Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a man. A lonely traveler, the poet-rogue, whose tongue was his strongest weapon. He flitted to and fro across the lands, twisting in the wind. Never quite settling, staying in one place, because the poet-rogue was a restless beast, my darling.
People began to trail after him, but he was half-feral after so long alone. Snapping and snarling because that’s what they liked, those people. They liked his sharpness, that meanness, because to them, that was what life was. Something cruel, and to be endured. The poet-rogue agreed with them, because he would have agreed with anyone who looked at him, followed him, the way they did.
Even with them, he was horribly alone. Standing apart, because all they could see was the face he showed them: something mean and cruel, with everything good long-since buried.
…Ten years before, he had traveled with a magician. A man with enchanted armor, who spoke to the wind and the wind answered back. The magician had a star in his chest, and the poet-rogue asked How did you do that? Why?
And the magician told him how he had removed his heart, and replaced it with a star to make himself… brighter. Better. That came with a cost, the magician warned, but the poet-rogue didn’t care.
He asked again, How did you do that? And when the magician remained silent, the poet-rogue pressed once more invoking an old law in the land by asking three times: How was it done, o magician of iron and stars?
And so the magician was compelled to tell him. The poet-rogue ignored all warnings, all caution against removing his heart, and placed it somewhere safe. Somewhere that no one could ever find or touch it, deep in the wilds of the mountains.
The poet-rogue had nothing to replace his heart with, though, so everything good in him was buried with his heart. Carefully wrapped and cradled in the earth, with all of its warmth slowly leeching into the ground.
Ten years is a very long time, my dear, to taste only dirt in your mouth. To always have to bandage and cover the wound, so no others would be privy to his secret. He was a proud man, my darling, but that pride had turned… sour. Turned from something that straightened his back, settled his shoulders, into something that twisted instead. Something lodged between his ribs and his lungs, unable to be breathed past. Everything clouded by it.
He was not brighter, nor better. Just hollow. Empty. Angry.
And then the rose knight appeared.
The rose knight was different. Half-magician, half-warrior knight, with sunlight smiles and a sword pulled from thin air. He wore no enchanted armor, but he spoke to the plants and they spoke back. The earth itself was wrapped around his finger. Wherever he walked, roses eventually grew. Anything he touched was everlasting, bolstered by his gift. Ever-blooming, ever-hopeful. He was something bright.
He was something better, just by existing.
The rose knight had left behind his old kingdom with a child at his hip, and the sword only a breath away. On the run, because…
Time wasn’t kind to him. That kingdom wasn’t either. They tried to strip him of his heart, because to them it was an easy choice. Nothing to hold the rose knight back, yet all of the same power. But he wouldn’t be the rose knight without his heart. He would just be something… hollow. A shell. No spark.
He would have turned out like the poet-rogue, distant and cutting. Rageful because only the heat of anger can warm somebody up when everything else has been stripped away. The rose knight was more… capable, though, than the poet-rogue. He wasn’t choked by the vines threatening to drag him back. He tilted his chin up- yes, just like that, sweetheart, very well done- and continued moving onwards. Searching and protecting and always, always taking care of the child who he had willingly shared his heart with.
For you see, it’s possible to share hearts. It’s not an all-or-nothing sitch, not when it came to someone as skilled as the rose knight, or the magician of iron and stars. To protect his child, forever and always, he took a sliver of his own heart, and nestled it right… here. In there. Yes, where your heart is. It’s a metaphor we’re taking literally, honey, that’s just how it shakes out sometimes, but anyways-
The rose knight gave part of his heart to his child, so he could always be with her. So she too could step into shadows and come out somewhere else. So she would always be protected by the same blade he pulled from the air, always have safety and surety at her fingertips.
She was already part of his heart. The rose knight didn’t hesitate with going through with it. She would always be loved, always be warm. If he had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t want for anything.
Eventually, though, the rose knight and poet-rogue crossed paths.
The poet-rogue and his… troupe, which is fancy word for a bunch of actors at a theater. A group of actors is called a troupe, like it’s a rook of ravens, a murder of crows, but- anyways. The poet-rogue and his troupe were a tidal wave, sweeping from place to place. Stirring up trouble and anger. Stoking the fires of rage, because that was the last thing keeping him warm in those days.
But none of them knew about the rose knight who’d come to the seaside town. None of them paid attention to the man with flowers braided into his hair, or the child with a crown of flowers on her head. The troupe were confident, and blinded by that confidence. Fools who thought highly of themselves.
The rose knight definitely changed that, when he stood in front of the poet-rogue and said “You are wrong.” He didn’t falter as the poet-rogue snarled at him with bared teeth. Just titled his chin up again, and said “This is wrong. What do you think your rage will do besides rot and fester, o poet-rogue? What power is in your words when it’s the same story all over again?”
