Here is what I learned about Prince Perceval of Ashenmoor in the three days that followed.
He was the second son of King Craos, a man whose appetite reportedly had a legendary reputation, causing the royal kitchens to operate in shifts. He had produced an heir who treated meals as his primary form of governance and a second son who had inherited the appetite without ambition. Perceval had grown up in a palace where everyone expected little of him, which suited him because he did not intend to provide anything.
He awoke at noon and required a full hour of what he called “transition” before he could acknowledge that the world existed. His transition involved three cups of tea, a selection of pastries and a boy rubbing his feet. He had opinions about fabrics, candle scents, bath temperatures, and pillow density. He was apolitical. He didn't have opinions about warfare, trade, or anything that would require him to be an active member of the ruling class.
The first morning, there was a briefing. As I walked past the study, I heard them speaking through the door.
“She is going to die, Wallace.”
“She is not going to die, sire. It is a sleep curse.”
“Oh, splendid. Because deathless slumber sounds terribly restful. I am sure she is having a wonderful time being unconscious in a tower while lunatics perform rituals around her body.”
I pushed the door open. Perceval was standing in front of a mirror, pale and clammy. Holding a book titled “How to Charm a Cursed Woman in Eight Easy Steps.”
Wallace turned when I came in. He frowned.
“Ah. The brother is here as well.”
“I go where my fox goes,” Wesley said cheerfully from a chair that he had already pulled too close to Perceval's.
“This briefing is a matter of the highest discretion. Every additional person present is an additional liability.”
“Here I sit. As comfortable as the prince himself.” Wesley smiled. “Fine chairs. Lovely pastries. I feel practically royal.”
“You are not royal. Your presence here is a concession I made under duress.”
“Your hospitality warms me, Wallace.”
Wallace turned and faced me once again. Drew a breath.
“Let us review what is expected. You will be impersonating royalty. You will face a dragon. You will be required to approach a cursed princess and kiss her. Understood?"
"Yuuuuppp."
"You will carry yourself with grace, speak with restraint. You will not spit. You will not scratch your bum. And..." he shifted his focus to Wesley. “You will not treat this operation as material for your personal entertainment.”
Wesley was in the process of writing on a scrap of parchment that he had taken from his shirt. “I'm sorry, what were you saying?"
"What are you doing?"
“Notes, of course!"
“Notes? On what?”
“On everything. This is extraordinary, Wallace. A prince who cannot face his own prophecy! A cowardly heir! A substitute hero! The dramatic potential alone —”
“Put it away.”
“I am merely documenting —”
“Put. It. Away.”
Wesley put it away. Slowly. Holding eye contact the whole time.
Perceval, who had been listening to this exchange, turned away from the mirror.
“Cruit and I have been acquainted since we were in swaddling,” he said. “Our fathers arranged the betrothal before either of us could walk. I have known that woman my entire life and I can tell you with absolute certainty that she is the most dreadful person I have ever encountered.”
“Tell me more,” Wesley said, somehow already holding the paper in his hand again. It was truly a skill.
“The last time I saw her, she looked upon my face and declared that I had the bearing of a goose that had been dressed by a blind tailor. Then she ate my cravat. Write that down," he instructed Wesley, who began to scribble down the words frantically. Wallace let out a heavy sigh.
Perceval stared into the mirror, adjusting his collar, and making an attempt at a heroic facial expression. "I look like a man who could slay a dragon," he declared. “Do I not?” He flexed, causing a button to pop off his shirt and hit the wall.
“Perhaps,” Wallace said after a pause, “we should return to the matter at hand.”
“She is cursed,” Perceval remarked, slumping down. “I am told it is my duty to wake her. To climb a tower, face a dragon of considerable size and temperament, and kiss a woman who once ate my clothing and terrorized me for the better part of my childhood. And I am meant to do this because an outdated piece of parchment written by a madwoman in the northern hills has declared that I am chosen.”
“You are chosen, sire. The kingdom thinks you are a hero. She is your betrothed.”
"I never wanted to be chosen! I did not volunteer! I don't do quests, Wallace,” he barked. "I do lounging. I do warm cheese. I do light readings under heavy blankets. I do not—" he waved his hand in the air— "hike through monster-infested shrubbery to kiss a princess. This whole prophecy is poppycock. It presumes that I want to save her, and that she wants to be saved by me. It never asked either of us what we think about this matter." He tapped the dessert plate. “Cruit should have been more courteous towards me if she wanted me to save her. Maybe if she didn't want to get cursed, she shouldn't have mouthed off to that traveling enchantress. Actions. Have. Consequences."
He sighed.
"I mean, I don't want her dead. That would be... unpleasant. But do I want to march halfway across the kingdom, stab a lizard the size of a keep, and kiss someone who once punched me in the throat?" He looked directly at Wallace. "No. No, I do not."
“Which is why,” Wallace said, turning to me, “you are here.”
Perceval clapped his hands excitedly.
“So... let me get this right. You want me to be you?"
"I have weak ankles," he offered.
I stared.
Perceval tried again. "And... a skin condition. Reactive to fire. And stress. And effort."
You may not have known this, but armor is heavy as fuck. It arrived in the bedroom on a polished wooden stand, engraved with the Ashenmoor crest, which depicts a bird clutching a sword.
