have been able to escape his father if he'd been stuck like this.)
"If you are just here for my hand in marriage, Sir Knight,” Edwin says, voice filled with disdain, the green magic in his hands making his lake-gray eyes light up emerald, “Know that I have no reason to promise my name and body to whatever two-bit knight thinks himself capable of defeating a witch-”
“Mate, I'm not here to try to marry you. Like, you're very pretty, and it's really cool that you can definitely defend yourself-” Charles’ brow furrows. “But if you've got magic, why haven't you escaped?” Charles bites his lip as he connects the dots. He might not have been smart enough to become a scholar, but you don't exactly become a knight by being an idiot. That's what fools are for. “Is this some sort of, like, voluntary hermit thing? Does the dragon burn anyone who tries to interrupt your studies?”
Edwin doesn't relax, and Charles doesn't blame him. But he does deign to answer with the truth, and that says something about him, Charles would like to think. “I am not here voluntarily. I was kidnapped as a child, as the stories that some of the knights have told us have said.” Edwin rolls his eyes. "But Monty is harmless. The knights who tried their hands at saving me from Esther were burnt up by her wards, not Monty's fire. Monty's flames don't do anything more than light the fireplace.” Edwin nods to the glimmering sheen on the otherwise open window between him and Charles. “Neither of us can break the wards. He is as much a prisoner as I am."
The answer to the question of rescuing the Prince expands itself, but stays no less crystal clear. Rather, it turns from a single North Star guiding Charles forward on his quest to an entire constellation, just like the ones painted on the ceiling of this very room. “Then we'll just have to break both of you out, won't we?"
Edwin's gray eyes go silver-dollar wide as Monty stiffens on his perch, his neck jerking in Charles’ direction, dragonoid nostrils flaring. "You want to bring Monty with us?”
Charles shrugs. “He's your friend. The answer's pretty clear, innit?”
Edwin stares at Charles for a long, heavy moment, as if trying to unravel a story to find the place that first stitched truth and fiction together, as if trying to find home in a place where one does not speak the language. “Are you sure about this? We have no guarantee that you will survive a return trip through the wards.”
“Definitely. Trust me," Charles tries with a wink, "My smile can be pretty convincing."
And then Edwin swallows, extinguishes the magic in his hand, and reaches forward to offer a hand to Charles. (Thank god, because Charles might only be in his light leather armor rather than chainmail, but no amount of weight, especially when one is carrying a backpack full of one's supplies on one's back, is comfortable to carry when one is dangling from a rope thirty feet in the air.)
Charles is pulled through the ward and into the tower room with a pop , landing a bit awkwardly, half in Edwin's arms, and he can confirm that whatever the Prince has been doing in here to study for the past sixteen years, he has somehow found time to lift some heavy objects because Charles about swallows his tongue when he feels muscles beneath the Prince's buttoned tunic.
Edwin arches an eyebrow, but it is a teasing thing. “You lack the grace one would expect from a knight.”
Charles shrugs. He can swing a sword and ride a horse and that's enough to save people, he's found. And that's what matters. “Charles Rowland,” he says, sticking out a hand to shake, “You must be Prince Edwin and his…trusty steed, Monty?”
If you had asked Charles a couple weeks ago, hell, a couple minutes ago, if he thought the dragons could roll their eyes, he would say no. But he is proved unmistakably wrong in this moment, when Monty does just that.
“He is my best friend,” Edwin says, nakedly honest, and Monty lets out a small chirrup in agreement, a frankly adorable sort of noise that Charles knows that Niko would love.
(God, does he miss Niko and Princess Crystal. Charles has to wonder what Prince Edwin will think about his adopted sister and her frankly both terrifying sense of justice and her genuine generosity and kindness that so many other nobles lack. Or what he would think about his adopted sister having an affair with a seamstress.)
“Now, why can't you climb down the side of the tower? The rope's just there.”
Edwin rolls his eyes. “We are not fools, Charles. The wards are designed to keep us inside of this tower. We've grown up here together, Monty supposedly as a guard against me, but that didn't exactly work well for Esther in the long run. We can't get out on our own.”
“Well, what about together? I mean, I'm the brawn, you're the brains, and Monty's got magic, don't he?”
Edwin rolls his eyes, but he's smiling in turn, now, this small, sharp thing like the edge of a crescent moon, while Monty is staring at Charles, examining him.
And then Edwin looks Charles up and down. It is an examining gaze, evaluating Charles and what he probably brings to the table, but there is something about the way it lingers around Charles’ face that makes Charles’ smile only grow. “Do tell what your sword is made out of.”
