![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saint_veeTitle: put on your red shoes
Pairing(s): Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: minor violence
Word count: 12k
Summary: Brendon wished Spencer had just fallen into his arms, or at least he would have if David Bowie had existed in this fairy tale. A retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
provetheworst for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bandomstuffsit. Huge thanks to intrepidcat for the beta and handholding.
***
Brendon was in trouble again.
He didn't mean to be. He had been trying, he really had. Even though it was summer and the oppressive heat was making him long to play his pipes in the cool shade by the river, he'd agreed to work as a clerk for his father. Everyone in town may have dismissed him as the youngest of his too-large family, but he could be just as respectable as the rest of them. It was just that, as he'd been copying out contracts in his very neatest copperplate hand that morning, his mind had drifted to the birdsong wafting in the window on a teasingly cool breeze and he'd been struck with inspiration. He hadn't meant to write out the notation on the deed of sale for Mr. White's farm, hadn't even known he was writing it down at all.
"Brendon. Brendon! Are you even listening to me?"
Brendon quickly glanced up at his father. "Yes, father," he said.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself? Brendon, you promised you'd try to focus and work hard if I gave you the clerk's position, but today you ruined hours of work with your daydreaming!" his father said.
Brendon couldn't meet his father's eyes, and his stomach ached with the weight of his disappointment. He hated this. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again," he said. His father just sighed, a giant, heaving sigh full of all the admonishments left undelivered. He didn't need to say them--Brendon knew them all by heart. He always seemed to let his family down.
***
There would be no inheritance waiting for when Brendon reached his majority. It had all been parceled out to his elder brothers before he was born, with some set aside for his sisters' dowries. But Brendon didn't care that he'd need to make his own way in the world; all he wanted was the opportunity to learn and perform music, whether it was the symphonies he read about in the newspaper and longed to hear or the bawdy songs the minstrels brought to town. He figured he could do that even if he didn't have any land or money from his parents, although money would certainly have made it easier. All he wanted from his parents was their blessing.
When Brendon was younger, his father hadn't seemed to care that he would run off to see the minstrels as soon as he caught a glimpse of their motley colors. But lately--ever since he'd made the mistake of saying he'd like to travel with one of the troupes some day--Brendon had been forbidden to go see them; and his father scowled whenever he saw Brendon piping a tune or humming anything that didn't appear in one of the church's two meager hymnals. His father wanted him to learn a respectable trade, get married young, and settle nearby. He'd never allow Brendon to become a musician.
***
That night, he stared at his darkened ceiling and waited to fall asleep. It wasn't the weather keeping him up. The days had been stifling, but the nights were still cool and breezy. He just couldn't stop thinking; about a song he'd written the other day, about a review of the Royal Orchestra he'd read in the paper, about the tasks he needed to complete the next day. But his thoughts always circled back to his future. He wanted to be a musician; his parents would never allow him to do so. He kept trying to come up with some sort of compromise, a way to make his family proud and still stay true to himself. He couldn't see a way through the tangles. Brendon shifted restlessly, disgusted with himself. He let his eyes drop shut and eventually drifted off to sleep some hazy time after the watchman called the twelfth hour.
He dreamt.
He was in the middle of a forest, under the grandest oak tree he'd ever seen. Its boughs snarled and wove, bending so low that they almost touched the ground. The leaves moved, but he couldn't feel any wind. It was silent--no squirrels chattering away, no mysterious rustling in the brush, no birds singing. Only stillness, and Brendon's breath to break it.
At first, it was so quiet he didn't hear it. It wound together with the movement of the leaves and the dappling of the sun through the tree branches. But then it was everywhere, overwhelming: the most beautiful song he'd ever heard. Brendon spun in a circle, trying to spot the source.
"Hey!" someone called from behind his back, and Brendon almost tripped, he turned around so fast. There was a man sitting on the lowest bough of the nearest tree.
He hadn't been there earlier. Brendon would have noticed.
The stranger was wearing trousers that were shamefully tight and looked to be cloth-of-gold with a vest made entirely of flowers. He wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Brendon tried not to stare, but his arms were so long, and skinny, and pale. He'd never before seen their like. And then there were the scarves, which were so numerous they almost made up for the lack of a shirt. He wore at least four, all in fabrics too fine for Brendon to name. His fingers itched to touch them, to see if they were as soft and smooth as they looked, but he didn't dare.
"You know, in most societies it's considered rude to stare. Were you raised by wolves? That might explain it--no, wait, wolves stare as a means of asserting dominance. So you must have been dropped on your head as a child, then," the man said.
Brendon stared at him, shocked silent by the blatant rudeness.
"Um," he managed to reply, and immediately felt the blush rise to his cheeks as he berated himself for sounding like the yokel the stranger thought he was. He tried again. "You're in my dream."
"Am I? I hadn't noticed," the man drawled. "You must be Brendon Urie."
"I am," Brendon said. "Who are you?"
"I," he said, jumping down from his perch and inclining his head in the barest hint of a bow, "am Ryan Ross."
"Pleased to meet you," Brendon said automatically. "But, um. Why are you here? My dreams are never like this."
Ryan smiled. It made him look like a little boy who had been given an unexpected sweet. "Go to the city, and there you shall marry a prince," he said, and disappeared.
Brendon stared at the place he'd been standing. The leaves were undisturbed.
"But I don't want to marry a prince," he said plaintively. There was no one there to hear him.
***
Breakfast in the Urie household was not an informal affair. Brendon had always been taught that sloth was a sin, and sleeping past sunrise was not tolerated. The entire family was expected to meet downstairs for breakfast groomed and prepared for the day. The night after Brendon dreamed about Ryan Ross was no exception.
He would never have brought the dream up if it hadn't been so silent. Brendon couldn't abide by silence, especially not the stiff, awkward kind that so often occurred at home. It drove him crazy--or, in this case, to say silly, frivolous things which would only get him scolded.
"I had a very strange dream last night," he started. His mother looked up from her plate.
"Oh? What was it about?" she asked.
"Well, I was in a forest, and this weirdly dressed man appeared out of nowhere. At first he was rude, but then he got all cryptic and said that if I went to the city I'd marry the prince. And then he just disappeared," Brendon said.
His father and mother exchanged a glance. "Brendon, I wish you wouldn't come up with tales like that," his mother said.
"Mom, it was just a weird dream," Brendon protested, "I don't think I'm destined to marry some rich guy or anything. I'm ready to work hard for what I want. In fact, I saw an advertisement asking for someone to play at a wedding at the market the other day, and I thought I'd apply."
"Music is not an acceptable career, Brendon. We've been over this," his father said. "Now finish your breakfast so we can start today's work."
