Chapter Text
Ten thousand steps in sunshine
Ten thousand steps in rain
Ten thousand o'r the rocky cliffs
And 'cross the windy plains
Ten thousand steps at daybreak
Ten thousand more at dusk
For every step two pilgrims take
So stronger grows their love
The bandits come in the middle of the day.
That's how many there are. That's how easily they outmatch Scott’s guard. So many, so easily, that there is no need for stealth or surprise—they just come, head on and roaring. Cutting down his men without hesitation and only throwing more bodies to follow the few that fall.
And Scott's guard isn't untalented. But he'd noticed, when it had been assigned to him, the inordinate number of younger, less experienced soldiers. How many eager, aspiring young men and women were to accompany him on this journey. He should have suspected—should have known—that it was something more than the usual level of neglect and apathy his father generally affords him.
Because now he sees them fall. One by one, as if time has taken a moment to breathe. To watch. To mourn so many impassioned souls, bright with potential and life, extinguished.
In reality, it happens quickly. A matter of seconds, maybe. Not enough time for Scott to try and do anything to save them. Not that he could. There are too many; a moment's distraction is all he's good for. And by the time he's clapped his hands together and let light burst from his palms, his guard is nearly all dead anyway. Nearly.
There's one soldier still standing that he can see. Light-haired and tall. He'd been toe-to-toe with a bandit before Scott exploded into light, holding his own with enough practiced skill to keep himself alive, but also a fair amount of luck. He is, of course, as blinded by the flash as the rest of them.
Scott dismounts his horse. It breaks his heart to leave her behind, but she's a good mare—well-bred and behaved. The bandits won't kill her, not when she could fetch them a pretty penny at any stable. It still digs deep into his heart as his feet hit the ground, and his hand brushes along her coat one last time. She's been his for nearly half his life now. They grew up together.
But one of his soldiers is still standing, and Iris wouldn't be able to outrun the bandits with two riders. So he runs. Grabs the arm of the soldier and pulls, dragging him off the road and into the woods.
They barely make it past the tree line when the soldier starts dragging his feet. He yanks his arm back and stops in his tracks. Scott whips around, wide-eyed, as the soldier brandishes his sword and blinks like he’s still clearing sunspots.
"Come on," Scott hisses. "We’ve got to go."
The soldier's eyes widen as he shakes off the daze and sees that it’s Scott who grabbed him. Scott takes his arm again while he seems to still be processing and starts dragging him along again.
This time, the soldier runs.
It isn't long before they hear the pounding of boots behind them, crashing through the foliage. Scott's heart hammers, breath coming heavy as he runs. He needs to create distance, and he needs to lose them. But there are so many more of them, and he and the soldier can only run so long.
Scott spots a massive tree. Low branches blackened and sooty. If he's lucky…
He snaps his head back to look as they pass. And yes, he was right. The inside of the trunk is burnt out. He stops short, jerks them both towards the hollow, shoves the soldier’s head down to duck through the low opening, and follows close behind.
Scott pushes the guard to the back of the tree, unstraps the bow from his back, turns, and kneels. It’s only a hunting bow—ceremonial more than anything—but combined with another flash, it might be enough of a distraction for them to be able to run again.
He draws an arrow and waits.
It’s a matter of minutes before he hears the bandits outside of the hollow. Scott keeps the arrow pulled taut and prays to all the Saints that the bandits are moving quickly and thoughtlessly enough to cover up his and his soldier's tracks with their own.
There’s a thick feeling in Scott’s chest, like his lungs have been stuffed with wool. Through the opening in the hollow, he sees boots pound on the packed forest floor, heavy and fur-lined. Branches and twigs snap under the footfall. There’s shouting. Order’s barked and followed.
Scott hears something about needing his body. Or at least his head.
One man stops in place, and Scott can suddenly feel his own heartbeat thumping against his ribs. He’s a tall man. Light brown hair tied back in a braid that ends between his shoulderblades. As he turns his head, Scott sees a gleam of gold on his ear.
The woods have gone strangely quiet. The rest of the bandits have gone on ahead.