I attempted to don it. The chest piece, on its own, was heavier than I was. Two of Percy's boys had to lift it over me. As soon as they let go, I fell forward, then backward, catching myself on the table's edge.
"Dude. How much does this weigh?"
"A knight must bear the weight of his station," Wallace said. "Stand straight."
I stood straight for about three seconds. Then the weight shifted and I lurched sideways and one of the boys had to catch me before I knocked over the candelabra. The helmet was worse. It had a full visor, made of iron, with a narrow slit for the eyes that made me practically blind. The moment I put it on, I became deaf and immobile like a wardrobe.
"I can't see anything."
"You will adjust."
"I will fall down stairs and die." I made a step. The armor clanked. I made another. More clanking. Every movement sounded like a kitchen drawer being thrown down a hill. I was not walking; I was clanking. I was jingling, almost like a wind chime. "How does anyone fight in this?"
"With training and discipline. Both of which we will address."
"How does anyone PEE in this?"
Perceval watched from the far side of the room, naturally reclined. Naturally, wine. One of the boys was perched on the arm of his chair, watching it as if it were their sole form of entertainment.
“The walk is wrong,” he protested. "Far too much... effort. A prince does not stomp. A prince glides."
"I'm wearing sixty pounds of metal. Nobody's gliding."
"I glide."
"You can barely walk to the breakfast table."
"And yet when I do, it is with unparalleled grace." He indicated with his wine cup. "Less knee. More hip. The armor should move with you, not against you. Think of it as a partner in a dance. A waltz."
"I don't know what a waltz is.”
Wallace handed me a sword on a cloth. The blade caught the light. I reached for it and the moment my fingers closed around the hilt, something lit up inside me, like a child on Christmas morning.
"Oh, SICK!” I picked it up. It was lighter than I expected, the weight sitting right in my hand. I swung it once. The air sang. "This is so fucking COOL."
"Please do not —"
I swung it again, wider this time. The edge of the blade sliced through the air, just inches away from Wallace's face. He remained perfectly still, but his left eye started twitching slightly.
"Careful, please."
"Sorry, sorry—but dude, this thing is—" I spun it, attempting a figure eight. The tip caught the curtain and tore a six-inch gash in the fabric.
"Perhaps," Wallace suggested, taking a step back, "we should establish some ground rules regarding the sword."
"Can I keep it?"
"No."
"Can I sleep with it?"
“No.”
"What if I promise to —"
"The sword is a tool. Not a toy. You will learn to hold it. You will learn basic defensive positions. You will not spin it. You will not swing it indoors. You will not point it at anyone unless you intend to use it, and you will CERTAINLY not use it to reenact whatever it is you are currently reenacting."
"Fine." I lowered the sword. “But it is soooo cool.”
"It is a weapon of war."
"A cool weapon of war."
Wallace took a deep breath.
The lessons continued.
“The wave,” Wallace remarked, brandishing a polished mirror. "Wrist loose. Elbow gentle. You are acknowledging your subjects. Not summoning a horse."
I waved.
"No. You are not striking someone from across a room."
“Maybe we should start with something simple, like his walk," Wallace said. He presented a small, leather-bound notebook. The cover reads: Mannerisms & Speech Patterns of Prince Perceval: A Guide.
"You have a book about how he walks?"
"I wrote a comprehensive reference document. It was necessary." He turned a page. "The prince's stride is unhurried. He does not walk TO places. He arrives at them.”
I walked to the other side of the room. Wallace grimaced.
"Again. Now add the shoulders. They should be back but not rigid. Relaxed but not slack. As though the weight of responsibility rests upon them lightly."
"You must sigh more," Perceval offered. "I sigh at least four times in any given conversation. Five if someone mentions duty or obligation."
Wallace gave me a long piece of paper.
"These are phrases the prince uses in common conversation. Memorize them."
I unfurled it and read the first three lines.
"'How terribly quaint.' 'I find this situation deeply wearying.' 'Has anyone seen my moon chart?’ Bro. Nobody SHOULD talk like this."
"Try the first one."
"Like this?" In a painfully nasal voice, I raised my pinky in mock horror. "Oh heavens! My breeches are creased! Someone fetch the Ministry of Tailoring!”
Perceval let out a gasp. "Slander!"
Wallace sighed. "Let's try the walking drill." He held up the leather-bound notebook. "On your head."
"What?"
"Balance. Poise. The book goes on your head. You walk the length of the room without dropping it."
He placed it on my head. I took a step and it fell.
"Again."
Step. Fall.
"Again."
Step, step fall.
"Again."
Step step step. I sneezed, and it left my head, landed on the floor, bounced a few times, and then slipped beneath Percy's chair. One of the boys retrieved it.
"In his defense," Perceval said, seated on his cushioned throne, "I have never once placed a book upon my head. My poise is innate. It cannot be taught."
Wesley had been seated in the corner throughout the performance, with his legs crossed on the floor, taking it all in with intense concentration. I was certain he was soaking up every moment to write what I imagined would be a truly humiliating ode to me.
"Don't," I said, pointing at him.
"I have not said a word." He smiled.
Wallace handed me a small embroidered handkerchief.
"What's this for?"
"To dab away perspiration and maintain mystique."
I blew my nose in it.
Wallace closed his eyes.
"We begin again," he said. "From the top."