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imagine-darksiders · 1 year

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The Lovelorn King.

Bowser X Reader - Chapter 1

Summary: As a royal hailing from lands far removed from the Mushroom Kingdom, you find yourself alighting upon the shores of Princess Peach's city, there to answer her request to enter into an alliance that will unite your realms. But you arrive to a suspiciously empty port-side town and go searching for the inhabitants, much to the ship Captain's chagrin.

It doesn't take you long to stumble upon somebody the likes of whom you've never seen before. He calls himself, 'Bowser Junior.' Upon learning of his failure to procure his beloved 'Papa' the perfect birthday present, you invite the boy back to your galleon, hoping that he might find something among the treasures there to give his father. If only you knew that there was one thing on that ship more valuable to the Koopaling than pretty gems and valuable objects...

Tags: Bowser X Reader, Royal Reader, Female Reader, Bowser Jr, Kidnapping, Fluff, Angst, Unrequited Love, Infatuation at first sight, Lonely Bowser, Protective Bowser, Slow-Burn, Big himbo energy, Friendship, Developing friendships, Bowser is BIG okay? Koopa Troopas.

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As far as welcomes go, you've definitely had warmer.

This, of course, you deign to keep to yourself as nothing more than a closely-guarded thought, never to be voiced aloud, though you can tell from the look on the ship Captain's face that you aren't the only one who has been caught off-guard by the notably empty port.

With a generous spin of her oak-wood wheel, The Bonhomous turns her bow to the east of the port, cutting a path through the placid waters as her crew scuttles about on deck in preparation of a seamless landing. The ship's oaken bowsprit juts out over the sea and seems almost afire, burning orange and gold in the dawn light.

Up on the stern with the Captain, you stand with your hands clasped loosely at your back, drawing in a long, crisp breath that fills your lungs and clears your sleep-fogged brain, blinking salty residue from the corners of your eyes, whilst below you, down on the deck, an authoritative bellow from the Quartermaster booms out across the ship, heard well above the screaming sea birds that soar overhead on updrafts of sun-warmed air.

“DROP ANCHOR!”

Positively music to your ears...

The clattering rattle of a chain stirs the air as the anchor is released from its holdings and goes plunging down into the frigid waters.

It seems a long time coming, the sight of dry land and civilisation after several months spent traversing the vast and oftentimes indomitable ocean. To have finally arrived here in the rich and vibrant Mushroom Kingdom is as much of a relief as spring sunshine after the winter frost, empty port or no...

The last letter you'd received from the monarch of this kingdom – one Princess Peach – had requested your personal presence here in order to solidify and sign into this newfound alliance. She'd also made mention that you'd be received as if you were an old friend, which, you suppose, isn't such an embellishment of the truth. Your kingdom and her own have been corresponding and trading for well over a year now. This is just the first time a member of your Royal Household has made the perilous journey to the Mushroom Kingdom.

You and the Princess had struck up something of an accord through your numerous letters after you took the plunge and reached out, explaining to her how your home is small and secular, but you've been working tirelessly to try and rebuild the connections that your tyrannical father had torn down before his passing.

Her lineage never did have dealings with yours, which may be why she seemed more open than others to extend the hand of friendship back your way.

And now, here you are – as your kingdom's sole surviving ruler with a ship stuffed to the gunnels with supplies and treasures from your homeland, all intended as a show of your good faith and willingness to establish a long-term alliance with the Toad people.

The only thing amiss is that the welcoming committee you'd been anticipating is... nowhere to be found.

There's a sudden and muffled thud as the anchor's flukes collide with the sea bed, followed by a troubled hum from the Captain, shifting on her feet at the helm beside you.

“Not sure what to make of this, Ma'am,” she announces warily, casting her flint-grey eyes out at the bizarre structures lining the port.

Buildings, you venture, fashioned from gigantic toadstools.

Ingenious! When Princess Peach included an illustrated encyclopedia with one of her letters, you'd been enchanted by everything inside it, enough that you felt inadequate as you packaged off the history of your own kingdom, dull and grey and lifeless comparatively.

Even now, your restless fingers begin to fidget with the fabric of your travel dress, eager to begin exploring this unfamiliar world.

The Captain's suspicious grumblings do little to dampen your spirit of adventure.

“It is only dawn, Captain,” you reason, watching the crew hoist the mainsails and drop the wooden gangplank onto the dock, effectively bridging the gap between your vessel and solid ground. “Perhaps their customs differ from ours. They might be a little later to rise, for instance.”

Her weather-beaten brow furrows beneath her hat, forging deep crevices across the dark expanse of skin.

She hardly looks reassured by your words.

Inevitably, her own trepidation only feeds yours like billows to a dying fire, causing an apprehensive bubble to burst in your stomach. It... really is quiet out here...

“Still... you don't suppose....” Trailing off, you turn to hide your lips from a crew that have spent years honing an ability to read their Captain's lips when they can't hear her over a howling storm. “Supposing it's an ambush?” you finish softly.

If the crew is already on edge about sailing into a seemingly abandoned port, you don't want to put their backs up by voicing their concerns out loud and giving them traction.

The Captain sniffs, stepping away from the wheel and circling to face the stern of her ship alongside you. “Not likely,” she huffs, jerking her head towards the enormous mushrooms, “See the chimneys?”

Flicking your gaze up to the line of unconventional 'roofs,' you quirk a brow at the thin trails of smoke drifting out of the aforementioned chimneys, blown inland by a stiff, ocean breeze. “Smoke,” you hum in understanding, “People are at home...”

The Captain's broad hat dips as she nods. “Mm, seen a couple of shapes moving behind the windows too. Nobody'd be daft enough to attack a galleon with her starboard cannons aimed at their settlement. Not when they're hiding out in the buildings. She's armed to the teeth.”

… Sound logic, you muse. There's a reason you restored her title as the Bonhomous's Captain the moment you had the authority to do so. One of the biggest mistakes your father ever made was to give Captain Skip the boot.

Her words serve to ease your nerves a little, and soon you find the trepidation has moved aside to allow a healthy dose of curiosity to settle in your chest.

“Perhaps they're just painfully shy,” you excuse at last as you turn to head for the ornate stairs leading from the stern down onto the deck, “Regardless, we should be concerning ourselves with making our own first impression, not theirs.”