***
On Thursday Brendon was sent to the market to buy a ham for dinner. The market was bustling with noontime traffic, but even taking that into account there was an abnormally large crowd around the fountain. Instead of heading straight to the butcher, Brendon stopped where he was and craned his head to try and see what was going on. Then he heard the opening bars of a song, and the first rolling chords of guitar reeled him in until he'd edged far enough through the crowd to see a brightly-painted wagon. The minstrels were back.
He'd need to get closer if he wanted to learn the song. He kept pushing forward until he was at the front of the crowd and could see how the guitarist fingered the chords. He'd need to write it out when he got home so he wouldn't forget before he had a chance to try it out.
He stayed for the rest of the set and almost forgot about the ham.
***
Dinner that night was painful. His father had obviously heard something about the market--and just how, Brendon would love to know. His jaw hardly unclenched enough to eat, and he wouldn't look at Brendon. His mother tried to make up for it, sending strained smiles all around the table as she chattered about the county's recent marriages and births. Brendon's head ached. He stared at his plate, watching the little blue people his eldest sister had painted on the stoneware appear and disappear as he pushed his food around with the back of his fork. He wished she was there--Mary had always tolerated him, even when he got too excited about chords and arrangements--but she'd married Peter Randall last spring and moved into his family's home in Baron's Glen.
"Brendon. Go wait in the parlor if you're done with your dinner. We need to speak," his father said gruffly, interrupting Brendon's daydreaming.
Brendon looked at his plate for a moment as he considered his headache. He wasn't very hungry. "Yes, sir," he said. He hoped his father would finish soon. All of the chairs in the parlor were uncomfortable.
***
He had been sitting in the parlor for almost an hour by the time his father came in. He had heard his parents arguing after he left, but hadn't been able to make out exactly what they were fighting over.
His father looked...strange. It was normally easy for Brendon to read his mood, but his face was blank and closed off now. Brendon rubbed at his temples. This wasn't going to go well.
"Brendon," his father started. "Your mother and I have been talking, and. Well, Brendon, we just don't know what to do anymore." Brendon stared at the floorboards. The one by his right foot was cracked, and the crack looked like a fairy's smile. Crooked but big. If he could just focus on the smile the scolding would pass faster.
"I've tried to give you chances, I really have. If you just applied yourself more, Brendon, I'm sure Thomas would hire you. If you would just concentrate. But all you seem to care about is that music of yours."
"I try, father, I really do. It's just that--" Brendon started. His father just talked over him.
"And that wedding advertisement! Brendon, music isn't a career fit for someone of your station. You'd be much better off if you just settled down. But we're too lax with you, we always have been. We never should have let you hang around those minstrels. They've clearly been a bad influence," his father continued. "We're sending you to the Bishop at Middleden to become a vicar. Maybe then you'll finally drag your head your head out of the clouds and do this family credit."
Brendon sat in shock. They were sending him away? He struggled to maintain his composure--his father hated emotional scenes, and the last thing Brendon wanted to do was make this worse. "Who will serve as your clerk?" he asked, grasping for something to let him stay.
"That is really the least of my worries," his father said dryly. "The Bishop said he'd send someone to pick you up next Thursday. You have until then to say goodbye to your friends and pack your things."
Brendon didn't have any friends in Summerlin--he'd thought his father knew that. "What about my instruments? May I take those?" he asked.
"You won't need them. The Bishop has plenty of hymnals, and that's the only music you'll need to worry about," his father said.
Only hymns. No more minstrels, no more bawdy songs sung by the blacksmith as he worked. No more piping by the river. Brendon's chest felt strange, pulled tight and hollow like a drum head.
"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"
"Yes. Brendon--" his father paused. "You know we only want what's best for you."
"I do, father. I think...I'm going to go pack now."
His father watched him go in silence.
***
Brendon decided he would leave that night as he stood by his window staring out into the dark. He would never be able to just sit and play again if he went into the clergy. He couldn't live like that. He'd go to the city and seek his fortune there. If he could just get a job and save up for a guitar...with a proper instrument he'd be able to perform and make a name for himself. And maybe he could find a teacher there, learn new songs and techniques. As he drifted into sleep his mind raced with plans for the next morning. How could he possibly explain to his parents?
***
He dreamt of the oak clearing again. This time, Ryan Ross was seated at the base of the trunk, legs folded beneath him. He appeared to be sleeping.
Brendon approached cautiously. No one who wore vests made of flowers could be entirely safe.
"I hope you aren't trying to sneak up on me," Ryan said without opening his eyes. If Brendon had been, he's certainly failed now. He's sure his shout of surprise would have cleared the area of birds, had there been any birds to begin with.
"I wasn't. Why am I dreaming of you again?"
"I told you. Go to the city, and there you shall marry a prince," Ryan replied.
"Yes, I know. But you left before I could tell you--I don't really want to marry a prince. Marrying a prince would mean papers and politics. I've had enough of papers, and I don't have the slightest clue about politics. I just want to play music," he said.
Ryan sighed and opened his eyes. "And what makes you think those things are mutually exclusive?" he asked.
"What makes you think I can attract a prince?" Brendon said, "or even that I would want to?" Ryan just looked at him. "Or, fine, OK, say I go to the city. How am I supposed to even meet the prince? I think you're crazy. And a figment of my imagination. This is just a weird dream, that's all."
Ryan scoffed. "Sure, OK. Just stay here forever and watch all your dreams turn to ash with time. Never see the orchestra, or a court ball, never learn how to play anything other than hymns and country songs. Never fall in love. Suit yourself, but I wash my hands of you." He shook his head in disgust. "You just can't help some people," he muttered, and turned away.
His words stung, and Brendon wanted to prove him wrong, prove that he wasn't hopeless. "Wait!" he called. "Just--wait. I'm leaving, tomorrow. Going to the city. I just...I don't want to marry someone just because they're rich, or important, or because some crazy person in a dream tells me to. I'm leaving, but not for that. For music. But I am leaving."
Ryan turned back around and smiled. "I guess that's good enough for now. Safe journey."
Brendon blinked, and Ryan was gone.
***
Brendon woke with a start the next morning. The sun was shining on his face, which meant he'd missed breakfast. He dressed in a rush and grabbed his bag. He needed to catch his father before he left for work. He couldn't stay, and he knew he'd always be a disappointment to them, but he wanted to at least say goodbye.
He made it just in time. His father was standing by the door talking to his mother as he rushed down the stairs.
"Brendon, don't run down the stairs! I swear, some day you'll trip and kill yourself," his mother said.
"Sorry, mother," he said automatically, reaching the bottom of the staircase. "Um. I need to talk to you both."
"Brendon, if this is about Middleden, our decision is final," his father said.
"Well, yes, it is about Middleden. I don't want to be a vicar. I would be a horrible vicar, father, and you know it. I just want to play music. It's all I've ever wanted," he said.
"Brendon, we've been over this. The Bishop has been very kind to consider you--you're much younger than the students he usually takes," his father said.
