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Captive Crown

Summary:

Someone wanted the newly crowned King of Daventry and all his friends dead. Someone got close, once.

~*~*~

Despite being wracked with uncertainties, Graham struggles to pull himself and his friends out of goblin captivity--but when all is said and done and he collapses under the strain, his friends refuse to let him face his troubles alone.

Chapter 1: To Steal

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Later, when he was retelling the story and he got to the bit where something on the rooftops scrabbled and slid, people would always ask, “Why didn’t you just leave when you heard that noise?”

He’d always reply, “Why would I? It was just the sound of rain on roof tiles. A squirrel trying to get somewhere safe and dry. Nothing to do with me.”


And anyway, looking up into the skies just got rainwater in his face, blinding him. Graham hunched his shoulders and pressed on into the town, steering for the baker’s shop almost without thinking. His jaw was still set with frustration, but it had settled into frustration with himself rather than with his royal guards. They were doing their best. He was (mostly) sure of that. But he wasn’t King Edward, and they didn’t seem to know what to do with King Graham. It didn’t matter what Olfie said: Graham was wearing the wrong hat. He was on the wrong adventure. But without ideas for how to fix it, it was hard to keep his anger sharp.

Instead, he was starting to feel pathetic. He probably looked it, too—all bedraggled and soggy. Olfie had protected him from the worst of the weather as they walked together, but this was a proper late summer Daventry monsoon. The lower lavender fields might even flood if this kept up.

And what am I supposed do if that happens? Probably there’s a list of rules somewhere for Ruined Lavender Intake. I should have it memorized already.

He stood under Wente’s awning, wringing rain out of his cloak hem. No one answered his first knock. Nor his second. Or third. Disappointment dripped, like the water on the ends of his soppy curls. He’d expected—hoped—Wente would let him in and wrap him in a big, soul-squeezing, floury hug that might taste just a like bit like sugar and berries. Like safety. Graham shifted, listening impatiently for some sound from within but only hearing the steady, rattling downpour of rain on rooftops and down drains. It was a lonely sort of sound, hollow.

Whatever anger he’d been carrying was now drowned. He stumbled away, bleary and miserable. Maybe he could go to someone else? But the other homes looked just as dark and unwelcoming. Might as well go back to the castle. Deal with the nonsense he’d left behind.

Glass crunched beneath his boot. He glanced back toward the window of Wente’s shop. Now that he was bothering to pay attention, from this angle, he could see shattered glass and twisted wood. It looked like candies and pies had been thrown all over, oozing sweet fillings into the floorboards.

Before he could even begin to process that, he heard a shrill flute from…above? He whirled, squinting past the rain.

The shapes were unmistakable. Goblins crowded the rooftops, dropping down around him. Startled, he didn’t even have the time to cry out before they pounced. He stumbled back, tripped over something (a goblin crouched behind him, a nasty trick that worked just as well this time as it had not that long ago), and slammed into the cobblestones. The world went black.


Rain dripped on his cheek and helped rouse him gradually from insensibility. Muzzily, he realized he was lying on his side in the mud just outside the Daventry town gates, just on the edge of the forest. In the overcast gloom, the trees were blurs. The back of his head hurt, and he tried to reach up to it, to feel out what was wrong, but his arms refused to cooperate. For a terrible, confused instant he thought he was paralyzed, and then he noticed an unexpected pressure on his wrists—his hands were tied together behind his back.

His heart started racing, and he could see odd shapes under the trees, in the bushes, on the path, near him, and he sensed he was surrounded, and he felt stony hands on his shoulders push him into a sitting position, and he yelped into full wakefulness. Around him, the shapes, goblins, stepped back, watching.

“Wha—what is this? What’s going on?” Graham croaked, his voice thick. Shivery panic skated down his spine, and he shook his head, trying to focus. He only managed to make the ache worse. He struggled, but the ropes against his wrists held firm. “What do you want? You can’t do this to me! I—I’m the king!” (Or was that the wrong thing to say? Maybe he shouldn’t admit to it? The crown surely gave it away, though.)

They stared at him impassively, crouched a few feet away on all sides. At least, he thought they were staring impassively. Masks of stone hid every face. Mist curled around them, blurring their edges.