Lifting the hem of your dress up so as to avoid catching splinters in the fine silk, you take the stairs one brisk step at a time, though you only manage to make it halfway down before the Captain's voice halts you in your tracks.

“With respect, ma'am, I hope you're not heading for that gangplank...”

You have to bite down hard on the vulgar word the crew taught you last week, instead plastering on a demure smile and twisting your head to peer innocently up at the Captain over your shoulder, past the ruffles festooning your neck.

“I'm afraid I don't know what a gang plank is, Captain. I'm just going to stretch my legs.”

Her eyes narrow dangerously until they resemble little more than thin, dark slits, shadowed by the brim of her hat.

“Pardon my language, Your Majesty, but you know bloody well what a gangplank is. Don't go near it.” Then, for added measure, she squares her shoulders and adds, “Captain's orders.”

Ever polite, you dip your chin at her out of genuine respect, your voice solemn when you reply, “I am well aware of Maritime Law, and your absolute authority on this ship. Rest assured, Captain, I will not be going near that gang plank.”

From the flare of her nostrils to the tightening of her angular jaw, you know she can see right through you as if you're made of the flimsiest glass. But just as she takes a step in your direction, mouth falling open with a sharp word or two doubtlessly hanging off her tongue, she's interrupted by the familiar call of her Quartermaster.

“Captain!” the short, portly man lumbers across the deck, beckoning her down from her perch on the stern, “A word?”

Her head snaps towards him, crow-like, but you don't stick around to waste this perfect opportunity. Trotting deftly down the rest of the steps, you duck underneath the arm of one sailor who's hauling a bucket of soapy water on his shoulder and turn your shoes towards the ship's bow, where there are lines of rope dangling from the foremast, those that have yet to tie its sail back.

No. You won't go near the gangplank. Your word is solid, and you endeavour to keep it whenever you can. But you never said you wouldn't find an alternative way to leave the ship.

The Captain should have learned by now that you've spent far longer playing the game than she has, having growing up in the company of nobility and the aristocracy, who use their words as weapons, and who honed their language into a powerful tool that could be used to their advantage.

When Captain Skip goes ballistic at you – which she inevitably will once she realises you've disembarked without an escort – you'll remind her that she only told you to stay away from the gangplank, not that you were forbidden from leaving The Bonhomous at all.

Oh, you imagine she'll spit and hiss and fume like an over-boiled kettle, but she won't have a leg to stand on.

You smile wryly as you hoist yourself up onto the woven shrouds and curl your fingers around a piece of dangling rope, tugging on it to test its give.

She fails to realise, that for as much as she believes you to be under her protection, she is just as much - if not more so – under yours.

They all are - Everyone man and woman on this ship, and those that have remained back home. You're their ruler. Those in charge are supposed to take care of their people.

If there is something untoward going on in this strange, fungi-infested town, then you'd much rather be the one to encounter it first. The Bonhomous and her crew are here at your behest, after all. If you've lead them into a trap, then you must be the one to spring it.

The loose rigging line sits sturdy in your hands, and it's well-affixed to the reef tackles high over your head. Behind you, a sailor clicks their tongue whilst another hesitantly asks what you think you're doing.

You only pause long enough to shoot a fleeting grin over your shoulder at them, catching the eye of a few, weary crewmen, all of whom seem resigned to your imminent departure. And then, in a most unladylike fashion, you hoist your skirts up over your knees with one hand and use the rigging to haul yourself up onto the side of the hull, peering out over the water.

The gap between ship and shore is hardly substantial. With a good run up, you could make it without the rope, but as it is...

You take a flying leap out over the water and feel the rope go tight as it catches your weight and swings you gracefully across to the pale, stone dock, revelling in the blast of cool wind that blows through your hair.

As your shoes touch down on the other side, you release the rope and swallow a giddy whoop to maintain your dignity.

“Oh, at last,” you gush instead, clasping your hands together, “Dry land!”

Sticking out your chest, you allow a tiny ounce of pride to lift your cheeks into a grin.

Already, you've trodden further afield than your father ever went in his life.

“Now then,” you muse to yourself as you swivel your head up and down the port, “To solve the mystery of the missing townsfolk...”

Before the Captain can register your absence, you take off at a brisk stride, stealing away from the docks and heading towards the town proper.

------------

Every corner you turn, you only find more of the same gigantic mushrooms that have been painstakingly fashioned into homes, shops and cafes, dotted along every cobblestone street. And yet for the sheer number of them, all you seem to be able to find are more boarded up doorways, shadowy figures flitting past window panes and the all too familiar prickle at the back of your neck that alerts you to eyes watching your every move.

Letting out a disconcerted hum, you try to recall whether Princess Peach had ever made mention of the Toads being particularly skittish or wary....

Rounding the corner of yet another mushroom, you find yourself venturing out of a narrow street and onto a pretty town plaza with a row of homes surrounding its perimeter and a large, glittering fountain taking centre stage, spurting out torrents of water that sparkles brilliantly in the golden sunrise.

It momentarily causes your step to falter, gazing up at the resplendence in the architecture.

Aside from yourself, the plaza appears just as empty as the rest of the town, much to your dismay.

As you start to consider simply going up to one of the tiny, wooden doors and knocking on it until somebody answers, an altogether new sound catches your ear, vastly different from the brush of leaves across stone, or the ocean waves lapping at a distant shoreline.

All at once, you hone in on the sound, whipping your head around fast enough to leave a twinge in your neck.

It sounded like... a horribly desolate sigh.

Curiosity piqued, you start towards the fountain, casting your gaze about until your shoes come to an abrupt halt on the cobblestone.

There, slumped upon one of the wooden benches set up to face the watery spectacle, you spy a figure, one that sports a startling shock of fiery red hair.

Relieved to have at last stumbled upon another person, you approach the back of the bench, and once you draw close enough to confirm that, yes, that's definitely a person sitting there, you raise a fist and clear your throat, making your presence known.

“Ahem, excuse me-”

Whatever you'd intended to say afterwards is sadly drowned out by a deafening yelp as the person on the bench leaps from their seat, and in their haste to spin around, they end up toppling over backwards and landing on the ground with an audible, bone-crunching 'smack!'