"Father," Brendon said. "I'm not going. I can't, father. So I'm going to the city," he said, and ignored his mother's gasp. "I'm going to become a musician, and you won't have to worry about what everyone thinks. I love you," he said, "and I'll write. Goodbye."
He turned to his mother and hugged her. She stayed stiff in his embrace, and after a moment he reluctantly let go. Brendon nodded at his father. "Goodbye, father," he said. His father didn't return the gesture. Brendon took a deep breath and stepped past them and out the door.
The sun was too bright. He found himself blinking back tears in its glare as he walked toward the city.
Life there would be amazing, he told himself. He would be able to perform whenever he wanted, whatever he wanted. He clung to that as he walked out of Summerlin proper, and out through the fields. Soon enough he was farther from home than he'd ever been. He kept walking.
***
It wasn't a beautiful day, but it was fine enough for his journey. The sun was hidden behind the clouds more often than not, but he wasn't cold, and it wasn't raining. Brendon decided to count his blessings and enjoy the trip. He passed farmers and families, people old and young. A merchant let him ride part of the way in his cart, and Brendon repaid him by singing to pass the time. When they parted ways the merchant said he'd do well in the city if he always sang like that. Brendon thanked him and waved before continuing on his way.
As he drew closer to the city, the road grew both wider and more crowded. Soon Brendon was just one person in a steady stream of people. No one here knew him or anything about his life in Summerlin. He could have a fresh start. The pall that had been hanging over his mood since he'd left that morning started to lift.
***
Brendon heard music moments after he passed through the city gates, which seemed like a good omen. It was a fast, jaunty tune, the sort meant for dancing. The sort he had never have been able to play back home. His feet did a little jig entirely without his permission--dancing! in public!--and after that it seemed a small thing to follow the tune to its source. He found himself outside of a drinking establishment with a sign proclaiming it the Harp and Horn and hesitated. His father had once threatened to beat him if he ever heard that Brendon had been in the pub at home, and his father was not a violent man. Brendon just wanted to hear the music, though, and surely music couldn't do him any harm. He just needed to stay away from the drink and bad influences, and everything would be fine.
When Brendon opened the door of the pub he was confronted with a veritable wall of noise. There was the music, yes, but also the clamor of dancing, and people talking loudly and shouting at each other. The room seemed filled to overflowing with people. Brendon scanned the crowd for the musician and found him set up in front of the hearth, near the area cleared for dancing. He spotted an open spot at a bench near the guitarist, where he could probably see well enough to learn the song, and hurried toward it. Maybe he could talk to the guitarist between songs, ask if there was any place an aspiring musician could go for work.
Brendon sat and reveled in the music. He was so engrossed in following the guitarist's hands as they moved along the strings that he didn't notice the man sitting beside him until he had swung an arm over Brendon's shoulder. Brendon turned to him, about to tell him off for his familiarity, but the stranger's grin stopped him. There was something manic about his smile, and Brendon was confronted with the realization that he was not in quiet little Summerlin anymore. He cleared his throat.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Why, I was just wondering what a beautiful boy like yourself was doing all alone in a place like this," the man said, teeth still bared in a smile that made Brendon think of rabid dogs. "And some of us were wondering why you were staring at our friend Patrick over there. I felt it only kind to warn you that although he may look soft, he has the meanest kick outside of his majesty's stables."
Brendon stared at him, taken aback. "I'm just here for the music," he said. "He's really good, and I haven't heard this song before. I was hoping to learn it."
The man laughed at him, a hoarse guffaw that made Brendon flush with embarrassment. "You haven't heard this one before? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously," Brendon said. "I just got here today. Where I'm from...well, we really only have hymns. And this is definitely not a hymn."
"You're right about that. You're from out of town?" The man looked Brendon up and down. "Are you a farmer? You should come work for me, I need an assistant."
Brendon was a little baffled by the sudden change of attitude and subject. "I'm not a farmer," he said. "Also, I don't even know your name. And you don't know mine."
"But you've lived around farms, right? You're not from the city. You said you just got here. I'm Pete," the man said. "Who're you? Tell me your name, and then we'll be acquaintances."
"I'm Brendon. My father's a lawyer, I've only ever lived in a town. I've never farmed anything in my life," Brendon said. It seemed important to be clear.
Pete nodded. "So I was right, you're not from the city. Great! Like I said, I need an assistant. I'm a gardener," he said, as though that explained everything. "I'm head gardener, actually, at the palace, and you like music, and you aren't from the city. You'll fit right in. Say yes."
Brendon wondered if this was what his parents had meant when they warned him about the crazy people who lived in the city. Pete was obviously touched in the head. On the other hand, he hadn't expected to get work so quickly, and Pete had mentioned music. He took the bait.
"What does music have to do with gardening?" he asked.
"Well, for one," Pete said, "it makes the plants happier. But more importantly for you, Patrick is the head cook. He also likes to indulge me, and I like you. He'd totally teach you some new songs if I asked nicely."
"And will you?" Brendon asked. Pete grinned.
"Of course. Do you want the job?"
Brendon hesitated and looked at Patrick again. He was wholly absorbed in the song, bobbing his head in time with the music. Brendon looked back at Pete. "Yes," he said with determination, "yes, I do."
***
They stayed at the pub until Patrick had finished three sets of dancing. Pete had confided to Brendon that Patrick loved to perform, but could only play here once a week. His job at the castle kept him too busy otherwise--as head cook he often worked from pre-dawn to late in the night.
Pete introduced them after Patrick finished. "Patrick, this is Brendon. He was a farmer, but now he's my new assistant."
Patrick glanced at Brendon's clothing. He waited until Pete was a few feet in front of them before turning back to him and saying, "You're not actually a farmer, are you?"
"No, not in the slightest. My father's the town lawyer," Brendon said, and shrugged. "I told him that, but..."
"He just wouldn't listen to you?" Patrick finished. "That's very like Pete. Have you ever taken care of a plant before?"
"I helped my mother in the garden a few times," Brendon said uncertainly. "None of the plants I cared for died. I don't think."
Patrick smiled grimly. "That will have to be good enough. Once he's decided he wants something, it's impossible to change his mind, and he's decided he wants you to be his assistant." Patrick sped up enough that he was walking beside Pete, and Brendon spent the rest of the walk to the palace thinking that if everyone in the city was like Patrick and Pete, it was no wonder people back home thought it was a horrible place. They refused to abide by any of the social rules Brendon had been raised with.
He was pretty sure they would make amazing friends.
***
Pete gave him dinner, a uniform, and a room, and sent him to bed with instructions to be awake and prepared to work at dawn tomorrow. The rest of the night passed all too fast, and then Brendon was waiting for Pete to show up and instruct him in his new duties.
