Chapter Text
Consciousness comes to George slowly. He opens his heavy eyelids, raising his arm slowly to rub the sleep from his eyes, blinking hard. It’s taking all his willpower not to fall back onto the bed and go back to sleep. He hears a passerine chirp outside, and the sound sharpens his senses bit by bit. He flexes his weak fingers, feeling his grip tighten.
“Good morning to me, I guess,” George says to himself.
Light filters in from the window, illuminating dust motes in the air. George swings his legs off the bed, standing up to stretch.
It’s a little over an hour before dawn. “Time to get to work,” George murmurs to himself.
There are several things he has to do each day to maintain his way of life, which are as follows:
- Feed the chickens
- Eat breakfast
- Obtain water from the creek
- Head into town to trade away feathers, string, and wool in exchange for his necessities
- Chop wood
- Sharpen his tools
- And a multitude of other things that have to be done to maintain his life each day.
It’s hard, tedious work, but George enjoys it nonetheless. Because it’s constant, and it hasn’t ever changed.
George reasons that if he had friends or people he liked interacting with, maybe it could add variety to his life.
But he doesn’t really have friends.
Not that he’s lonely or anything.
It’s just that he prefers isolation, chooses to be alone.
It’s better this way, in a small house on the edge of town where nobody can bother him and he can live out his days in peace.
He digs his hand into the bag of seeds, throwing some out to the chickens as he sits down on his porch, watching them peck away.
After a minute, he stands back up to go towards the chicken coop, picking out a few of the eggs and returning to his house to gather up the goods he’d be trading away.
George hums a little as he works, a folk song that he no longer remembers the lyrics to.
He takes a bite of bread.
It tastes dry on his tongue, and George will be the first to admit he’s not an excellent baker, but the point is that he’s trying, and he’s gotta at least eat something before he starves to death. After all, the prices of the bread in the market are far too high to be worthwhile, and as much as George wanted to get a taste of softer bread that didn’t nearly crack his teeth, he was also unwilling to trade half of his materials in for it.
He continues to hum cheerfully, swinging two heavy iron buckets from shoulder to shoulder as he heads for the riverbank.
The earth is muddier than usual-- oversaturated with greens and yellows, not that he could see them anyway. Drops of rain from the night before are still visible on the leaves and the grass. The air feels slightly humid, almost sticking to George’s skin. The smell of petrichor cleared his head.
“It’s just rained,” George murmurs, not to anyone around him in particular, but mostly to himself. He has to at least talk to someone , right? “Hopefully the river isn’t full of debris.”
Luckily for him, it’s not; it’s more tranquil than he’s seen it in a while. As he leans down to fill the buckets, he lets his mind float away from him, like a leaf floating down the river stream. He finds a clover in the grass, plucks it up, runs his fingers across the leaves.
“When the clover flowers come in, maybe I’ll be able to get some honey to sweeten my bread or something,” George decides. “Or maybe I could trade it…? Gods, I’d have to learn how to maintain a beehive, though--”
He decides to table that for another day, as the sun rises higher into the sky.
He leans over his wooden table, notching off fetching water from the creek.
Grasping the rough charcoal pencil, he hastily writes out, Make sure to boil one bucket of water for tea.
George knows his life like he knows the back of his hand. Because it’s familiar, and it never changes. Even if there’s a scratch or two in it, it heals up quickly and looks about the same as it ever does immediately after.
His motions are practiced as he gathers up the supplies he needs for the market: a bag of feathers, wool, and string; a basket of chicken eggs he’d picked from the chicken coop; and a spare burlap sack to carry any of his other materials.
“I’m heading off,” George says to his silent, empty house. He hoists the heavy bag and basket onto his shoulders and heads off for the market.
The town of Somnium isn’t very big-- as a border territory in the Kingdom of Fortuna, it’s frequently ignored and is subject to the fewest protections possible, given that the king-- George always scoffs in his head when he has to think about the bastard— didn’t want to spread his forces out and protect every piece of land.
A fat lot of good that does him, George thinks.
He doesn’t say that one out loud.
It’s treason to speak against the king, after all.