Aghast at yourself, you inhale sharply and dash around the bench, apologies tumbling off your lips in quick succession. “Oh my-! I am so sorry! I can't apologise enough! I-I thought you heard me. Are you all right?!”

As soon as your eyes land upon the stranger, you suck in another, tiny gasp as your jaw falls open, briefly overcome with awe and wonder.

This person is quite unlike anybody you've ever come across in your life, and you unwittingly pause mid-stride, taken aback for a time.

Floundering around on the cobblestone between the bench and the fountain on their back, apparently stuck, is somebody who reminds you at once of some kind of overturned turtle.

They've landed right on top of their shell – a green, spiked dome that covers the expanse of their back. Grunts of frustration fill the air as stocky little legs kick madly in an effort to right themselves, and a disproportionately large head attempts to lift itself off the ground to glare at you.

Within less than a second, you blink away your surprise and drop down onto your knees, grasping a pair of thickset, yellow wrists and hauling the unfortunate person back onto their feet.

'Cripes!' you think to yourself. They're heavy, whoever they are. But after struggling for several, awkward seconds, you manage to heave them up without putting your back out, and as soon as they're upright, you release their arms and flop back to sit on your heels, finally taking proper stock of your unwitting victim.

“HEY! What's the big idea!?” they – he? - shouts at you, balling his pudgy, three-fingered hands into fists and tearing backwards as if he means to get as far away from you as possible before the wall of the fountain obstructs his retreat.

He's squat and round, standing only half as tall as you with tiny eyes as black as pitch and entirely featureless as they glare up at you hotly. Beady, but still expressive.

Frankly, you have no idea what he is, but his voice, stature and the large, white bandana slung around his neck all lend to the impression of someone very young.

And if that's the case, then what in the world is he doing out here alone at this ungodly hour, in the middle of such a suspiciously quiet town?

Shoving speculation aside, you remain there before him, the knees of your dress gathering dirt from the ground as a trickle of shame pools in your stomach.

“Again, I can't apologise enough,” you gush, wringing your hands together in your lap, “This is... not the first impression I was hoping to make... Are you hurt?”

One of his hands has reached behind his head to probe at a spot near his fiery ponytail whilst he grumbles under his breath, pulling a face that exposes the large, gleaming tusk jutting out from beneath his upper lip.

Without thinking too hard on it, you click your tongue and reach a hand out for him again, murmuring, “Here, let me see...”

You feel him flinch underneath your fingers as they alight gently on his chubby, yellow cheek. But rather than wrenching himself away from you, his whole body stiffens in an instant and his eyes bulge out when you turn his head to one side and lean forwards, inspecting the dome of his skull.

To your relief, the only sign of damage is a small patch of grit sticking to his scales, picked up from the dusty, stone ground.

Tutting to yourself, you pull the sleeve of your dress down over a thumb and wet it with your tongue before returning your free hand to the back of his head. “Hold still,” you instruct him, though the request seems redundant in hindsight, given that he's as rigid as the stone underfoot.

Careful as can be, you sweep your thumb over the grit and wipe it away to reveal the tiny, thankfully unbroken scales beneath.

Satisfied, you draw away and return your hands to your lap, offering the stunned stranger your most amicable smile. “There. No scrapes or bumps in sight. I think you'll survive.”

Thick, auburn eyebrows twist up in confusion as he turns to face you again, cocking his head and regarding you as if you've sprouted an extra pair of arms.

Even kneeling, you're still an inch or so taller than he is standing up.

Before you can utter another word, you find a clawed fingertip jabbing at the air just in front of your nose, his little tail held high and alert.

“Just who the heck do you think you are, lady!?” he demands in a shrill, raucous voice, “You can't go around sneaking up on people like that! I could'a blasted you!”

Caught off guard, but pleased that he seems fine, you lean away from his finger and splay your hand across your chest, feigning an impressed look. “Goodness! I suppose I should be counting my lucky stars, then.”

“Yeah! You should!” he readily harrumphs, withdrawing his arm and folding both of them across his chest, turning his snout away from you again.

Apparently snubbed, you muscle down a grin for the sake of his pride. You must have startled him more than he'd care to admit, if the embarrassed pinch of his lips is any indication.

After a few seconds, he shifts his nose towards you once more, his dark eyes flitting up and down as he gives you a quick once-over.

“Who are you anyway?” he demands, “I don't recognise you.”

Amused by his informality, you offer him a patient smile and reply, “I'd be surprised if you did. I'm afraid I'm not a frequenter of the Mushroom Kingdom. This is my first visit, in fact. I've sailed here from across the ocean.”

At that, his brows quirk up in intrigue and he drops his arms to his sides. “Sailed across the ocean?” he asks with the barest hint of awe softening his tone. Then, all at once, his eyes grow exceptionally wide and he excitedly blurts, “Are you a pirate!”

Letting out a good-natured laugh, you say, “Sadly, no. No. Piracy is not in my job description, I'm afraid.”

To your surprise, he looks downcast at the admission, but in the next moment, he perks up again and points at you, his claw once again hovering just inches from your nose. “What's your name!?” he all but barks.

Dimly, you wonder if anyone has told him that it's rude to point...

Clearing your throat, you reply, “My name is Y/n.” Then, after a pause, you offer him a sweep of your hand. “And you are...?”

In response, he sticks out his chest and plants one hand firmly on his hip, jamming the opposite thumb against his sternum, striking a dignified pose.

“Name's Junior!” he declares with all the confidence of a venerated dignitary, “Bowser Junior!”

'Junior... What a charming title,' you muse, 'I wonder if he's named after anybody.'

“Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Bowser Junior,” you tell him earnestly, tipping your head to him in a gesture of respect.

For reasons unbeknownst to you however, your response seems to knock some of the wind from his sails. Two, thickset shoulders slump dejectedly and he squints up at you, slowly reiterating, “The Bowser Junior...?”

…. You start to wonder if he'd be offended that you haven't, in fact, heard of 'The Bowser Junior...'

When you don't respond, his posture droops even further and he gapes at you, borderline desperate. “You know. After King Bowser? As in, King of the Koopas!?”

Well... That little tidbit of information is quick to grab your attention, though you've never heard of this King either.

“King Bowser?” you echo, drawing your brows together to form a pensive frown, “I... Forgive me but I was under the impression that Princess Peach is the reigning monarch here.”