His stomach growled as he waited and he looked down in surprise. It was earlier than he normally woke up, and there was no call for him to be so hungry already. Pete appeared just as it growled again, more loudly this time, and laughed at him. When Brendon just looked at him in dismay he laughed again.
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it," he said. "Come on, I'll get you some breakfast and then we can start."
Brendon followed Pete through the maze of hallways and worried about how he would find his way back to his room. "How often do people get lost in here, do you think?" he asked.
"Oh, once or twice a week, I'd say," said Pete. "But don't you worry about that. We mostly work outside, all you really need to know in here is the kitchen and your room. You can enter the gardens through the kitchen, even, so you don't have to worry about finding another exit."
Brendon wasn't sure how he felt about not knowing his way around his own home, but he'd already learned it was a wasted effort to say so to Pete.
"And what about the music? You promised me music lessons," he said.
"I am personally amazed you can think about that this early. We haven't even had breakfast yet, seriously. You and Patrick and your one-track minds," Pete said. "We meet about once a week to just play and relax. That will be in the kitchen. Anything else you'll need to work out with Patrick."
By then they had reached the kitchen doors. "Prepare yourself," Pete said before flinging the doors open. The kitchen was a madhouse, with people rushing about everywhere at once. Brendon would have paused in the doorway but Pete just kept going, and he hurried to keep up. He certainly had no idea what was going on.
"We eat three times a day. Breakfast in here, lunch in the garden, dinner in the servant's hall. You'll get used to it. Hey, Alex!" he said, grabbing a boy who was rushing past. "What do you have for me today?"
"Morning, Pete, but I really need to go flip the bacon. Ask someone else!" the boy said before jerking away and running to a stove. Pete did just that, hailing someone with the curliest hair Brendon had ever seen. He seemed marginally less busy than Alex had been.
"Alex!" he said, and turned to Brendon. "This is Alex, too. Alex, Brendon. He's my new assistant. What's for breakfast?" he asked.
"Pleasure to meet you," Alex said to Brendon. "We've got bacon and eggs and biscuits and tomatoes, and coffee if you're willing to fight Gerard for it. And oats."
"There are always oats, I hate oats. And Gerard needs to learn how to share," Pete said petulantly. "We'll have some of everything, and extra for Brendon. He's a growing boy, and has no doubt endured starvation in his hard country childhood."
"My father was a lawyer. We had plenty of bacon and biscuits," Brendon told Alex. Alex nodded sympathetically and dashed off. Brendon hoped he was going to get them food. His stomach loudly agreed.
***
After breakfast--"Pete, seriously, I'm not a farmer"--they went out to the gardens.
"It's pretty simple, really," Pete said. "We plant, prune, and water, and hope nothing dies. We don't touch the kitchen gardens, Patrick has people for that. We are strictly ornamental," he said, and leered at Brendon. Brendon just rolled his eyes. He was getting used to Pete.
"First up, we have the roses. Roses are persnickety fucks, but that's OK, because I'm a stubborn myself. We have come to a sort of agreement. They don't get sick, and I don't try to make them bloom out of season. It works very well for us."
Brendon knew gardening would be a long, hard day of work, but it was already far more interesting than copying legal documents.
***
Brendon had been at the palace for a week when he first heard the story. It probably would have been longer, because people didn't seem to like to talk about it, but he overheard two of the manservants on his way to the kitchen. He recognized one of them--Pete had pointed him out as a horrible gossip. Brendon was pretty sure his name was Stephen.
"They say he goes through a pair a night. Can you believe that? Each pair must cost more than I make in a year, and he's going through one a night. They say no one knows how it happens, either. The shoes are pristine when he goes to bed and all torn up in the morning. The king tried locking him in and placing a guard, but it's no use. And no one hears anything going on in the room, and the guard swears he was there all night. It's seriously freaky--like we've got our own ghost story!" Stephen said.
"Yeah, except it's the prince. I don't think he should be involved in ghost stories if he's going to inherit. And what if it's a demon, or if he's cursed? We'll all be in trouble then," said the other one.
Brendon kept walking, and resolved to ask Pete about it later.
***
He was in the oak clearing again, and he sort of wondered why. He'd gone to the city, he'd gone to the palace. He's learning new songs and new instruments, and, most importantly, there had been no sign of the prince. Brendon is glad for that. He still didn't want to marry some stranger for his money. He looked around for Ryan. If he was here to receive more cryptic messages, he at least wanted to get it over with. He had to get up earlier as a gardener than he ever had at home, and these dreams were never restful.
He spotted Ryan over to the side of the clearing this time, his back to Brendon.
"What now?" he demanded. Ryan ignored him and continued inspecting the bush he was standing beside.
Brendon stalked over to him. "Seriously, if you could just tell me what's going on so I can leave, that would be great," he said, stopping beside him.
"Do you know what sort of plant this is? Since you're a gardener and all," Ryan asked.
Brendon barely glanced at the bush before he said, "No, I have no clue. What is this about, Ryan? I already told you I didn't want to marry the prince. I haven't even seen him, anyway, and I've been here at the palace for weeks."
"It's a mountain laurel. They're not actually laurels, but they have really pretty flowers," Ryan said. "And that one?" he asked, pointing to a plant behind the mountain laurel. It looked pretty much the same to Brendon. The leaves were maybe a little thinner, a little longer. He sighed--it was obvious that Ryan wouldn't tell him why he was there unless he played along.
"I have no clue. What is it?" he said.
"It's oleander--you know, rose laurel?" Ryan said. Brendon just raised his eyebrows. "Fine, you're the most clueless gardener ever to garden, I get it. Well, rose laurel's not really a laurel either," Ryan said.
He suddenly had hold of two smaller versions of the bushes. "Take these," he said, shoving them at Brendon, who mostly just grabbed them so they wouldn't fall and break.
"OK, good. Plant those in two pots in the garden, OK? And then take these," and he produced a bunch of gardening tools and waved them at Brendon, "and you need to use the rake and the bucket and the towel only on the laurels. When they're as tall as you are you need to say 'Beautiful laurel, with this golden rake I have raked you, with this golden bucket I have watered you, and with this silken towel I have wiped you,' and then ask for anything you want, and the laurels will give it to you."
"I thought you said they weren't really laurels," Brendon said. Ryan glared at him.
"It's magic. It doesn't matter if they're actually laurels, only that they're perceived as laurels," he said.
Brendon shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I still don't get why I'm here. I don't really need magic plants to be a musician."
"Just take them!" Ryan said. Brendon did, and Ryan once again disappeared.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," Brendon muttered. It was the last thing he remembered before he woke up.
***
When Brendon saw the laurels at the foot of his bed, he just groaned and pulled the pillow over his face. Why couldn't the crazy fairy man just leave him alone? He finally had the chance to play whatever music he wanted, whenever he wanted. He did not need this magic stuff messing with that. He let himself wallow in self-pity for five minutes before dragging himself out of bed and the laurels down to the garden. He couldn't just leave them to die.