George is familiar with everyone in the marketplace, and they don’t often strike a hard bargain. He trades most of the feathers for coal and oil, the wool for cloth and soap and needles, the eggs for ingredients such as wheat, sugar, potatoes. He tucks the materials away in his bags and basket, exchanging greetings with some of the townspeople as he heads out.
“George, lovely weather we’re having, right?” a woman asks cheerfully.
“Oh, yeah,” George says. “Hi, Mags. How’s the kid?”
“He’s growing up just fine,” Mags says in response. “He keeps telling me he wants to be on the royal guard when he grows up. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”
George scoffs. How nice it must be, George thinks, to not have to worry about the royal family. To be able to just-- so easily--
It’s jealousy, George realizes.
The kid, a chubby-cheeked boy, probably no older than three, stumbles out of the house to hug George’s leg. George nearly drops his sack of potatoes, but he laughs a little to lean down and squeeze the boy’s cheek.
“Hey, little guy. Be more careful-- if I wasn’t stronger, I would’ve dropped the bag and crushed you.”
The boy puffs out his cheeks, and George laughs.
“Just you watch,” the boy says. “I’m going to become the biggest, best guard in the castle. And then I can get me and my mom out of this place.”
George’s smile grows a little bitter. There’s a bitter aftertaste in there somewhere, like coffee-- gods , how long has it been since he’s tasted it? He doesn’t even like coffee-- remembers the last time that he tried to drink it, he’d spit out the bitter liquid.
George shakes his head.
“It’s good to dream,” George says instead.
He used to dream, once.
He doesn’t think he much does that anymore.
The path back to his house is long.
The town of Somnium is already at the farthest point of the kingdom-- but George’s house is even farther than that. George has had more than one townsperson speak to him about the distance he has to travel to enter the town: wasn’t it far? Didn’t he get tired? During the intense heat and drought, how did he manage to come into town? More than once, he got a package from a concerned mother containing a few materials that they thought would have helped him.
He feels vaguely irritated by it all. He appreciates their care, of course-- but he’s not a child anymore.
The forest isn’t ever silent, not with the rustling of woodland creatures and the crunch of twigs and leaves against the ground-- but George hums to himself as he balances the heavy sacks upon his arms.
His house is built into a small hill, enveloped by the forest canopy surrounding it. The exterior of the house is fortified by dark oak leaves, blind columns supporting its curved structure. The walls of the house are made out of a cream-colored stone-- or was it clay? George doesn’t quite remember the specifics anymore.
He does remember carving out the hole at the top of the house with his mother, the tree roots acting as the roof to keep the house from falling.
The door is red.
Or well, he remembers his father saying that it should be red. “It’ll be easier to see from far away ,” he remembers his father saying, a stripe of what should have been red paint across his nose. Not that George can see it. To him, it just looks like any old wooden door.
George grasps the handle of the door, opening it up and entering the house.
“I’m back,” George says to no one in particular.
Once again, there’s no response.
George drops off the heavy burlap sacks against the wall and leaves his empty basket on the table. He picks up his charcoal pencil.
He scratches visiting town off the list.
“I think I can rest for a bit,” George says to the silent house. “Before I go and chop some firewood… it’s going to be getting cold soon, and--”
He hears something.
It sounds like the rattling of a carriage, and George stands up cautiously. He reaches for the sword propped against the far wall-- a last resort at this point.
I've never used this one before, George thinks.
But in the worst-case scenario, if his house was getting stormed... he’d at least pretend to put up a good fight.
He hears a knock on the door.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Okay, so they’re not bandits, George thinks. A bandit probably would’ve kicked the door down. Right? He’s never been robbed before because the people in this town were nice to him, so this is entirely new. He shifts towards his window, pushing open one of the embroidered curtains cautiously.
He has to pause for a second.
He’s not quite sure what he’s seeing— but if his vision is serving him correctly, and he hopes it isn’t— there’s a royal carriage outside his door. Or well, he thinks it should be-- it’s a rather understated caravan, but the clover detailing on the side, barely discreet, shows that it has to be. A man is standing outside of his door, clearly uncomfortable in common clothes.