Blowing a haughty scoff through his fangs, Junior turns his soft, round snout skywards and barks, “Nu-uh! She's just ruler of the Mushroom Kingdom. But someday, my Papa's gonna rule the whole world!”

And just like that, your frown recedes along with your trepidation.

Of course... You ought to have guessed that this child is only doing as children often do.

Gone are the days when you used to whittle away the long, lonely days playing pretend by yourself in the castle grounds.

'King of the world indeed,' you smile to yourself. You're beginning to like this kid.

“And your... 'Papa,” you say aloud, “He and this King Bowser are one in the same, I presume?”

“Sure are!” he exclaims proudly, “He's the best Papa in the entire galaxy! Not every kid can say their dad is a King!”

“Mm, that's quite the accomplishment,” you quip, smiling brightly when he juts his chin high into the air, “But... does your father know you're out here by yourself?”

In a blink, Junior's broad grin vanishes and he lowers his eyes to glower at you. “Hey! I'm no baby! I can take care of myself, lady!”

“I never said you couldn't,” you hastily return, holding your hands up to placate him, “I only wondered if he was nearby.” Swallowing thickly, you turn to cast a searching look over the plaza and murmur, “It'd be nice to know that someone else is around. This town seems rather... vacant, at the moment.”

Bowser Junior's muzzle curls around a snort, his slitted nostrils flaring as he follows your eye and shoots a dark glare at the nearby houses. “You're tellin' me,” he gripes.

Silence sits between the pair of you for several, uncertain moments before he abruptly breaks it by puffing out his cheeks and raising a hand to scratch at the green scales that sit just beneath his ponytail. “Well.. Sorry to disappoint you, but my Papa's not here. He was still asleep when I left.”

“Ugh. Jealous.”

“He always has a lie-in on his birthday.”

“Oh, is it his birthday today?” you ask, carefully adding, “In that case, shouldn't you be at home too, ready to wish him a happy birthday when he wakes up? Won't he be worried when he finds you gone?”

For a few more moments, the boy doesn't offer a reply until, to your dismay, his hard expression promptly crumples like a brittle bone and he heaves another sigh, trudging around you to make for the bench you'd startled him from.

Puzzled at this abrupt shift in his demeanour, you quirk a brow after him and rise to your feet, turning to watch as he hoists himself onto the seat and slouches down in it, letting out a soft, petulant huff.

“That's the problem,” he mutters, glowering at the fountain over his crossed arms, “I wanna be there to wish him happy birthday, but I can't be!”

Stretching your lips into a thin line, you take a tentative seat beside him and ask, “Why not?”

“Cause I haven't found him the perfect present yet!” he barks as if it should be entirely obvious.

Should it? You couldn't rightly say.

“I see...” Regardless, you give a nod of understanding, puckering your forehead thoughtfully. “And so, you're here to look for something in the shops?”

You have to recoil a few inches to avoid his arms when he throws them out wide and exclaims, “Exactly! I've been lookin' all over this stupid island! But I can't find anything good enough! So, I came here! But none of these Toads'll open their doors!” Snatching his hands back, he tucks them securely under his armpits with a grumble. “M'not even tryin' to steal anythin' this time.”

Setting aside the worrying mention of 'this time,' you duck your head and try to catch his gaze, reasoning softly, “Perhaps it's just too early? Their shops might not even be open yet.”

You find yourself cut off by an abrupt scoff.

“Nah, they just hate me,” he pouts, “Even though I brought my allowance and everything, they still won't even let me look for somethin' to get Papa. I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't an emergency! But all those Toads wanna do is hide in their mushrooms and tell me to 'go away!”

Now, that is definitely odd. 'Surely,' you think, jaw set, 'Surely these townsfolk aren't barricading themselves inside their homes because of one, little kid?'

Aloud, you say, “What makes you think they're hiding from you?”

Sparing you an exasperated look, Junior retorts, “I told you, cause they don't like me. And they especially don't like my Papa.”

Deep within the cavern of your ribcage, indignation begins to raise its sleepy head... How often have you been spurned by those around you because of your heritage?

“Why on earth don't they like you?” you blurt, incredulous and frankly irked on his behalf, “You seem perfectly likeable to me!”

Turning to aim a disdainful glance at some of the mushroom houses across the plaza, you miss the bewildered look Junior is sending your way, his lower jaw hanging slightly agape.

It's an absurd idea, if it's true. An entire town wouldn't shun a rambunctious kid like this...

But if it is true....? Well...

“More fool them, I say,” you huff to yourself.

At your side, Junior perks up at your words and his wide mouth stretches into a smirk.

“Hey, yeah!” he bobs his head decisively, leaping to stand up precariously on the bench and thrust an arm into the air, “Yeah! They are fools!”

The wood below you creaks and groans in protest when he stomps his foot on the seat enthusiastically.

Overcome with the urge to disguise your laughter, you cover your mouth with a few fingertips and send him a playful frown. “I don't think that's quite what I said, but I'll let it slide... because I've just had a brainwave.”

Junior stills, tipping his head sideways curiously. “Huh?”

“Well,” you start, “It just so happens that the ship I came here on has quite a few treasures stored in her hold. I'm sure nobody would mind if you picked something out to give to your father.”

Princess Peach won't miss what she doesn't know is missing, after all.

And besides, the sun has risen considerably higher since you set off from the Bonhomous. You should really have returned well before now.

The boy next to you leaps down off the bench before whirling to face you again, his eyes sparkling like a pair of obsidian gemstones. “Woah! Seriously? You're just gonna let me take your pirate treasure!?” he shouts just a little too close to your ear.

Suppressing a wince, you get to your feet and gesture in the direction of the docks. “Again, I'm afraid it isn't pirate treasure. Everything we've brought with us, we came by honestly. But there's all sorts in that hull. Hopefully something is bound to catch your fancy. Come, I'll show you.”

Though his legs are squat and stocky, Junior is surprisingly nimble on his feet as he bounds after you with an eager chirp, keeping up easily with your longer, more languid stride.

--------

As you make your way back towards port, you quickly discover that, like most children, your newfound tagalong has a seemingly bottomless well of questions that never runs the risk of drying up.