Part Two
Pairing(s): Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: minor violence
Word count: 12k
Summary: Brendon wished Spencer had just fallen into his arms, or at least he would have if David Bowie had existed in this fairy tale. A retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Written for
provetheworst for bandomstuffsit. Huge thanks to intrepidcat for the beta and handholding.Brendon was in trouble again.
He didn't mean to be. He had been trying, he really had. Even though it was summer and the oppressive heat was making him long to play his pipes in the cool shade by the river, he'd agreed to work as a clerk for his father. Everyone in town may have dismissed him as the youngest of his too-large family, but he could be just as respectable as the rest of them. It was just that, as he'd been copying out contracts in his very neatest copperplate hand that morning, his mind had drifted to the birdsong wafting in the window on a teasingly cool breeze and he'd been struck with inspiration. He hadn't meant to write out the notation on the deed of sale for Mr. White's farm, hadn't even known he was writing it down at all.
"Brendon. Brendon! Are you even listening to me?"
Brendon quickly glanced up at his father. "Yes, father," he said.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself? Brendon, you promised you'd try to focus and work hard if I gave you the clerk's position, but today you ruined hours of work with your daydreaming!" his father said.
Brendon couldn't meet his father's eyes, and his stomach ached with the weight of his disappointment. He hated this. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again," he said. His father just sighed, a giant, heaving sigh full of all the admonishments left undelivered. He didn't need to say them--Brendon knew them all by heart. He always seemed to let his family down.
There would be no inheritance waiting for when Brendon reached his majority. It had all been parceled out to his elder brothers before he was born, with some set aside for his sisters' dowries. But Brendon didn't care that he'd need to make his own way in the world; all he wanted was the opportunity to learn and perform music, whether it was the symphonies he read about in the newspaper and longed to hear or the bawdy songs the minstrels brought to town. He figured he could do that even if he didn't have any land or money from his parents, although money would certainly have made it easier. All he wanted from his parents was their blessing.
When Brendon was younger, his father hadn't seemed to care that he would run off to see the minstrels as soon as he caught a glimpse of their motley colors. But lately--ever since he'd made the mistake of saying he'd like to travel with one of the troupes some day--Brendon had been forbidden to go see them; and his father scowled whenever he saw Brendon piping a tune or humming anything that didn't appear in one of the church's two meager hymnals. His father wanted him to learn a respectable trade, get married young, and settle nearby. He'd never allow Brendon to become a musician.
That night, he stared at his darkened ceiling and waited to fall asleep. It wasn't the weather keeping him up. The days had been stifling, but the nights were still cool and breezy. He just couldn't stop thinking; about a song he'd written the other day, about a review of the Royal Orchestra he'd read in the paper, about the tasks he needed to complete the next day. But his thoughts always circled back to his future. He wanted to be a musician; his parents would never allow him to do so. He kept trying to come up with some sort of compromise, a way to make his family proud and still stay true to himself. He couldn't see a way through the tangles. Brendon shifted restlessly, disgusted with himself. He let his eyes drop shut and eventually drifted off to sleep some hazy time after the watchman called the twelfth hour.
He dreamt.
He was in the middle of a forest, under the grandest oak tree he'd ever seen. Its boughs snarled and wove, bending so low that they almost touched the ground. The leaves moved, but he couldn't feel any wind. It was silent--no squirrels chattering away, no mysterious rustling in the brush, no birds singing. Only stillness, and Brendon's breath to break it.
At first, it was so quiet he didn't hear it. It wound together with the movement of the leaves and the dappling of the sun through the tree branches. But then it was everywhere, overwhelming: the most beautiful song he'd ever heard. Brendon spun in a circle, trying to spot the source.
"Hey!" someone called from behind his back, and Brendon almost tripped, he turned around so fast. There was a man sitting on the lowest bough of the nearest tree.
He hadn't been there earlier. Brendon would have noticed.
The stranger was wearing trousers that were shamefully tight and looked to be cloth-of-gold with a vest made entirely of flowers. He wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Brendon tried not to stare, but his arms were so long, and skinny, and pale. He'd never before seen their like. And then there were the scarves, which were so numerous they almost made up for the lack of a shirt. He wore at least four, all in fabrics too fine for Brendon to name. His fingers itched to touch them, to see if they were as soft and smooth as they looked, but he didn't dare.
"You know, in most societies it's considered rude to stare. Were you raised by wolves? That might explain it--no, wait, wolves stare as a means of asserting dominance. So you must have been dropped on your head as a child, then," the man said.
Brendon stared at him, shocked silent by the blatant rudeness.
"Um," he managed to reply, and immediately felt the blush rise to his cheeks as he berated himself for sounding like the yokel the stranger thought he was. He tried again. "You're in my dream."
"Am I? I hadn't noticed," the man drawled. "You must be Brendon Urie."
"I am," Brendon said. "Who are you?"
"I," he said, jumping down from his perch and inclining his head in the barest hint of a bow, "am Ryan Ross."
"Pleased to meet you," Brendon said automatically. "But, um. Why are you here? My dreams are never like this."
Ryan smiled. It made him look like a little boy who had been given an unexpected sweet. "Go to the city, and there you shall marry a prince," he said, and disappeared.
Brendon stared at the place he'd been standing. The leaves were undisturbed.
"But I don't want to marry a prince," he said plaintively. There was no one there to hear him.
Breakfast in the Urie household was not an informal affair. Brendon had always been taught that sloth was a sin, and sleeping past sunrise was not tolerated. The entire family was expected to meet downstairs for breakfast groomed and prepared for the day. The night after Brendon dreamed about Ryan Ross was no exception.
He would never have brought the dream up if it hadn't been so silent. Brendon couldn't abide by silence, especially not the stiff, awkward kind that so often occurred at home. It drove him crazy--or, in this case, to say silly, frivolous things which would only get him scolded.
"I had a very strange dream last night," he started. His mother looked up from her plate.
"Oh? What was it about?" she asked.
"Well, I was in a forest, and this weirdly dressed man appeared out of nowhere. At first he was rude, but then he got all cryptic and said that if I went to the city I'd marry the prince. And then he just disappeared," Brendon said.
His father and mother exchanged a glance. "Brendon, I wish you wouldn't come up with tales like that," his mother said.
"Mom, it was just a weird dream," Brendon protested, "I don't think I'm destined to marry some rich guy or anything. I'm ready to work hard for what I want. In fact, I saw an advertisement asking for someone to play at a wedding at the market the other day, and I thought I'd apply."
"Music is not an acceptable career, Brendon. We've been over this," his father said. "Now finish your breakfast so we can start today's work."