“It's iron,” Charles admits. “I don't have the sort of family money to afford steel, but it gets the job done-”
Charles’ words screech to a halt when he sees Monty immediately scooting back as far as he can from Charles’ scabbard, pushing himself even further into his rafter home, squishing himself even smaller into a space he is not made for. Charles winces- he doesn't know what he said that must have scared the dragon so, but he doesn't want Monty to feel any more trapped than he already is.
“While my magical study and Monty's fire have yet to break the wards, iron is antithetical to most witchcraft. If we could enchant the sword, even bake it with dragon fire, it should be able to rip through the wards.”
Now that's what Charles is talking about.
Charles claps a hand on Edwin's shoulder. " That sounds pretty brills, mate."
---
So the three of them get to work, and through a combination of clever maneuvers, careful angles, and bursts of green magic, silver dragonfire, and runes painted onto the ground by Charles himself, they end up with an enchanted blade.
Charles stands up from the ground and wipes his brow. He shedded most of his leather armor in order to get into the prime position for crouching, leaving himself only in his trousers and his undershirt.
(Though Charles has never been the sharpest blade in the armory, he's not oblivious, either. His survival instinct is what got him to where he is.
So he's not oblivious to the fact that both Monty and Edwin stared at him, at his shoulders, at his movements, as he worked. And not to be arrogant, but Charles couldn't help but feel a little bit of satisfaction that he could catch their eyes in such a way, that he can distract Edwin from his own work long enough to suddenly make him swallow and jerk his head back to his books.)
“It's time to escape, then,” Charles says, sliding and tying his armor back on. He doesn't know what sort of alerts ripping through a ward with an enchanted sword will send to the witch that cast them, but he's going to err on the side of caution. Though he is a rather spontaneous person- embarking on this quest a rather relevant example- he also has a survival instinct, especially when other people's survival depends on his own.
Monty and Edwin, of course, don't have armor, and none of them are quite sure what exactly the blowback from shredding the wards might be, but he doesn't want them to get hurt.
Monty seems to be of the same opinion, as he finally crawls down from the rafters, unfurling himself and his wings around Edwin. Edwin tries to bat him away but Charles takes the opportunity to slice through the glimmering ward. It shreds into glittering ribbons that peel away like taffy- it seems as if Edwin’s theory was right.
Once again, easy as a few hours of work between the three of them, Charles can reach through to the rope outside. He even begins to pull the top of the rope upward slightly, to give Edwin more purchase, but behind him, Edwin lets out a gasp.
Charles turns back from the rope to see a prince staring at him like he's a miracle worker. “You did it,” Edwin says, voice breathless.
Charles shakes his head with a smile. “No, we did it,” he corrects, and gestures to Edwin and Monty, who is peeling his wing back from Edwin, allowing the prince to step forward. “Couldn’t pull it off without all three of us. Make a pretty good team, don’t we?”
Edwin gives a hesitant, tucked away smile. “Not bad.”
“Now, I'm guessing you don't know how to climb?”
But Edwin shakes his head, gesturing to an until-now-unseen rope leading up to the rafters and Monty’s perch. “Had to find a way to go up there with Monty.” He takes a breath and steps forward, brave as can be. “Now, Sir Knight, would you like to go first or would you prefer if I take the honors?”
Charles sweeps a small bow to Edwin, who rolls his eyes. “You first, mate.”
Edwin takes a deep breath, reaches up to gently squeeze Monty’s wing, and then puts his hands on the rope.
Then the two of them fly down the rope, shimmying their way down the side of the tower to the ground.
Charles has been climbing trees since before he left his father's farm, so he has the upper arm strength to pause when Edwin himself freezes at the end of the rope before settling one hesitant foot against the grass beneath him, then the other, until he is fully planted not on tower stone but on warm, sunbathed grass.
The sound Edwin lets out as he pulls a notebook out of his pocket could only be described as utter delight, fascination, a prayer finally answered.
“Dear God, I have not been out of that tower for as long as I can remember,” Edwin says. He's smiling from ear to ear, now, all teeth, all radiant joy, and it is the brightest thing that Charles has ever seen, especially as Edwin turns his head and-
And giddily kisses Charles’ cheek.
God, Charles has kissed a maiden of many a gender before, has even had a stranger's hand or two down his pants, but nothing compares to this. To Edwin, of rigid posture and tucked away smiles and scholarly fervor and steadfast loyalty.
But then Edwin frowns and looks back up at the window. “Monty!” He calls, “Will you not follow us? I am sure you can see so many more stars from down here!”