“Are there any blasters on your ship!?” he asks, hopping along the cobblestone pavement whilst taking great care to avoid any cracks – a game which you yourself can recall playing during your youth. “What about diamonds!? Giant hammers? Oh! Oh! You got any comic books in there!?”

You're having a tough yet admittedly fun time keeping up with his runaway trains of thought as he jumps from one extreme to another.

Sparing him a knowing glance from the corner of an eye, you drawl, “Oh? Does your father enjoy reading comic books?”

The boy's game is put on pause as he lands on a wide slab ahead of you, balanced on one leg with his shoulders hunched. “Uhhh...” he falters, only briefly. Soon enough though, his confidence comes charging back full-force. “Uh, yeah! Yeah, he loves 'em! But they gotta be really, really cool ones. He's a collector!”

“A collector? I see... It sounds as though your, ah, father has impeccable taste,” you remark, striding past him and pretending not to notice the way his stumpy, little tail begins to wag from side to side. “Well,” you continue, “While there aren't any comics stored in the cargo hold, I do have some from my own, personal collection. You're welcome to peruse those, if you like.”

As you stroll on ahead of a now stationary Junior, his jaw drops open, gawking in disbelief.

“Wait a second!” he blares, “You read comic books!?”

Nonchalant, you swing your hands behind your back and clasp them together, replying, “Of course. Don't you?”

Without missing a beat, he barks, “You bet I do!” only to cut himself off when he seems to remember something, quickly lowering his voice to add, “I-I mean, not as much as my Papa does though. He goes nuts for 'em! Kind of embarrassin' huh?”

“I don't think it's embarrassing at all,” you reply in earnest, “He shouldn't be ashamed to partake in things that make him happy.”

It seems that all too soon, the Bonhomous's towering masts come into view over the roofs of the mushroom houses, drawing the discussion to an end once Junior catches sight of the ship.

“I thought you said it wasn't a pirate ship!?” he demands, pointing an accusing claw down the length of the docks and glaring up at you as if you've somehow betrayed him.

You almost let out an undignified snort, reeling it in just in time before it escapes. For a child, you suppose that a galleon and a pirate ship aren't leagues apart, after all.

“Technically, I said that we aren't pirates,” you correct him gently, gesturing to yourself, “I never said that we didn't sail here on a pirate ship.”

The way his face lights up makes your guilt at calling the noble Bonhomous a mere 'pirate ship' worth it. Such a term hardly encapsulates her splendour.

As you near the ship herself, you cast your gaze to the land beside her and immediately feel your stomach clench when you spy the group of sailors standing dockside by the gangplank, accompanied by their Captain, whose wild hand gestures imply that she's either sending search parties off in different directions to look for their wayward monarch, or she's telling her crew where to bury the pieces of you she's about to tear off. Even from here, you can see that some of the men are paler in the face than usual, evidence that she'd given them a verbal lashing for letting you slip away unnoticed.

You're not especially keen to lead Junior into air that's undoubtedly been turned blue by now, so you cup a hand around your mouth and call, “Captain! Over here!”

The speed at which her head snaps in your direction is frightening and almost dislodges her hat from atop her head. Even dozens of yards away, you can make out her expression fight to settle between unmitigated fury and palpable relief.

Yet there's dangerous rigidity in her jaw as she begins to stalk in your direction, slow and calculated like a predator.

Subconsciously on your part, you draw to a halt and take a subtle, sideways step in front of Junior, who offers up a sound of confusion from the back of his throat, but otherwise remains silent behind your guarding stance, staring up at you in surprise.

“You!” the Captain hollers, lowering her head, wolflike, whereas you raise your chin to meet her glare, undeterred – not because she doesn't scare you, which she absolutely does despite your station - but because you know that your premature disembarking was justified and you're prepared to argue the point.

She slithers to a stop only when the toes of her boots are scant inches away from colliding with yours, glaring down her nose at you and bristling like an alley cat.

For a moment, her jaw remains clenched tighter than a vice as the air around you grows thick with her exasperation until she finally pries her teeth apart to speak. But before she can utter a single word, you beat her to the punch.

“Captain Skip, I'd like to introduce you to someone.”

She hardly even seems to register your words, too incensed in her broiling concern.

“If I may speak freely, ma'am,” she hisses dangerously, “You are as slippery as an eel. I turn my back not five seconds and you're gone!”

“Captain-” you try again.

“Without an escort! You're askin' for trouble, you are! What if somebody nabbed you!? I told you not to leave the ship!”

One corner of your mouth quivers. “If you recall, Captain,” you say coolly, “You asked me not to go near the gangplank. I can assure you, I stayed well clear of it when I left the ship.”

As expected, her cheeks instantly puff out as she only just manages to trap some unpleasant words behind her tongue. Hot air gushes from the fire in her lungs up into her mouth, swirling behind her clenched teeth where it stays for a few more seconds before she releases it all in a noisy sigh that blasts your hair away from your face.

“Semantics...” she grinds out, raising a hand to massage at the bridge of her nose, eyes pressed firmly shut, “Of course... I knew - I knew I should've-...”

Juxtaposed against her fiery outburst, the Captain suddenly trails off and goes still, her eyes drifting down to peer at your side at a glacial pace.

“... Ma'am...?”

“Captain?” you return lightly.

“... Been makin' friends, have you?” She jerks her chin down at the pudgy snout that's poking out from behind your leg.

Plastering on a winning smile, you twist yourself sideways to reveal Junior, who is busy glaring up at the Captain with a mixture of suspicion and awe gleaming in his eyes.

She shoots you a frosty glare and shakes her head. “Why am I not surprised...?”

Junior flinches when your hand comes down delicately on his shoulder, but he stands his ground, flicking his eyes between you and the other human as you fall into introductions.

“Bowser Junior, I'd like you to meet the venerable Captain Skip - the finest captain I've ever sailed with.”

“I'm the only captain you've ever sailed with,” she grunts, rolling her gaze heavenwards.

Flashing her a wink, you add, “And here's hoping you'll be the last.”

“At the rate you're going Ma'am, I likely will be.”

Ignoring her jab at your longevity, you gesture politely down at your new acquaintance. “Captain, this fine young gentleman is Mr Bowser Junior.”

The boy's round chin juts proudly at the introduction whilst the Captain appraises him from beneath hooded eyelids.

