Work Text:
I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
--William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act I, scene I.
***
"Stop it, Penny." Quentin's voice was barely more than a low hiss, like he feared swift, merciless retribution if he happened to be overheard. Which, to be fair, he probably did. Their parents were holding Court, and while they were generally doting and permissive as parents went--at least according to everyone who'd ever witnessed him playing Ride with Penthea, which was frequent--they had their limits.
"No," said Penny defiantly, and kicked him again. "Won't. Maman said you had to play with me. You're not playing with me. You're supposed to be playing with me." She drew back her foot for another swing.
Quentin yanked his legs out of her way before she could make impact. "Am so."
"Are not."
"Am so."
"Are not." Penny tilted her chin up and looked down her nose at him, looking so much like a miniature version of their mother that it would have been terrifying, if it hadn't been so funny. "This isn't playing. This is...this is ignoring. Maman didn't tell you to ignore me."
"She didn't tell you to kick me, either," said Quentin defensively.
Penny snorted. "Either we both do what she says, or neither of us do."
It was a hard bargain. Penny was becoming dismayingly good at those. Quentin was starting to yearn for the simpler days, when she'd been six and he'd been eight and she'd been perfectly happy to play the earthly knight hoping to be rescued, instead of insisting on actually being a part of the Ride. She did an admittedly excellent Queen Maeve. Once, she'd even managed to produce a rosewood spear from somewhere, and conked him on the head with it while he was trying to rescue her hostage. The bonk had hurt. Listening to his baby sister crow about her victory all through supper had hurt even more.
"What do you want to play?" he asked warily.
"Ride!" Penny crowed.
Quentin put his hands over his face, and wondered what he'd ever done to cause Oberon to curse him with such a sisterly sister.
"Fine," he mumbled. "We'll play Ride."
***
Penthea stood proud and tall atop the broken plinth. Quentin wasn't sure what the statue that used to go there had looked like, but he could easily imagine it being his silver-haired sister, cast in marble, draped in a length of stolen gauze curtain that somehow managed to look regal on her. It was something in the way she had it tied. Anyway, it wasn't fair. She always got to be Queen Maeve, because she was the girl, and because he was going to be High King someday, which meant he had to play nicely and share with her.
"Tonight is Hallow's Eve!" she shouted, and laughed in delight. "The sacrifice will be made, and nothing will stop us!"
"Look!" said Quentin, pointing into the bushes. It was impossible to keep himself from falling into character, swept up by the familiar game. "A human!"
"No!" Penny clutched the fabric of her makeshift bodice. "Stop them, before they ruin everything!"
Quentin charged, wooden sword in hand, and the battle was joined. Together, they beat back the humans who would steal their sacrifice and disrupt their Ride, until--when the game was finished, and they were both exhausted, drooping on their feet--a nine-year-old and his seven-year-old sister had done what all of Queen Maeve's knights could not, and prevented the breaking of the last great Ride.
"There they go," said Quentin, this time pointing after the phantom horses. Penny waved enthusiastically, and then the two of them collapsed into the grass, feet pointing in opposite directions, heads side-by-side. Above them, the trees were a canopy of green through which glimpses of the purple and silver Summerlands sky could be seen, tempting and taunting them.
Penny's hand inched into his, and he let her tangle their fingers together like loops of briar, impossible to separate or pick apart.
"Quentin?"
"Yes?"
"I like when you play with me."
Quentin smiled a little. "I like when you play with me too."
"Are we really going to be grownups soon?" Penny sounded more than just worried: she sounded upset, like this was the most distressing news that had ever been delivered. More distressing even than the breaking of a Ride and the loss of a sacrifice. "I don't want to. Maman and Papa always look so sad when they have to sit on their thrones."
Privately, Quentin agreed. His parents were good rulers: he knew that from listening to the things people said when they didn't think he was paying attention. People never paid enough mind to where the children were, or how closely they might be watching the social rules. His parents knew their position and their place, and they kept to it, even when it bored them past all reason. That was part of why they were so good at it. If they had only done it when it was easy, it wouldn't have been a job.
But they weren't going to have to do it forever. When he was a grownup--which wouldn't be soon-soon, but would be soon enough to scare him--they would step aside, and then the crown would be on his head, and any Rides in need of breaking would be his to protect and pray for. His parents would get to go off and do whatever they wanted, and they would be happy, and Penny would get to be whatever she wanted, and be happy, and he would be here, on the throne, High King of the Westlands, a Sollys born and a prince no more.
He squeezed Penny's hand. "So we won't be grownups," he said. "We'll run away, so deep into Faerie that no one can find us, not even Time, and we'll eat blackberries and wild cherries and we'll have each other forever and for always. If you want."
"You're my best brother," said Penny, her eyes starting to drift closed now that the trouble had been resolved. "Nobody else got one as good."
"And you're my best sister," he said.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Penny's only response was a smile as she slipped into sleep. Quentin closed his own eyes, still holding tight to her hand. There would be trouble later, no doubt, shouting over stained breeches and broken branches, but for now?
For now, he was at peace.