On Thursday Brendon was sent to the market to buy a ham for dinner. The market was bustling with noontime traffic, but even taking that into account there was an abnormally large crowd around the fountain. Instead of heading straight to the butcher, Brendon stopped where he was and craned his head to try and see what was going on. Then he heard the opening bars of a song, and the first rolling chords of guitar reeled him in until he'd edged far enough through the crowd to see a brightly-painted wagon. The minstrels were back.
He'd need to get closer if he wanted to learn the song. He kept pushing forward until he was at the front of the crowd and could see how the guitarist fingered the chords. He'd need to write it out when he got home so he wouldn't forget before he had a chance to try it out.
He stayed for the rest of the set and almost forgot about the ham.
Dinner that night was painful. His father had obviously heard something about the market--and just how, Brendon would love to know. His jaw hardly unclenched enough to eat, and he wouldn't look at Brendon. His mother tried to make up for it, sending strained smiles all around the table as she chattered about the county's recent marriages and births. Brendon's head ached. He stared at his plate, watching the little blue people his eldest sister had painted on the stoneware appear and disappear as he pushed his food around with the back of his fork. He wished she was there--Mary had always tolerated him, even when he got too excited about chords and arrangements--but she'd married Peter Randall last spring and moved into his family's home in Baron's Glen.
"Brendon. Go wait in the parlor if you're done with your dinner. We need to speak," his father said gruffly, interrupting Brendon's daydreaming.
Brendon looked at his plate for a moment as he considered his headache. He wasn't very hungry. "Yes, sir," he said. He hoped his father would finish soon. All of the chairs in the parlor were uncomfortable.
He had been sitting in the parlor for almost an hour by the time his father came in. He had heard his parents arguing after he left, but hadn't been able to make out exactly what they were fighting over.
His father looked...strange. It was normally easy for Brendon to read his mood, but his face was blank and closed off now. Brendon rubbed at his temples. This wasn't going to go well.
"Brendon," his father started. "Your mother and I have been talking, and. Well, Brendon, we just don't know what to do anymore." Brendon stared at the floorboards. The one by his right foot was cracked, and the crack looked like a fairy's smile. Crooked but big. If he could just focus on the smile the scolding would pass faster.
"I've tried to give you chances, I really have. If you just applied yourself more, Brendon, I'm sure Thomas would hire you. If you would just concentrate. But all you seem to care about is that music of yours."
"I try, father, I really do. It's just that--" Brendon started. His father just talked over him.
"And that wedding advertisement! Brendon, music isn't a career fit for someone of your station. You'd be much better off if you just settled down. But we're too lax with you, we always have been. We never should have let you hang around those minstrels. They've clearly been a bad influence," his father continued. "We're sending you to the Bishop at Middleden to become a vicar. Maybe then you'll finally drag your head your head out of the clouds and do this family credit."
Brendon sat in shock. They were sending him away? He struggled to maintain his composure--his father hated emotional scenes, and the last thing Brendon wanted to do was make this worse. "Who will serve as your clerk?" he asked, grasping for something to let him stay.
"That is really the least of my worries," his father said dryly. "The Bishop said he'd send someone to pick you up next Thursday. You have until then to say goodbye to your friends and pack your things."
Brendon didn't have any friends in Summerlin--he'd thought his father knew that. "What about my instruments? May I take those?" he asked.
"You won't need them. The Bishop has plenty of hymnals, and that's the only music you'll need to worry about," his father said.
Only hymns. No more minstrels, no more bawdy songs sung by the blacksmith as he worked. No more piping by the river. Brendon's chest felt strange, pulled tight and hollow like a drum head.
"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"
"Yes. Brendon--" his father paused. "You know we only want what's best for you."
"I do, father. I think...I'm going to go pack now."
His father watched him go in silence.
Brendon decided he would leave that night as he stood by his window staring out into the dark. He would never be able to just sit and play again if he went into the clergy. He couldn't live like that. He'd go to the city and seek his fortune there. If he could just get a job and save up for a guitar...with a proper instrument he'd be able to perform and make a name for himself. And maybe he could find a teacher there, learn new songs and techniques. As he drifted into sleep his mind raced with plans for the next morning. How could he possibly explain to his parents?
He dreamt of the oak clearing again. This time, Ryan Ross was seated at the base of the trunk, legs folded beneath him. He appeared to be sleeping.
Brendon approached cautiously. No one who wore vests made of flowers could be entirely safe.
"I hope you aren't trying to sneak up on me," Ryan said without opening his eyes. If Brendon had been, he's certainly failed now. He's sure his shout of surprise would have cleared the area of birds, had there been any birds to begin with.
"I wasn't. Why am I dreaming of you again?"
"I told you. Go to the city, and there you shall marry a prince," Ryan replied.
"Yes, I know. But you left before I could tell you--I don't really want to marry a prince. Marrying a prince would mean papers and politics. I've had enough of papers, and I don't have the slightest clue about politics. I just want to play music," he said.
Ryan sighed and opened his eyes. "And what makes you think those things are mutually exclusive?" he asked.
"What makes you think I can attract a prince?" Brendon said, "or even that I would want to?" Ryan just looked at him. "Or, fine, OK, say I go to the city. How am I supposed to even meet the prince? I think you're crazy. And a figment of my imagination. This is just a weird dream, that's all."
Ryan scoffed. "Sure, OK. Just stay here forever and watch all your dreams turn to ash with time. Never see the orchestra, or a court ball, never learn how to play anything other than hymns and country songs. Never fall in love. Suit yourself, but I wash my hands of you." He shook his head in disgust. "You just can't help some people," he muttered, and turned away.
His words stung, and Brendon wanted to prove him wrong, prove that he wasn't hopeless. "Wait!" he called. "Just--wait. I'm leaving, tomorrow. Going to the city. I just...I don't want to marry someone just because they're rich, or important, or because some crazy person in a dream tells me to. I'm leaving, but not for that. For music. But I am leaving."
Ryan turned back around and smiled. "I guess that's good enough for now. Safe journey."
Brendon blinked, and Ryan was gone.
Brendon woke with a start the next morning. The sun was shining on his face, which meant he'd missed breakfast. He dressed in a rush and grabbed his bag. He needed to catch his father before he left for work. He couldn't stay, and he knew he'd always be a disappointment to them, but he wanted to at least say goodbye.
He made it just in time. His father was standing by the door talking to his mother as he rushed down the stairs.
"Brendon, don't run down the stairs! I swear, some day you'll trip and kill yourself," his mother said.
"Sorry, mother," he said automatically, reaching the bottom of the staircase. "Um. I need to talk to you both."
"Brendon, if this is about Middleden, our decision is final," his father said.
"Well, yes, it is about Middleden. I don't want to be a vicar. I would be a horrible vicar, father, and you know it. I just want to play music. It's all I've ever wanted," he said.
"Brendon, we've been over this. The Bishop has been very kind to consider you--you're much younger than the students he usually takes," his father said.