“Huh, a Koopa, eh?” she observes, taking you by surprise, “Been a fair old while since I've seen one of your ilk, lad.”

“You're familiar with his species?” you ask.

Still regarding Junior, she hums pensively, “Mm, to a degree. Though never one this young. And we seldom cross paths with 'em on the water. Their kind have mastered travelling by air.”

“How remarkable!”

Your line of inquiry is cut short when a clawed hand curls into the garland of your dress and gives it a few, firm tugs. Blinking, you tip your head down to see Junior's hand clasping the fabric.

“Hey! When m'I gonna get to see the treasure!?” he all but whinges, reminding you that you're dealing with an impatient youngster who has been promised his pick from a boat-load of valuables.

Not only that, you muse, he's more than likely anxious to choose his father's birthday present and return home before the sun has fully risen into the sky.

“Oh, yes! Yes, of course,” you reply, catching an icy sideways glare from the Captain, “Junior here is in a bit of a predicament and I offered to help him out. Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

Behind you, Junior huffs disdainfully through his nostrils. “Why d'you need to ask for permission?”

The Captain is still subjecting you to her withering glare, but you expertly ignore it and reply, “Old maritime law, I think... And it's just good manners.”

He pulls a face at that, but doesn't otherwise react beyond sending the Captain an expectant look, one, flaming eyebrow raised high on his head.

Predictably, her stare remains immoveable and hard, boring into you like a mining drill. Child or no, you can't imagine she's happy to have a perfect stranger poking about on her ship. And yet after a long moment, she pushes out a weary sigh and tuts as her posture deflates. “Permission granted, Ma'am,” she offers thinly.

You give her a subtle nod of gratitude before turning to the koopa and sweeping an arm out towards the gangplank. “Well? After you.”

It's as if whatever restraints have been reining him in go slack.

Like a cannonball fired from its barrel, Junior hurtles off for the Bonhomous with a whoop, cackling loudly when he almost bowls over the sailors gathered on the dock.

The wooden platform buckles under his weight as he lumbers up and onto the ship's deck, swiftly disappearing from view.

“... Brazen little bugger, in't he?” The Captain spares you a slow blink when several yelps and shouts of alarm drift down to you from on board.

“He's certainly lively,” you return, “I think he might be growing on me.”

“Mmm, like a fungal infection.”

“Captain!” Your scolding tone is entirely ruined by a preceding laugh. Strutting past her to board the ship yourself, you clear your throat and say, “Actually, I have to say I'm impressed with your restraint. It looks like there are several, far less civil things you'd like to say to me.”

“Nothing your pretty, little ears would find polite,” she grumbles as she moves to follow you up the gangplank. Then comes the inevitable. “Ma'am, are you sure you've thought this through? We don't know this lad. And you're letting him into the trove?”

“It's the least I could do after scaring the poor boy off his bench.” Hopping down onto the deck, you traipse after the trail of overturned buckets and startled crew members until you come to the steps of the cargo hold.

Stuck fast to your side, the Captain sends you a quizzical glance, to which you add, “Long story... He told me he's been trying to find his father a birthday present, but so far he hasn't had much success. And I thought... Well...”

You wave a hand in the vague direction that Junior had disappeared.

“You thought you'd give him pick of the cache,” she finishes with a sigh, “You know, for a monarch, you're not nearly ruthless enough. You'll never be like your father.”

Your smile grows tenfold as you splay a hand across your chest, touched. “Why, Captain, I think that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me.”

Some of the frost in her expression melts away under the warmth of your sunny grin and she shakes her head at you, doing a terrible job of hiding the fond twitch of her lips.

At the bottom of the steps, down in the belly of the ship, you're not at all surprised to find the Quartermaster standing with his hands fisted into his grey, thinning hair as he gapes at Junior, who appears to be getting quite familiar with the crates and boxes filled to bursting with valuables from your kingdom.

“C-Cap'n!” the man stammers when you both stop beside him, “He – he just! He just started-!”

“It's all right, Mr Cabot,” she interrupts reassuringly, clapping a strong hand down on his shoulder, “He's here by royal invite.”

His sweeping, silver eyebrows launch themselves up his forehead and he splutters something incomprehensible until you address him, coughing softly into your fist as you move to join the young Koopa just as he shoves his nose deep into a sack of rare opals. “Abe, I wonder if you'd be so kind as to fetch a selection of comics from my cabin?”

At once, the Quartermaster's mouth snaps shut and there's a shuffle of feet behind you, followed by a gruff, “A-Aye, Ma'am,” before Abe begins to make for the steps, leaving you with Junior and the Captain.

Turning your attention onto your guest, you call out, “Have a good look around. I hope there's at least something in here that'll suffice.”

Junior's head pops out of the sack and he flashes you an impish grin that shows off his prominent fang. “Uh, all of it?!” he exclaims, “In fact – what's to stop me from makin' off with everything on this ship?”

Leant up against a wooden pillar near the staircase, Captain Skip lifts the brim of her hat and levels a dangerous glare at him, whereas you simply laugh at the absurdity of his notion, seeing nothing before you but an exuberant child with an extraordinary imagination.

“Nothing, I suppose,” you reply amicably, “But I would be very sad if you did. Especially since you're the first friend I've made in this kingdom.”

Just like that, his childish grin falters, shrinking at the corners of his mouth until his smile is altogether lacklustre, eventually dropping off his face entirely. “Huh... Right...” he says, far too softly to suit the young Koopa you've been chatting with all morning.

Lowering the sackful of opals, he gazes down into its depths, his forehead crinkling with a frown as he fiddles idly with the sack's drawstring, tail tucked close around one leg.

The shift is certainly jarring, but just as you open your mouth to ask him if something is wrong, Abe's voice cuts across the dark hold, calling out to you from the entrance. “Here they are, Ma'am.”

You twist yourself about to greet him as he makes his way over to you and places a stack of your treasured novels neatly in your upturned palms, all the while keeping his wary eye trained on Junior.

“Thank you, Mr Cabot. That'll be all,” you hum.

“Ma'am.” He lifts a hand and tips his cap to you politely, though you note he doesn't offer the same platitude to your guest. Then, spinning about on his heel, he meets the Captain's eye, lowering his voice. “Ah, Cap'n... Might I have another word?”