The man turns slowly, scanning the surrounding area with narrow eyes. In a moment, his gaze will land on the hollow where they hide.
Scott takes aim.
A voice shouts from somewhere up ahead. The bandit lifts his head, then casts one last look around before following.
Scott breathes. Swears he can hear the nearly silenced breath of the soldier behind him.
Footsteps quiet. Voices fade.
Scott doesn’t move. Even after the forest has long gone silent. Minutes pass. His shoulder aches for keeping the bowstring pulled.
Finally, he forces his arm to relax. He slides the arrow back into the quiver at his hip. Pushes himself slowly to his feet.
Before he can duck his head out to see if the coast is clear, there is a hand on his shoulder. Scott looks behind him. The soldier meets his eyes and shakes his head.
Scott frowns, but he steps aside for the soldier to pass in front of him.
The soldier peeks carefully out from the hollow, sword at the ready. He waits a good several minutes, then takes a step out, motioning for Scott to stay where he is. Scott rolls his eyes, huffing under his breath even as his heart still pounds.
He’s gone for a while. Long enough that Scott almost tosses it all to the wind and follows him out. But then he’s back. He leans against the opening of the tree with one hand and nods.
Scott nods back, reluctantly takes the hand he’s offered, and steps out into the underbrush.
The bandits have left a mess, which makes it easy to pick the safest direction to travel. Scott nocks an arrow and holds it there, not drawing, but ready to at any moment. The soldier sticks close to his back, sword drawn.
They move like that for an hour, maybe more. Just putting distance between themselves and the bandits. Pushing deeper into the forest. The bandits didn't look like they were from Rielle. They don't know these woods the way Scott and his soldier do.
Enough time and distance pass that it seems safe enough to lower his guard. Scott drops his arrow back into his quiver. The soldier sheathes his sword.
"We should head northeast," Scott says. Despite the distance they've made, somehow he can't bring himself to raise his voice above a low tone. "Towards Prismen."
He's had an hour to think this over. To decide that the bandits were too prepared and his guard too inexperienced. To consider allies in Grandock and Chromia and settle on Lizzie. Even if she's the furthest away.
Of course, the soldier has probably had other things on his mind. He stops for a moment, surprise on his face. A conflicted look passes over him. Scott recognizes it and sighs.
"Formality now will only get us killed," Scott says. "If something's on your mind, say it."
The soldier's eyes widen, and Scott tries not to snap with impatience. It's not his fault for being naïve.
"Your Highness…" he says, trailing off uncertainly. "Shouldn't we head back to the capital?"
Scott shakes his head. A twig snaps under his boot.
"Those bandits were waiting for us," he says. "We're not safe in Rielle."
Silence stretches as the soldier puts the pieces together. Scott waits with grim vindication as the soldier begins to understand.
"But the King…"
"Arranged this, yes," Scott cuts in.
"He wouldn’t…"
Scott whirls on him. The soldier looks stunned. Too wide-eyed. Too naïve. Huge brown doe eyes framed by blond lashes. Scott grits his teeth.
"Have you met my father outside of ceremony?" he says, only barely managing to keep his voice from rising. "I promise you, he would."
The soldier frowns, brow furrowed deeply.
“But…their clothes” he argues. “They weren’t Riellen.”
“You think my father would send his own people to execute this kind of coup? They’re hired. Maybe hailing from Grandock originally, but loyal only to coin.”
“But—”
“I heard them. You did too. They need my head to return to His Majesty.”
And the soldier only stares—something like dread, something like disbelief—as his world crumbles before his eyes.
Scott shuts his own eyes for a moment and takes pity.
"You don’t have to come with me all the way to Prismen," he says. "But you shouldn’t go back to Rielle. If you return the sole survivor of the attack, you’ll be hanged as a deserter. You should be safe at least in Cintral—neutral territory and all that."
"W-what?" the soldier sputters.
"Should be maybe a month’s walk," Scott says, ducking under a low branch. "Closer to three weeks if we push it."
"Your Highness—"
Scott presses his lips together. "I know it’s a shock," he says. "But you really can’t stay in Rielle. I mean you can. I’m not going to stop you. But it would be really stupid—"
Something lands on Scott’s arm. He stills. Looks down. It’s only the soldier’s hand.