"Father," Brendon said. "I'm not going. I can't, father. So I'm going to the city," he said, and ignored his mother's gasp. "I'm going to become a musician, and you won't have to worry about what everyone thinks. I love you," he said, "and I'll write. Goodbye."
He turned to his mother and hugged her. She stayed stiff in his embrace, and after a moment he reluctantly let go. Brendon nodded at his father. "Goodbye, father," he said. His father didn't return the gesture. Brendon took a deep breath and stepped past them and out the door.
The sun was too bright. He found himself blinking back tears in its glare as he walked toward the city.
Life there would be amazing, he told himself. He would be able to perform whenever he wanted, whatever he wanted. He clung to that as he walked out of Summerlin proper, and out through the fields. Soon enough he was farther from home than he'd ever been. He kept walking.
It wasn't a beautiful day, but it was fine enough for his journey. The sun was hidden behind the clouds more often than not, but he wasn't cold, and it wasn't raining. Brendon decided to count his blessings and enjoy the trip. He passed farmers and families, people old and young. A merchant let him ride part of the way in his cart, and Brendon repaid him by singing to pass the time. When they parted ways the merchant said he'd do well in the city if he always sang like that. Brendon thanked him and waved before continuing on his way.
As he drew closer to the city, the road grew both wider and more crowded. Soon Brendon was just one person in a steady stream of people. No one here knew him or anything about his life in Summerlin. He could have a fresh start. The pall that had been hanging over his mood since he'd left that morning started to lift.
Brendon heard music moments after he passed through the city gates, which seemed like a good omen. It was a fast, jaunty tune, the sort meant for dancing. The sort he had never have been able to play back home. His feet did a little jig entirely without his permission--dancing! in public!--and after that it seemed a small thing to follow the tune to its source. He found himself outside of a drinking establishment with a sign proclaiming it the Harp and Horn and hesitated. His father had once threatened to beat him if he ever heard that Brendon had been in the pub at home, and his father was not a violent man. Brendon just wanted to hear the music, though, and surely music couldn't do him any harm. He just needed to stay away from the drink and bad influences, and everything would be fine.
When Brendon opened the door of the pub he was confronted with a veritable wall of noise. There was the music, yes, but also the clamor of dancing, and people talking loudly and shouting at each other. The room seemed filled to overflowing with people. Brendon scanned the crowd for the musician and found him set up in front of the hearth, near the area cleared for dancing. He spotted an open spot at a bench near the guitarist, where he could probably see well enough to learn the song, and hurried toward it. Maybe he could talk to the guitarist between songs, ask if there was any place an aspiring musician could go for work.
Brendon sat and reveled in the music. He was so engrossed in following the guitarist's hands as they moved along the strings that he didn't notice the man sitting beside him until he had swung an arm over Brendon's shoulder. Brendon turned to him, about to tell him off for his familiarity, but the stranger's grin stopped him. There was something manic about his smile, and Brendon was confronted with the realization that he was not in quiet little Summerlin anymore. He cleared his throat.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Why, I was just wondering what a beautiful boy like yourself was doing all alone in a place like this," the man said, teeth still bared in a smile that made Brendon think of rabid dogs. "And some of us were wondering why you were staring at our friend Patrick over there. I felt it only kind to warn you that although he may look soft, he has the meanest kick outside of his majesty's stables."
Brendon stared at him, taken aback. "I'm just here for the music," he said. "He's really good, and I haven't heard this song before. I was hoping to learn it."
The man laughed at him, a hoarse guffaw that made Brendon flush with embarrassment. "You haven't heard this one before? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously," Brendon said. "I just got here today. Where I'm from...well, we really only have hymns. And this is definitely not a hymn."
"You're right about that. You're from out of town?" The man looked Brendon up and down. "Are you a farmer? You should come work for me, I need an assistant."
Brendon was a little baffled by the sudden change of attitude and subject. "I'm not a farmer," he said. "Also, I don't even know your name. And you don't know mine."
"But you've lived around farms, right? You're not from the city. You said you just got here. I'm Pete," the man said. "Who're you? Tell me your name, and then we'll be acquaintances."
"I'm Brendon. My father's a lawyer, I've only ever lived in a town. I've never farmed anything in my life," Brendon said. It seemed important to be clear.
Pete nodded. "So I was right, you're not from the city. Great! Like I said, I need an assistant. I'm a gardener," he said, as though that explained everything. "I'm head gardener, actually, at the palace, and you like music, and you aren't from the city. You'll fit right in. Say yes."
Brendon wondered if this was what his parents had meant when they warned him about the crazy people who lived in the city. Pete was obviously touched in the head. On the other hand, he hadn't expected to get work so quickly, and Pete had mentioned music. He took the bait.
"What does music have to do with gardening?" he asked.
"Well, for one," Pete said, "it makes the plants happier. But more importantly for you, Patrick is the head cook. He also likes to indulge me, and I like you. He'd totally teach you some new songs if I asked nicely."
"And will you?" Brendon asked. Pete grinned.
"Of course. Do you want the job?"
Brendon hesitated and looked at Patrick again. He was wholly absorbed in the song, bobbing his head in time with the music. Brendon looked back at Pete. "Yes," he said with determination, "yes, I do."
They stayed at the pub until Patrick had finished three sets of dancing. Pete had confided to Brendon that Patrick loved to perform, but could only play here once a week. His job at the castle kept him too busy otherwise--as head cook he often worked from pre-dawn to late in the night.
Pete introduced them after Patrick finished. "Patrick, this is Brendon. He was a farmer, but now he's my new assistant."
Patrick glanced at Brendon's clothing. He waited until Pete was a few feet in front of them before turning back to him and saying, "You're not actually a farmer, are you?"
"No, not in the slightest. My father's the town lawyer," Brendon said, and shrugged. "I told him that, but..."
"He just wouldn't listen to you?" Patrick finished. "That's very like Pete. Have you ever taken care of a plant before?"
"I helped my mother in the garden a few times," Brendon said uncertainly. "None of the plants I cared for died. I don't think."
Patrick smiled grimly. "That will have to be good enough. Once he's decided he wants something, it's impossible to change his mind, and he's decided he wants you to be his assistant." Patrick sped up enough that he was walking beside Pete, and Brendon spent the rest of the walk to the palace thinking that if everyone in the city was like Patrick and Pete, it was no wonder people back home thought it was a horrible place. They refused to abide by any of the social rules Brendon had been raised with.
He was pretty sure they would make amazing friends.
Pete gave him dinner, a uniform, and a room, and sent him to bed with instructions to be awake and prepared to work at dawn tomorrow. The rest of the night passed all too fast, and then Brendon was waiting for Pete to show up and instruct him in his new duties.
His stomach growled as he waited and he looked down in surprise. It was earlier than he normally woke up, and there was no call for him to be so hungry already. Pete appeared just as it growled again, more loudly this time, and laughed at him. When Brendon just looked at him in dismay he laughed again.