Charles looks up. Monty's head is poking out of the window of the tower, past where the ward once was, but he's not following them out.
At first, Charles doesn't understand why. Monty might not have opposable thumbs, but he can fly. He has wings. So why doesn't he just take a leap?
But then Charles thinks about his own father. About being in a basement and reaching for the sun. About how terrifying it was to actually reach out and grasp life for yourself.
About how bravery is not a warm feeling, but a desperate, choking one. About how survival sometimes feels so much like dying.
And so Charles reaches a hand up. “The only way you're getting away from that witch is if you come with us. The only way you can live, not just exist, is if you take a plunge. And it's scary, absolutely fucking terrifying, I know. I nearly shit bricks when I left my father's farm. But it's what I had to do in order to survive. C'mon, mate. You can do it.”
Out of the corner of Charles’ eyes, he can see Edwin looking at him with nothing but gratefulness and something that might even be called faith in his expression- though he does look up, gasping in awe, as Monty’s wings emerge and unfurl from the window, majestic in a way that they couldn’t possibly dream of when cooped up inside of the tower.
Monty flies awkwardly down in a wobbly arc more akin to a bird falling out of a nest than a hawk swooping for its prey. Charles’ breath actually catches in his throat, refusing to fill his lungs, until Monty lands with as much grace as Edwin did, legs scrambling beneath him, wings flapping haphazardly.
But once he's fully on the ground, Edwin runs up to him and wraps his arms around Monty's neck.
“Look at us both,” Edwin says, nuzzling into Monty's neck, “We're both free.”
“You both have plenty of time to learn how to fly,” Charles says with a nod, “And we have forever to figure out the rest.”
Monty lets out the most contented sound in the world, an almost purr, and Edwin kisses Monty's snout-
And then a cloud of glittering purple rolls into the clearing, the grass around the edges of the tower’s clearing decaying and falling into fungi as a golden-haired woman steps out of the edge of the forest, draped in a cloak of snakeskin, with netted stockings, golden skirts, and an olive blouse, a curved silver cane in hand.
“Look at you two and your little pet," the witch- Esther, this must be- says with a snarl as she gestures to Edwin with her cane. “I don’t care how I continue draining money from your father’s coffers. Whether I spell you into slumber for the next hundred years, I take you and hide you in the Northern Ice Wastes, or you get back up in the tower and I kill your new little friend, it's honestly TBD."
Charles hefts his sword. "You want either of them, you're going to have to get through me."
Esther rolls her eyes and lifts her hands. Her eyes glow gold as her fingers spark with purple fire, far more powerful than Edwin's green magic, but Edwin's not playing on his own.
Monty lets out a jet of fire. The smoke from his fire fills the clearing, mixing with the purple cloud and creating very little visibility.
Charles can hear Esther shout, "Monty, you little shit, howdareyou get all emotional and attached? You were supposed to stick to the plan! I am going to rip your heart from your chest once I get to you-"
But she's not going to get to him.
Charles is the one with the sword and the training- he knows how to use a distraction. So while Edwin says, “You are never getting Monty or I back up in that tower,” his voice echoing in the smog as a distraction, Charles spins around in the cloud to get behind Esther.
Esther shouts, "You, your fucking Highness, are going to be cleaning up all of this mess once I kill both your little friends-" but she doesn't get to finish her threat, because Charles' sword, enchanted by Edwin's magic and dragonfire, stabs into her back.
As Esther falls to the ground, her body burning and shriveling in on itself until only her clothes remain, purple light explodes from the middle of the smog. In the light, Charles can see the silhouette of a dragon falling into something far, far smaller.
Ash begins to settle in a fine layer across Charles and the now-exposed Edwin, turning Edwin's bright white tunic and Charles' own faded red tunic dingier gray, but the ash isn't what catches Charles' attention.
No, the cloud begins to dissipate, sucked away by some almost supernatural source of wind, revealing-
A naked boy. The boy is shorter than Edwin or Charles, dark-haired and pale-skinned, but even if it weren't for the patches of dark scales randomly scattered across his skin, his wide, warm brown eyes would give it away.
“Monty?” Edwin asks, hope creaking in his voice.
“Well, that's super,” the boy says, unexpectedly snarky, “I can't breathe fire anymore, can I-?”
But then he hiccups and in a moment he flashes back into dragon form, blinks twice, and then the dragon hiccups and the boy remains in his place, albeit still with the patches of scales.