“I demand you release me! Untie this! Now!”

The pack of goblins crept closer, silent in the downpour. He swallowed his dread and stiffened as best he could, trying to look regal while covered in mud and soaking wet. “I assume you’re doing as I asked.”

From behind, one of them dropped a loop of rope around his chest, pinning his upper arms to his sides and drawing the loop tight.

“Hey! No! S-stop! I’m the king!” He fought, kicking out and trying uselessly to pull away. He couldn’t throw them off, couldn’t get the leverage he needed by himself, half-concussed and dripping and afraid. Then, with triumphant realization: “I’m not alone!” He drew in a deep breath, fighting against the restriction across his chest, and bellowed, “Olfie! Help me!” He forced a grin. “Have you ever tried to fight a bridge troll?”

In the distance, a low rumble started, and as one, every goblin froze. The rope around his chest slackened and slipped past his elbows as the cluster of goblins backed away uneasily. Graham sat gloating, waiting for the huge hand to sweep down and pluck him from this nightmare. Except, the hand didn’t come. Nothing else seemed to happen. The goblins looked toward the town, toward the forest behind them, and at each other, and he could see their tension evaporating. With a sick twist in his stomach, Graham realized the first sound was nothing more than a coincidence. Could have been anything. Some low thunder perfectly timed, or water dislodging a boulder in the forest, or some animal in the underbrush. Not Olfie.

I hadn’t asked him to stay. The rain, he can’t hear me over the rain. He could have gone anywhere. He can’t hear me without a horn. Oh, stars.

“I…I’m sure he’ll be along directly,” he stammered. “Just a delay. You know. The—the rain. He’s coming. I’m protected. Definitely.” He paused, glancing at his surroundings—just outside the town gates, near the workshop—and cried, “Help! Amay—ow!” His plea cut out as the goblin behind him snapped the rope back up and cinched it tight. “Stop! That hurts! Let go!”

The royal guards! he thought as hands clutched at his clothes and dragged him forward—but no, he’d been so angry, they wouldn’t come after him for hours. He’d ordered them to stay in the castle, and they’d been too happy to comply, to stay in the warm and the dry rather than trek out into a monsoon with a cranky king, and now he was in so much trouble.

“You’ll be in trouble!” he warned, pouring as much fury into it as he could. “This is assault against the entire kingdom! They’re coming to find me as we speak!”

No one listened.  Instead, they flung him up into the air and caught him by arms and legs, holding him above the mud.

“No, wait, stop! Put me down!”

They did, sort of: they threw him forward, and he landed on something soft, bouncing. He rolled onto his side and was entirely baffled to discover that they’d tossed him onto a damp mattress, mostly sheltered from the rain by the dark tree canopy.

Hands pulled and tugged and managed to get him sitting, and then they all stood around him for a long, silent, and speculative moment. He had the sense he was being judged, and he had the sense he was found lacking. Their shoulders hunched with what looked like disappointment, and several made dismayed hand motions above their heads.

“What are…”

Graham heard an excited cry from the town, and he twisted in time to see yet another one join the pack, clutching Edward’s crown. Graham hadn’t even noticed the crown’s absence. The goblin launched forward like it was about to win a game, and it slammed the crown down, hard, in its proper place. He yelped, but around him, applause broke out.

“That’s enough!” he snapped, crown sitting almost jauntily across his forehead and pressing his wet hair flat against his face, making him look entirely unimpressive. “Help! Olfie! Amayaaaaahh!” It turned into a proper scream as a spearhead jammed up beneath his chin, sharp edge threatening to cut. “Okay, okay,” he whispered, hardly daring to breathe. “I get the point.”

In so much trouble.

Two goblins sat down on either side, the one with the spear looking rather menacing. Then again, they all looked menacing, looming over him like this. He shrank beneath gazes and weapons, not at all sure what they were going to do next.

The answer came soon enough. They clustered around, hoisted the mattress on their shoulders, and darted off into the trees. His two guards clutched his arms to stop him slipping off while they moved.

Notes:

A million thank yous to MiladyDeWinter for encouraging me to brush all the dust off this fic and finish it. :3