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it," he said. "Come on, I'll get you some breakfast and then we can start."
Brendon followed Pete through the maze of hallways and worried about how he would find his way back to his room. "How often do people get lost in here, do you think?" he asked.
"Oh, once or twice a week, I'd say," said Pete. "But don't you worry about that. We mostly work outside, all you really need to know in here is the kitchen and your room. You can enter the gardens through the kitchen, even, so you don't have to worry about finding another exit."
Brendon wasn't sure how he felt about not knowing his way around his own home, but he'd already learned it was a wasted effort to say so to Pete.
"And what about the music? You promised me music lessons," he said.
"I am personally amazed you can think about that this early. We haven't even had breakfast yet, seriously. You and Patrick and your one-track minds," Pete said. "We meet about once a week to just play and relax. That will be in the kitchen. Anything else you'll need to work out with Patrick."
By then they had reached the kitchen doors. "Prepare yourself," Pete said before flinging the doors open. The kitchen was a madhouse, with people rushing about everywhere at once. Brendon would have paused in the doorway but Pete just kept going, and he hurried to keep up. He certainly had no idea what was going on.
"We eat three times a day. Breakfast in here, lunch in the garden, dinner in the servant's hall. You'll get used to it. Hey, Alex!" he said, grabbing a boy who was rushing past. "What do you have for me today?"
"Morning, Pete, but I really need to go flip the bacon. Ask someone else!" the boy said before jerking away and running to a stove. Pete did just that, hailing someone with the curliest hair Brendon had ever seen. He seemed marginally less busy than Alex had been.
"Alex!" he said, and turned to Brendon. "This is Alex, too. Alex, Brendon. He's my new assistant. What's for breakfast?" he asked.
"Pleasure to meet you," Alex said to Brendon. "We've got bacon and eggs and biscuits and tomatoes, and coffee if you're willing to fight Gerard for it. And oats."
"There are always oats, I hate oats. And Gerard needs to learn how to share," Pete said petulantly. "We'll have some of everything, and extra for Brendon. He's a growing boy, and has no doubt endured starvation in his hard country childhood."
"My father was a lawyer. We had plenty of bacon and biscuits," Brendon told Alex. Alex nodded sympathetically and dashed off. Brendon hoped he was going to get them food. His stomach loudly agreed.
After breakfast--"Pete, seriously, I'm not a farmer"--they went out to the gardens.
"It's pretty simple, really," Pete said. "We plant, prune, and water, and hope nothing dies. We don't touch the kitchen gardens, Patrick has people for that. We are strictly ornamental," he said, and leered at Brendon. Brendon just rolled his eyes. He was getting used to Pete.
"First up, we have the roses. Roses are persnickety fucks, but that's OK, because I'm a stubborn myself. We have come to a sort of agreement. They don't get sick, and I don't try to make them bloom out of season. It works very well for us."
Brendon knew gardening would be a long, hard day of work, but it was already far more interesting than copying legal documents.
Brendon had been at the palace for a week when he first heard the story. It probably would have been longer, because people didn't seem to like to talk about it, but he overheard two of the manservants on his way to the kitchen. He recognized one of them--Pete had pointed him out as a horrible gossip. Brendon was pretty sure his name was Stephen.
"They say he goes through a pair a night. Can you believe that? Each pair must cost more than I make in a year, and he's going through one a night. They say no one knows how it happens, either. The shoes are pristine when he goes to bed and all torn up in the morning. The king tried locking him in and placing a guard, but it's no use. And no one hears anything going on in the room, and the guard swears he was there all night. It's seriously freaky--like we've got our own ghost story!" Stephen said.
"Yeah, except it's the prince. I don't think he should be involved in ghost stories if he's going to inherit. And what if it's a demon, or if he's cursed? We'll all be in trouble then," said the other one.
Brendon kept walking, and resolved to ask Pete about it later.
He was in the oak clearing again, and he sort of wondered why. He'd gone to the city, he'd gone to the palace. He's learning new songs and new instruments, and, most importantly, there had been no sign of the prince. Brendon is glad for that. He still didn't want to marry some stranger for his money. He looked around for Ryan. If he was here to receive more cryptic messages, he at least wanted to get it over with. He had to get up earlier as a gardener than he ever had at home, and these dreams were never restful.
He spotted Ryan over to the side of the clearing this time, his back to Brendon.
"What now?" he demanded. Ryan ignored him and continued inspecting the bush he was standing beside.
Brendon stalked over to him. "Seriously, if you could just tell me what's going on so I can leave, that would be great," he said, stopping beside him.
"Do you know what sort of plant this is? Since you're a gardener and all," Ryan asked.
Brendon barely glanced at the bush before he said, "No, I have no clue. What is this about, Ryan? I already told you I didn't want to marry the prince. I haven't even seen him, anyway, and I've been here at the palace for weeks."
"It's a mountain laurel. They're not actually laurels, but they have really pretty flowers," Ryan said. "And that one?" he asked, pointing to a plant behind the mountain laurel. It looked pretty much the same to Brendon. The leaves were maybe a little thinner, a little longer. He sighed--it was obvious that Ryan wouldn't tell him why he was there unless he played along.
"I have no clue. What is it?" he said.
"It's oleander--you know, rose laurel?" Ryan said. Brendon just raised his eyebrows. "Fine, you're the most clueless gardener ever to garden, I get it. Well, rose laurel's not really a laurel either," Ryan said.
He suddenly had hold of two smaller versions of the bushes. "Take these," he said, shoving them at Brendon, who mostly just grabbed them so they wouldn't fall and break.
"OK, good. Plant those in two pots in the garden, OK? And then take these," and he produced a bunch of gardening tools and waved them at Brendon, "and you need to use the rake and the bucket and the towel only on the laurels. When they're as tall as you are you need to say 'Beautiful laurel, with this golden rake I have raked you, with this golden bucket I have watered you, and with this silken towel I have wiped you,' and then ask for anything you want, and the laurels will give it to you."
"I thought you said they weren't really laurels," Brendon said. Ryan glared at him.
"It's magic. It doesn't matter if they're actually laurels, only that they're perceived as laurels," he said.
Brendon shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I still don't get why I'm here. I don't really need magic plants to be a musician."
"Just take them!" Ryan said. Brendon did, and Ryan once again disappeared.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," Brendon muttered. It was the last thing he remembered before he woke up.
When Brendon saw the laurels at the foot of his bed, he just groaned and pulled the pillow over his face. Why couldn't the crazy fairy man just leave him alone? He finally had the chance to play whatever music he wanted, whenever he wanted. He did not need this magic stuff messing with that. He let himself wallow in self-pity for five minutes before dragging himself out of bed and the laurels down to the garden. He couldn't just leave them to die.
Part Two