Chapter Text
one.
The sun was still below the horizon when Sir Richard awoke. Well. Not fully a Sir just yet, but it was important to believe fully in one's dreams. This is what he told anyone who would listen, namely, himself and Sirs Michael and Stanley, who had long grown tired of hearing their hard-won title so easily adopted.
They three were all that remained of their small cohort. Sir Michael was an orphan with nothing else to his name, nothing but what he had brought to it himself; Sir Stanley the only son in a long line of esteemed knights. There had been others to arrive in the old capitol at the same time as they, but there had been strange accidents since the earliest days. The old smith who had handed Richard his first sword hissed to hear the jokes he turned in the name of young George, struck down in his first year.
"Accidents follow the young," said in a low voice, hammer still for once against the massive anvil. "You'd do best to keep from tempting fate like that. Attracting its eye."
The best advice he'd ever received and he'd squandered it like he'd squandered everything else in his sixteen years, the patience of first his parents and then the only friends he'd ever known, and finally Sir Denbrough himself. How else to explain their absence as he was summoned to Denbrough's quarters so early, so obviously, while everyone was still abed? He had finally said the wrong thing too loudly, too often, and was being given his papers.
He knocked quietly on the door, some stray hope remaining that perhaps he'd go unheard and could creep away, temporary stay of execution, but a voice answered almost before his knuckles left the door. "Enter. Ah, Richard."
Richard - as Sir Denbrough called him when he was first squired, so he was known now - clasped his hands behind his back and tried desperately to remember the instructions regarding posture, casual and formal; hand position, should they be at his sides? No, this must be the one, and in any case, he'd already done it. Too late to change now, indecisive was surely worse than incorrect.
Sir Denbrough continued turning pages on his ancient oaken desk. "You'll have heard the news from one of your compatriots by now, I'm sure?"
It shouldn't have, but still it came as a shock to realize how fully Stanley and Michael - Sir Stanley, Sir Michael, of course, of course - had moved beyond him that they would have been informed of his failure first. A heavy weight settled in his stomach. "No, sir."
"Perhaps they've been assigned already, then. You'll need to pack soon." At this, Denbrough finally looked up and must have seen something in Richard's face, for his voice went soft as he continued, "we're heading out, boy. There's been a call from the north. Some kind of great beast has been sighted, and Derry will respond with aid."
"Sir? That is...that is, I'm to come as well? Is that what you mean to say?" A great many too many questions, but surely the old knight wouldn't begrudge him his confusion.
"Yes, indeed. A desperate time for the call to come, if they're sending squires." Those solemn eyes were heavy as they peered over Richard's face. "This is your chance, boy."
"I know. Sir."
Denbrough sighed. "Desperate times indeed, to be sending the young prince as well," and waved his hand for Richard to take his leave.
As he closed the heavy doors, too quickly as always, so that the noise resounded throughout the hall, he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye. He looked up the stairs to see the other Denbrough son, the elder. William? He'd left training when George did and was rarely seen outside the estate. Richard nodded, and after a long moment, the other boy did as well.
*
It had been many long hours on horseback, following closely behind Denbrough, before the grand procession came to a halt at sundown. Still further hours tending to the horses and tack, before Richard was able to sidle alongside Stanley, who he found cooling his feet in the river. "I can't believe you haven't requested for a squire yet," he called.
Stanley waited until Richard was beside him before inclining his head and replying easily, "Sir Denbrough shot of you at last?"
"Oh! What an honor! A true jape from the honorable Sir Stanley! Gather round, all!"
Stanley reached out to swipe at his side quickly, before he could think better of it, and stepped into a loose approximation of a fighting stance. "Do you give offense, Richard?" Rich laughed, feeling the long hours fall off his shoulders as they scuffled, until Stanley finally threatened to duck him in the river if he wouldn't quiet himself. They were too informal together, especially out of the grounds. It was one of Richard's many failings as a squire, his lack of respect for the knights above him, even those he had known when they still yelped to find spiders crawling along their bedroll.
It wasn't until the last of the saddles and spurs had been wiped down and stowed that Richard realized what had been tugging at the back of his mind. "Where is Michael?"
"I don't know. I didn't see him mount up before we left."
"What! Surely not. He wouldn't have missed this."
Stanley was silent for a long moment. "His things were gone. But I didn't see him leave, and I don't see him here."
"Perhaps it was all too much for him," Richard said half heartedly.
"There's something wrong with this," Stanley said. "Can you not feel it? We shouldn't have come."
"It is odd," he responded slowly. "But I can't ask any more questions of Denbrough. Not now."
Stanley hummed out a small noise. "They'll talk more when we reach the town tomorrow. If they're not too busy with the prince."
"Have you seen him, then? Is he really here?" Richard asked, too quickly to be truly casual. They'd all heard the stories, of course, and had seen him watching the training exercises and exhibitions from the royal balcony. The prince had come down to the training floor, once, followed by his retinue. His face had seemed to be made entirely of large, sad eyes, and Richard had held his gaze before catching himself and bowing his head until he'd left. Stanley and Michael had noticed and teased him mercilessly for it for years.
"He is," Stanley replied, and then, "That's wrong, too." Then he would say no more, and let the quiet noises of the river and the night smooth over them both.
*
There was no sign of Michael as the camp broke up come the morning. It was another hard day ahead of them, many long miles to go before they could respond to their call. The land around them turned slowly from farmland to low, rocky hills, grey seeping through green.
Denbrough told him more as they rode: that a man had come to the castle. That the man had been sent by a desperate town. That the man had not been the first to be sent. That the man had ridden almost without stopping. That the man said something terrible had come from the caves. That the man had collapsed with no color left in his eyes.
