Donkeyskin - ON HOLD

Of Celebration

*Of Celebration*

Midwinter dawned bleak and gray, the sun not rising until nearly noon. Yet the tavern where Alexandre and Tristan had found refuge had been crowded with revelers since the early hours of the morning. Standing at the window of the little room he'd been given, Alex stared out at the gloomy forest beyond.

Why had he ever thought it a good idea to leave his parent court to go hunting, simply because he couldn't stand his brother's betrothed? He could have feigned some illness, or traveled south, but no. He'd had to decide to go north with just Tristan to accompany him, and miss the Midwinter festival his parents put on every year.

And yet, if he hadn't decided this trip was a good idea, he'd never have laid eyes on the beauty he'd come across in the woods last night. He wouldn't have recognized the pelt she wore, and remembered all the stories he'd heard.

Six years ago, his favorite donkey had died, and, foolish boy that he was, upon hearing the tale of a young girl who'd lost her mother, he'd sent the animal's pelt to her as a gift of condolences. Now, despite having moved from rearing donkeys to rearing horses, hounds and hawks, he still remembered the wonder in his messenger's voice when the man had reported back to him how much the princess had seemed to love her gift.

Had she truly loved it enough to have kept it, even after all these years? Was she truly alive, despite what her father might claim? Or had he simply imagined the similarities between the pelt he'd given Princess Elodie and the one the girl in the woods had worn? 

Alex sighed and let his head fall against the window, his forehead pressed against the icy glass.

When, half a year ago, the king of North Avalon had announced that he would marry his daughter, he'd broken off a prior agreement with Northmoor: Alex himself was to marry Princess Elodie when she came of age.

There had been no consultation, now communication, simply a rolled piece of parchment delivered by the spymaster one morning to announce the decision. Alex's father had been furious. Within a day, he'd sent an ambassador to South Avalon, whose king, he knew, loathed the king of North Avalon, to negotiate a treaty.

Contained within that treaty was an agreement of support should either kingdom decide to march on North Avalon, sealed by a betrothal: Alex's brother was to be wed to the princess Mattelaine when she came of age; until that time, she was to be fostered in Northmoor so that the two would be able to get to know each other before they were wed.

And this was the reason Alex had left the capital.

The princess was a vain, greedy, shallow thing, who, though beautiful and well-mannered, Alex could not stand. What was worse, his brother defended his bride-to-be, no matter how awful she was to him. Alex had to wonder if, perhaps, Gabriel acted that way out of duty, rather than out of any actual affection towards the girl. Alex couldn't imagine that his brother could actually find her desirable.

So, driven to distraction by the girl's simpering, he'd convinced Tristan to accompany him east on a hunting trip, for all that it was the dead of winter. He'd convinced Tristan that it would be fun, that they'd take down a stag, or a boar, and return home in triumph; they'd managed neither. He'd also promised his parents that he'd return by Midwinter, and somehow he'd managed to break that promise, too.

Well, it wasn't as if he hadn't known the trip was a bad idea when he'd set off, it was simply that he'd refused to listen to reason, had discounted any warnings, and had gone anyway. Well, and he was a knobhead. No one was arguing against that.

Downstairs, the tavern's common room was bustling. The voices of the revelers seeped through the floorboards, enticing Alex to join them. Tristan had gone down ages ago, but Alex hesitated. He was sure that, by now, the innkeeper or his wife (or, more likely, both) had told the entire village that he, the heir to their kingdom, the magnificent prince, was in residence, and, as he had no desire to be gawped at like some leopard in a menagerie, he had lingered after his friend had descended into the chaos.