“Okay, then,” Monty says- for this has to be Monty, “That's gonna take a bit to work out. Dragon and boy.” Something pokes at the inside of his cheeks- probably his tongue- and then he says, “Huh. New teeth. That’ll take a second to get used to.”
“When Charles killed Esther," Edwin says, "Either the magical backlash went into the nearest magical source it could find, or you have been cursed longer than either of us can remember and her death broke the curse. Either way, the magic did not conduct itself entirely, leaving you shifting between both forms.”
“That’s Edwin for you,” Monty says, nothing but fondness in his voice, “Always with the smartest theories.” Then Monty grins at Charles, completely unashamed of his nudity. “And I guess you're the hero, then? Saving the day and all that.”
Edwin's gaze is travelling up and down Monty’s body, lingering at various points, unabashedly intrigued just as he was when Charles was stripped down to his undershirt, and Monty is no more embarassed by his stare and the way it tarries as it sweeps across both Charles and Edwin alike.
It seems that for all of their imprisonment, neither Edwin nor Monty learned the social mores of modesty. And Charles isn't exactly keen to teach them the rules of shame and decorum- leave that for someone else.
But Charles does want to help Monty protect that which is no longer protected by scale. He could catch cold or easily wound himself without a layer or two against his flesh- the day might be a bit warm now, but the night will chill, and with it bring shivers.
So Charles goes into his backpack to pull out his spare tunic, trousers, and a small length of narrow rope so that Monty can secure the trousers over his skinny hips.
“We can get you clothes that fit better at the next village,” Charles says as he offers up the clothes to Monty. “But for now, this is all I have.”
Monty’s head tilts to the side in askance, cocking like he still has a dragon’s neck. “I've never worn those. Dragon, remember?”
“It is rather easy, once you get the hang of it,” Edwin says, and rather perfunctorily helps Monty into the trousers, though Monty seems to mostly figure out the tunic on his own.
Then, once Monty feeds the rope belt through the loops on the trousers and Charles helps him knot the rope in place, Edwin flings his arms around Monty and spins him around. Monty shrieks in laughter, this low, gravelly sound that sounds like it could still be echoing through a dragon’s throat and yet is still pure delight, utterly unadulterated by any expectation of what it is to be human.
Then, as the two of them settle back down again, Charles looks between them. “Do you two want to go to the castle, or…?”
“I have not been a prince since I was a babe,” Edwin says, “I do not cherish the idea of being locked behind walls again-” He swallows, posture going ramrod straight. “For matters of practicality- is someone there to rule the kingdom so that it doesn’t fall into a power vaccuum?”
It says something about Edwin, Charles thinks, that he cares enough to make sure that a kingdom he has never lived in and carries no allegiance to save his bloodline is taken care of.
Charles nods. “You have an adopted sister, Crystal, who is set to take the throne.”
Edwin’s posture instantly relaxes as if the weight of the world has been dropped from his shoulders. “I would love to meet her, someday,” Edwin says, “But for now…” He reaches out and takes both Monty and Charles’ hands in his. “Can the three of us fly a bit, first?”
Monty smiles, this sharp thing. “I have spent my whole life trapped. In the dark, it was hard not being able to make my own choices. No matter how scary it might be, flying free sounds like so much better than that could ever be.”
But then Edwin's expression thins as he lets go of both of their hands, turning to Charles. “Unless you want your reward for my rescue, Sir Knight? I do not wish to keep you from your due.”
But Charles just slings his arms across both Monty and Edwin's shoulders. Both of them startle, but neither of them pull away. If anything, they lean slightly in. “You think I'm going to leave you two? You're stuck with me.”
Edwin’s smile returns, bright as the North Star, and Monty’s smile is just as bright, if more crooked, burning brilliant as the sun. “I do suppose that would not be the worst fate in the world,” Edwin says.
Charles lets go so that he can reach down to grab the lantern he abandoned here when he first made his climb up the tower in the morning. The sun is beginning to set against the horizon, painting the world gold and pink, gilding both Monty and Edwin's dark hair and bright eyes with natural crowns. "A couple of miles this way is the nearest town. I'm sure between your magic, a dragon's fire, and my own ability to work as either a farmhand or a knight, we can make plenty of coin to survive a long, long adventure before we ever head back to meet your sister." Charles smiles at them both. "And like I said: we have forever to figure the rest out."
I'm looking up, for a way to bring you home
'Cause I'm lost without you
Your eyes, at first light
Now I know that's wonderful
Your heartbeat, like wildfire
I'm in as far as one can fall
-Dustin Tebutt, First Light