He must stare a little too long, because the soldier retracts it with a wince.
"Your Highness,"—Scott grits his teeth—"with respect, I’m not leaving you in Cintral. If you’re going to Prismen, I’m coming with you."
Scott takes a steady breath through his nose.
"That’s kind," he says, "but you don’t have to do that."
He turns his back and resumes walking. There’s a moment before he hears footsteps scrambling to catch up with him.
"I—well I kind of do. I made an oath—"
"To the King," Scott says, "not to me. I mean, the King wants me dead so if anything, you should—"
The soldier swings around, and suddenly he’s standing in Scott’s way.
"I made an oath to Rielle," he says, with so much earnestness that Scott can’t help but cringe. "Not her King. If you’re right and His Majesty called an attack on his own son, on his own people, he has broken his oath to his country, and my loyalty is now with you."
Scott stares at the young soldier. That open, sincere expression shouldn’t be. He’s seen his fellow countrymen cut down on the order of the man they'd sworn to serve. It was luck today that kept him from meeting the same fate. By all rights, the earnest look in his eye should be snuffed out.
Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe it hasn’t sunken in yet.
Scott takes a deep breath and finds his patience.
"Let's just head for Cintral," he says. "I won't blame you if you change your mind."
Scott steps around him. Keeps pushing forward.
"Your Highness—"
Scott spins around.
"Stop calling me that," he says, the anger boiling up out of him. He throws his hand back in the direction they've come from. "If that wasn’t a disownment I don’t know what is. I'm nobody's Highness."
He half expects the soldier to argue. He’s stubborn, Scott is realizing. Stubborn and idealistic and young.
"What do you want me to call you then?"
And it's so far from what Scott expected him to say that he just stands there for a while. Staring.
The soldier tilts his head slightly and waits.
"Scott," he says eventually. "You can just call me Scott."
"Scott," says the soldier, like he's trying it out. He nods. "I'm Jimmy."
"Right," Scott says slowly. "Now we've got that settled."
He turns. Starts walking again. The soldier—Jimmy—follows him. He's quiet.
A while passes. Leaf matter compresses under their feet.
"How did you do that?" Jimmy asks eventually.
Scott looks up at him, then frowns.
"Do what?" he asks. He's pretty sure he’s been doing exactly the same things as Jimmy for the past hour and a half.
"That thing with the light," he says. "That was…you right?"
Oh. That.
"Ah," he says. "Just a bit of inherited power. My mother was a mage."
Jimmy's quiet, and when Scott looks over, he finds him frowning deeply.
"No she isn't?" Jimmy says.
Scott squints at him.
"She…the Queen isn't a mage," Jimmy says, like he's suddenly questioning everything. "Or if she is, I mean—that was light."
Scott stares.
"What?" Jimmy says, glancing at him nervously.
"My mother isn't the Queen," Scott says slowly. "She was a mage from Chromia."
"Oh." Jimmy looks shocked.
"You really didn’t know?" Scott says, not quite believing it. "It's kind of an open secret."
"Is it?" Jimmy says, sounding just as bewildered as he looks.
"Jimmy," Scott says, stopping in his tracks. "Look at me."
Jimmy stops, and looks. The baffled look doesn't leave his face, like he doesn't know what he's looking for.
"What?" he says.
"I have blue hair," Scott says slowly.
"No you don't, you have brown—"
Jimmy cuts himself off. His jaw drops.
"How did you do that?" he demands, stepping suddenly closer.
"Do what?" Scott says, exasperated. For some reason, it feels like they’re going around in circles.
"Change your hair! Just a second ago it was brown."
"My hair has always been blue," Scott says, dumbfounded. "Are you…feeling alright?"
And Jimmy just gapes. Blinks. Shakes his head a little.
"Yeah," he says. "Yep. Sure. Fine."
"Good," Scott says carefully, and starts walking again. Jimmy falls into step beside him.
A month, he thinks. A few days less if they push it.
It’s going to be a long walk.