None too subtly, he twists his head over one shoulder to shoot a glance at Junior, and if the young Koopa could see the look he's being subjected to – mistrustful and cold – you'd be inclined to reprimand Abe for his attitude towards your guest. But luckily for Cabot, Junior's eyes are still fixed on the inside of the sack, staring at its contents, but barely seeing them.

With a grunt, Captain Skip pushes herself from the beam, standing upright once more. She raises a circumspect brow, first at you to get your attention, then at Junior - a far more surreptitious method of conveying her own message to you.

Abe, with a mere look, had told you that he's extremely unhappy to have Junior on board. The Captain however, is asking a question in her glance. 'Will you be all right on your own?'

'He's just a boy,' you want to tell her. A boy who only wants to find his father the perfect birthday present. What you wouldn't give to have been able to do the same when you were his age. What you wouldn't give to have had a father you could be proud of too, one who didn't look upon a kind gesture as something to be scoffed at and dismissed... who didn't rebuff your 'childish' attempts at affection.

If you can help Junior find his Papa the perfect birthday present, then you damn well ought to.

“Go ahead, Captain,” you tell her, waving her off with a flick of your wrist, “Junior and I may be occupied down here for some time.”

She grumbles unintelligibly, fixes Junior with a final glare of warning, and then, with a swish of her coat tails, she sweeps away from you, following the Quartermaster up the stairs and out of the cargo hold.

Alone with Junior in the groaning underbelly of the ship, you find yourself clutching the stack of comic books a little more tightly against your chest.

You slowly grow aware of his gleaming eyes that shine out at you under the flickering light of the hold's lanterns. He's watching you closely, at least until you begin traipsing back over to him, flashing the young Koopa a smile, which prompts him to tear his gaze away from you and focus instead on the dusty, wooden floorboards creaking under his feet.

Gone is the levity you'd felt upon your approach to the Bonhomous.

“Junior?” you utter tentatively, wondering as to the cause of his inexplicable change in mood, “Is everything all right?”

The only response you garner lays in the furrow of his fiery brows as he continues to regard the floor with such a look of consternation, you'd think the ship herself had just insulted him.

It's actually unnerving, in a way. He seems older in the dark, more of a stranger than a potential friend.

Of course, as soon as the thought occurs to you, you ruthlessly strike it back into the recesses of your psyche, reminding yourself that he's a child, and you'll not be easily swayed by the suspicion of the Captain and her crew.

Chewing absently on your bottom lip for a second, you glance down at the comics in your hands, eyeing the one right at the top. From the cover, a gallant gentleman cocks his shining grin back at you, dressed in colourful armour and holding an almighty sword aloft in victory.

This one has always been among your favourites. An unreliable narrator, a protagonist turned antagonist, and a lonely monster who ends up saving the world in spite of how it treats him.

Brushing a fond thumb over its spine, you dart your eyes up to Junior for just a moment, taking note of his slouching shoulders and the confusion darkening his downturned face. Then, steeling your resolve, you work your clenched jaw loose and peel the comic from the top of the stack, presenting it to the Koopa and giving it a gentle shake to flutter the pages until he raises his head and blinks owlishly at the proffered gift.

“Here,” you coax, carefully pressing the copy into his chest so that his arms shoot up to catch it, “Consider this my gift to your father. You're still free to take something, I mean. I just... I have a feeling he might enjoy this one.”

Very slowly, Junior lowers his gaze from your face, dropping it to the comic book now clutched between his bruising fingers. “I don't get it,” he murmurs, his brows hanging so low that his eyes are half obscured as he glowers down at the cover.

“Oh? Well, it's quite a simple story, really,” you pipe up, reaching forwards to tap your fingertip on one of the little, illustrated characters, “This man here, he's a traveller from across the stars, and he finds this -”

You find your explanation interrupted as Junior suddenly shifts backwards with a brisk shake of his head, pulling himself away from you and blurting, “No! I mean... I don't get it. I don't get you!”

Bewildered, you find yourself helpless to reply beyond uttering a small, “What?”

“Why're you being so nice to me?”

Your mind judders to a halt. What a bizarre question, especially coming from a child. It's clear he means it to be an accusation, as if you're expected to be unkind. As if you're supposed to be, but you're defying his expectations at every turn.

Holding a palm helplessly towards the ceiling, you ask, “Is there a particular reason I shouldn't be nice to you? Isn't being nice just... part of making friends?”

Something flits rapidly across his expression, surprise in the blink of his wide eyes, confusion in the way his jaw unclenches and flops open and closed a few times before he manages to get his tongue to push out a hesitant question. “You said 'friends,' again?” he echoes softly, pulling a claw from the comic and hesitantly pointing at himself, “You... wanna be friends?”

Then, after a little pause... “With me?”

Why would he think otherwise? Building connections is the whole point of your visit, be those connections with the ruler of the kingdom, or a child you met by a fountain. “Of course I do,” you huff with a tinny laugh, resolute in your words.

It's gradual, but the pinch of his brows begins to ease and he adds, “But.. you're not a Koopa. I didn't think anyone who wasn't a Koopa would want-...”

The youngling trails off, lapsing into a meek silence that you're hesitant to break. But the bewilderment in his face compels you to speak up and quietly tell him, “Junior. I understand that you don't know me at all, really. But if there's one thing I'd like you to remember about me, it's that I would never choose a friend based on species. Nobody should.”

He remains quiet for some time, his eyes averted. But then, to your relief, you start to make out the tiny, hesitant smile that tries to worm its way across his face.

“So.. .so, if we're friends,” he starts slowly, as if he's attempting to make sense of something grand and unknowable, “Then could we... like... hang out together?”

Surprised, yet pleased that you haven't inadvertently driven a wedge between you and the Koopa, you nod. “Naturally.”

“And... you could read me comic books!”

“Sounds like fun,” comes your agreeable laugh.

“And we'd go on cool adventures together.” As he speaks, Junior grows more and more animated, staring off into the distance as if he's concocting an elaborate plan in his head.

Gradual as the sunrise, his jaw lifts into a hopeful grin and he stares up at you, standing on his toes. “And.. Would you wanna be friends with my Papa too?”

“I don't see why not,” you shrug.

At first, he seems a little skeptical, squinting up at you through narrowed eyelids, but when you only continue to hold his stare with unflinching sincerity, he finally blinks, drawing his head back and giving you a hum from the base of his throat, sounding pleased, of all things.