And oh so carefully, the rose knight reached out his hand to the poet-rogue. Met the other man’s eyes without flinching, even though the poet-rogue’s eyes were hollow and empty.
No one liked looking at the poet-rogue that closely. No one had done similar in years. But the rose knight did, and that, my darling…
That truly made all the difference, because it changed something in the poet-rogue that day. Made him pay attention to the rose knight, and wonder what sort of person could look at him that way. Wonder what sort of person didn’t look at his meanness and sharpness, and find in it the truth of the world. He wondered about this man who sounded so sure, so settled, and…
For the first time in many years, the poet-rogue reached out to someone else, and said “Tell me a new story then. What kind of tale would you weave, o rose knight, from these very threads?”
The rose knight grinned at him then, and it was as if a sliver of the sun had been pulled down to the earth. A similar bright flash. “Walk with me, with us, poet-rogue, and I’ll tell you.” The rose knight said. And when the rose knight began to walk away, child once more at his hip, the poet-rogue followed like a living shadow.
Continued to follow them from town to town, listening to the stories that were spun. Watching the way that the two walked through the world, never faltering. Always hopeful. Always bright. To them, life wasn’t cruel or something to be endured. They came across problems, sure, but they took it in stride. Talked to each other. The rose knight and his child treated life as a journey, and the poet-rogue was simply a new companion of theirs in it. Someone to lean on, just as the poet-rogue could lean on them in times of need.
Life to them was something to be experienced. We only go through a day once, after all, and so each day was a gift, a present you could say. That’s why we got the past, present, and future, honey. Yes, if you looked it up, that’s why it’s called that. Neat, right?
But, back on topic, sweetheart, where was I-? Oh, right. The poet-rogue traveling with the rose knight and his child. The way he got to see how the rose knight used his own words as both sword and shield, could cut through an argument with a single word, a careful sentence in the right place. How the other man did have his moments of anger, being scared, being tired, and yet still got back up. The rose knight could have become worn by what he’d endured, and yet…
He was still so kind. So kind, just as he was teaching his child to be kind.
And it had been a long time since the poet-rogue was given any kindness that it was… it was different to him. Strange. He didn’t trust it at first, because it’s hard to trust without a heart. Hard to believe that others can care, without some kind of reason behind it. But the rose knight and his child did.
In return, the poet-rogue learned once again what it meant to care for others. Learned how to offer a hand to them until it became habit, something that became carved into his bones. His heart was still in the distant mountains, buried, but new things were beginning to grow inside of him. Like the flowers in the rose knight’s hair, or twined around the child’s wrist. He came to know laughter and happiness better than anger and bitterness.
By the time the poet-rogue came to share his secret with the rose knight and his child, he too wore flowers. Careful things painstakingly sewn into his clothes, woven into the bandages that helped hide the hole in his chest. Not something living, and yet- they still bloomed with the passing of time. Grew just as anything around the rose knight grew.
The poet-rogue confessed that he’d buried his heart, and long-since forgotten exactly where he’d buried it. He’d always remember the mountains, the rich darkness of the earth he cut into, but it wasn’t enough to regain what had been lost. “I can live like this, I know I can,” the poet-rogue said, “I’ve done it long enough.”
The rose knight shook his head though, and gently took the other man’s hand in his. Said “You shouldn’t have to, though. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”
And something in the poet-rogue’s chest finally… eased. Like he could breath, fully and deeply, without the pang of a missing heart. Could taste jasmine on his tongue, like the tea he shared with this little family he’d become entangled with. The family he’d grown into, like flowering vines entwining.
The poet-rogue never regained his original heart. But…
But, my darling, he was given a sliver of the rose knight’s one day. And he carefully held it in his chest like a precious gift, tending to it as the rose knight tended to their garden. Watching it grow, turning into something shared between both of them. A promise.
Eventually, the poet-rogue’s heart filled out again. Never quite filled the gap, but remained steady and strong anyways. Strong enough for him to take a thread of it out, and carefully offer said sliver to the child. An assurance she would never walk alone, or need of anything, as long as he breathed. A guaranteed tether just as the rose knight was tied to her, ensuring she would get the chance to flourish because-
It wasn’t just the rose knight who stitched the poet-rogue back together. It was also a child with a crown of flowers, who…
Who never stopped believing, even when the poet-rogue couldn’t believe in himself.
No, ah- I’m- I’m fine, honey, just- dust in my eye. It’s fine. A fleck.
Some say the poet-rogue is still out there though, with the rose knight and their child. A family, living… living happily ever after, sweetheart. Yeah. Just like in the fairy tales, May-May.
S’time for bed now, muppet. Sweet dreams.