George isn’t even sure who it is.
Should I even answer the door?
He keeps the sword in view so he can grab it if he needs to.
Then he opens the door.
“Uh, hello?” George asks.
The man looks down at George as if he’s not quite sure how to begin the conversation.
“Hello,” the man says.
George’s brow twitches.
“What are you doing here?” George asks.
“You’re-- you’re George, right?” the man asks.
“Yes?” George says, phrasing it like a question. What the hell is going on here? Am I in trouble? I’ve kept my head down all this time--
“Oh, sweet. Uh, okay…” the man reaches into his pockets and pulls out a scroll. It looks like it’s made of finer parchment than the kind George uses for his notes-- and the man breaks the wax seal binding the scroll together. He clears his throat. “As of this moment, you have been crowned the King of the Kingdom of Fortuna.”
George thinks his heart stops beating. Just for an instant. He feels blood rushing to his ears.
It’s like his breath has been caught in his lungs before it can come out.
Then it does.
“ WHAT? ”
George hears the surrounding woods go silent as if he startled all the fauna with his scream.
“It’s a lot to process, I. I guess?” the man says awkwardly. “But all that aside, you’re going to have to come with us to the castle.”
George has had bad luck before.
He’s stubbed his toes on doors, dropped heavy pounds onto his feet, nearly cut open his fingers trying to cut potatoes-- but nothing like this. Nothing in his life can compare to the misfortune of having just been crowned king.
George lashes out as soon as the man attempts to put a hand on him.
He’s--
Not good at throwing punches. If he had his ax on him, maybe he’d have been able to do anything -- but the man catches his fist before it can even make contact with anything.
“Uh,” the man says, his voice now pitching into a higher panic. “Listen, I-I know it’s like, a lot to take in. Commoner being crowned king, blah-blah-blah, rarely happens, a turn of the century thing, yadda-yadda, but like. I-I kinda promised my boss that I’d bring you back to the palace in one piece… and he’s kind of going to like. Fire me if I don’t bring you back. So please --”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with the monarchy, much less be crowned king , so your boss can kiss my ass--” George snarls.
“ Oh, ” the man squeaks out. “Well, i-in any case, I still can’t leave until you-you come with me, so please--”
“So is the king dead?” George blurts out. He’d developed his suspicions as soon as the man… seemingly declared him king, but he didn’t believe it.
“Uh- yeah, he, he is,” the man says nervously. “That’s why we’re- we’re crowning you.”
“Wait-- like, actually ? Didn’t he have kids? I’m sure there are more qualified people to do the job than me ,” George protests. He feels a wave of irritation washing over him, and he clenches his fist. “So why me?”
“I-I’m not allowed to answer that!” the man stammers.
“You’re not allowed? What kind of excuse is that?” George shouts.
“Look, I-I promise we can give you a better explanation at the palace, but for now you-you have to come with me,” the man squeaks out.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” George says angrily, trying to wrestle his arm out of the man’s grip. For how nervous the man is, his grip still holds strong. “Let me go before I make you regret touching me altogether.” George reaches for the sword he’d left-leaning on the wall, gripping it tightly in his free hand.
“Oh, Gods,” the man says. He sounds like he’s on the edge of tears. “Dream-- DREAM! Come help me!”
“Damn, Ranboo,” George hears a faint voice calling. “We’ve got a feisty one, huh?”
“DREAM,” the man now known to George as Ranboo screams. “Please don’t make fun of me-- I’m scared -- this wasn’t on the job description--”
“Alright, alright.” A man steps out of the carriage.
He’s a knight for sure. George can tell by the glint of the light armor, detailed with the clover emblem of the royal family. As he draws closer, George finds the man’s eyes are crinkled with amusement, green eyes glittering with barely-hidden mirth.
“Sorry about this, Your Highness,” Dream-- was that the name Ranboo had screamed?-- says. It sounds like he’s on the verge of laughing.
Sorry? About what?
George is about to open his mouth to protest, but he feels a sudden blunt force at the back of his neck.
And then his vision goes dark.