The young prince - called Edward by Denbrough, one of his oldest advisors left in the court - had listened, white faced, until the man was removed to the physician. He had listened silently, as he always did, to the advice of the knights, and to the advice of the queen his mother, his regent these many years since the death of the king. Listened silently, as she called the man moonstruck and a drunk, as she turned to the prince for his final assent. Silently, until:
"Yes.
Yes, we will go.
I will go."
*
It was dusk when they found the edges of the town. Denbrough took several men with him to find those in the town. They were unsure of their reception to come, as it would come without introduction, and those with swords wore them.
The walk into the center of town was as grim as the outskirts, the mix of light grey stones with darker boulders the only variation. As they entered a small tavern, Denbrough caught Richard's eye and nodded at a table off to the side before continuing on toward the back. He heaved a sigh and tugged on the fine leather scabbard Stanley wore at his waist, made his own small nod at the table.
"Come on. Kid's table," he heard himself say, and wondered at himself. He received a look in response that was no more or less nonplussed than it ever was.
As they sat, a girl with thick red curls hurried to their table. "Is it true?" She asked. "You're the ones who've come to see the monster from the cave?"
"I suppose," Stanley said, quickly. "Yes."
"You're young still," she said, just as quickly.
Richard coughed out a laugh. "Well spotted!"
The girl shook her head. "You don't understand. The men in town, they can't see it," she hissed. "I've seen where it goes at night. Me and him, back in the kitchens."
"And where do you and him from the kitchens go at night, then?" Richard tossed out, before Stanley could respond again. She gave him an ugly look and uglier gesture, and turned to Stanley.
"People are missing. Children - they can't see it, and they won't understand. It will get them."
Stanley made a serious face, one that told Richard what the answer was going to be before he opened his mouth.
*
Benjamin - for that was the boy from the kitchen's name - told them of the town as they waited outside the tavern. His mother ran the tavern, and had run it alone until the girl had joined them. "She's a real help," said Ben. "Her -" and here he broke off, startled by the heavy sounds of hooves thundering up the road through town. As both horse and rider came into view, the frozen icy weight in Richard's chest eased. Of course Michael had come. Of course he hadn't left them to answer the great call without him.
A second figure, seated behind Michael, became clear as the horse slowed to a trot, then came to a halt in front of them. It was Denbrough's quiet son, the one from the stairwell. Stanley raised a hand in greeting but bit off what words he was preparing as Michael swung himself down from the horse's back.
"We don't have much time," he said. "We need to find someone to take us to the caves."
*
They were a silent, overly formal procession through the grey, rocky hills. The low grass made dry, scrabbling noises against the hard leather of Richard's boots; an ugly sound, like branches against glass.
Michael drew to a stop as they turned around a cliff face along a bend in the trail. "Are you certain this is the right way?"
The girl from the tavern frowned. "Of course we know the way."
"Then we're being followed," he responded, gesturing for the others to move behind him, away from the path. "There's something coming up behind us."
Richard could hear the noises now that nothing else was moving. Something was scuffling up the hills just as they had done, all along the creeping pathways. There was an awful pressure building in his chest as the noises grew. Benjamin made a quizzical face and whispered, "I can hear someone...talking?"
And a voice said, lowly but audibly from just behind the turn, "come on. Come on, you can do this," and turned the corner, and was the prince. Richard laughed outright at his expression, a grimace that was somehow pleased. "It's you!"
"Yes, astounding," Richard exclaimed, in his grandest voice. "You've managed to track down the very knights meant to escort you!"
"Fuck off!"
"Well," said Denbrough's quiet son, into the silence this left. "L-Lucky seven, eh?"
He had scarcely finished speaking when the beast emerged, screaming, from the cave.
*
The monster shook free of the rocks and stood fully. It was larger than anything he'd ever seen, and hideously contorted; too many limbs, too many eyes. It loosed a horrible screaming laugh and feinted toward them. Laughing again as they scattered further.
"Beverly!" Richard yelled out. "Watch out!" She rolled to the side as one twisted leg slammed to the ground, quickly pulled herself back up and further from its reach. She gave him a small nod of thanks.
"Stop," Stanley hissed, putting a hand on his arm. "How did you know her name?"
"I -" Richard began, and stopped. She'd told them, before they'd left the tavern. No. After.
"Listen to me," Stanley said, raising his voice as the creature bellowed once more. "This isn't right!"
The hideous laughter grew louder, and as Richard watched it reached out with one foul clawed hand to clutch Stanley and throw him back into the cave.
A terrible cry ripped from Richard's throat. He fell heavily to his knees, aware outside of himself of footsteps running up alongside him. The creature laughed again as a hand clutched at his shoulder. He felt his own hand reach up to grasp it.
"Rich - Richie," said the prince, improbably. "Are you okay?"
"How do you know my name?"
His brow furrowed deeper. Such a heavy brow for a boy. "Of course I know your name, Richie. You think I'd forget again?"
The scream came closer again, as Richie froze. One hand still clutched Eddie's hand in his own. He was holding it, so tightly, when he heard the laugh, as the great hideous claw swung down.
THIS ISN'T WHAT HAPPENS.
BUT IT COULD.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND, RICHIE?
But he didn't.
VERY WELL.
And as Richie watched the frozen scene below him, the figures of Ben and Bev huddled around Stan, Mike gesturing between Bill and the caves, Eddie kneeling with his hand clinging to nothing, and the beast, the awful claw arrested in its path: all dissolved around him.
I WILL SHOW YOU AGAIN.