“My Papa's got all kinds treasure like these,” Junior murmurs softly as he gazes about at the cargo hold, eventually letting his eyes drift back over to you where they sharpen with sudden, alarming focus, “But I don't think he's ever had a real friend before. Not one as nice as you!”

Little flatterer, you smirk to yourself, raising a hand and covering your cheek with a palm. “Well, I don't know about-”

You aren't given the chance to finish your sentence.

Without a whiff of warning, Junior moves faster than you can blink, dropping down onto all-fours and sweeping his tail beneath your legs.

A bleat of alarm jumps from your throat as you topple over sideways and instinctively drop your armful of comic books, clenching your eyes shut as the ground rushes up to meet you. The impact however, is far more gentle than you'd expected. With a startled 'ooph!' your back hits a soft, warm appendage that snakes around you and effectively pins your arms to your sides. In seamless tandem, a second hand catches you under the knees and prevents your backside from colliding painfully with the floor boards.

“Wha-! Junior!” you yelp indignantly, shocked that a boy half your height has the strength to hold you aloft just enough that your kicking feet can't gain purchase on the ground. “What are you doing!?”

The Koopa's grin has returned full-force, wide and mischievous. Try as you might to struggle from his grasp, you're immensely disconcerted by Junior's unexpected show of strength. You can feel the muscles in his arms bulging underneath you as he hoists you higher into his hold, leaving the skirts of your dress to drag across the floor boards.

For the first time since you met the young Koopa, you feel your stomach twist itself nearly inside out when tendrils of cold, dawning horror begin to coil and writhe in your gut.

Perhaps he deserved the crew's suspicion after all...

He turns towards the hull and steps over your comic books that now lay scattered across the floor.

“Junior!” you raise your voice to something like a yelp, “This is absolutely unacceptable! Put me down at once!”

Dust rains on top of your heads and into your hair as heavy footsteps start to pound in the direction of the hold, igniting a hot spark of hope in your chest.

“Don't worry!” Junior chirps brightly, stepping right up to the ship's wooden wall, “I'm gonna take you home! Papa's real nice, once you get to know him. Me n'him'll take good care of you - you'll see!”

Your quivering heart lurches, the horror of the sudden development shifting across the scales and entering into the realm of terror.

He can't be serious! This is no longer a child playing pretend, this is a child who is evidently prepared to commit a serious offence to get what he wants.

Boots thunder down the steps behind you and you almost weep with relief when the familiar voice of your loyal Captain hollers, “Release her, boy! 'Fore I blast that shell right off your back!”

“Skip!?” you cry out, still trying to wrench your arms from his iron-clad grasp when you hear a sound that fills you simultaneously with equal parts fear and hope.

.. The cocking of the Captain's trusty pistol.

Junior hears it as well, instinctively rounding on the Captain and letting out a vicious snarl, allowing you to catch the briefest glimpse of Skip standing at the head of a group of sailors, her stance wide and her lips peeled back over her teeth of match Junior's warning growl with unparalleled ferocity.

The Koopa's eyes alight on the gun and he suddenly gasps, whipping about and curling himself over you, putting his sturdy shell between you and the weapon.

A burning heat ignites in his chest – you can feel it searing against your side, travelling up the Koopa's sternum and into his throat.

The crew are shouting at the top of their lungs.

Your eyes fling open wide and fix themselves upon the fiery glow emanating between Junior's fangs.

“Leave us alone!” he bellows, letting tendrils of red-hot flames spill from his maw.

Mouth agape, you cringe away from the heat, squeezing your eyes shut again as the fire grows bright enough to sear right through your eyelids.

Junior's jaws open wide and he aims his snout at the wall of the ship whilst a molten ball of fire builds at the back of his throat.

“NO!” the Captain cries hoarsely.

But the time to act has already passed her by, and she hasn't even realised it.

Anything else she might have wanted to shout is suddenly drowned out by a deafening explosion that rocks the ship on her moorings. Junior's entire body gives a sudden jolt as a boiling ball of fire erupts out of his mouth like a bullet fired from a gun, hitting the Bonhomous's hull with a resounding and devastating 'BOOM!'

Strong, solid oak is blasted from its fixtures. Nails fly in every direction like shrapnel, and a plume of smoke engulfs the cargo hold, wrenching the air from your lungs.

The sailors begin to cough and splutter, picking themselves up off the ground from where they'd tossed themselves behind barrels and crates for cover.

Dim sunlight pours into the ship and when you dare to pry your eyelids apart to look, your jaw drops open, leaving you gaping at an enormous, jagged hole that's been blown right out of the Bonhomous's side.

“.... Wh... What have you done?” you breathe, balling your hands into fists and dragging your eyes up to stare at the underside of Junior's yellow chin.

Ignoring the chaos and confusion of the crew at his back, the Koopa cocks a grin at the hole, satisfied with his work as he hops up into the gap, balancing on the splintered edge of a half-destroyed hull.

Urgency pushes you through the shock that stalls your systems and you find yourself struggling anew, choking out, “Junior, please, you don't have to do this!”

The boy's smile gives no indication that he's even heard you.

For a fleeting moment, he twists his head over a shoulder to peer back at the smoke.

There, silhouetted against he indigo haze, the Captain emerges like a vengeful phantom, striding towards you both with murderous fire burning in her dark, grey eyes. In one bloodied hand, she raises her pistol, the shining barrel glinting dangerously in the sunlight that filters through her ship's new cavity.

“Stop,” she croaks hoarsely, her throat burning from the smoke, “Or I'll put you down. Child or no.”

But Junior, although he may be young, is certainly no fool.

He knows a bluff when he sees one. He can all but smell the reluctance rolling off the Captain in waves.

She won't risk firing at him, not while you're being held so closely to his chest.

His mouth twitches and he flashes her a triumphant grin, revelling in the defeat that flickers momentarily behind her eyelids.

The Koopaling is wholly aware of his new friend fighting to get out of his all-encompassing grasp, but he's far stronger than his size suggests, and merely keeps his arms locked tight around your shoulders and legs like a pair of bear traps.

Though you might not be the most conventional birthday present, Junior can't deny that you were the best option on the whole ship, a rare gem hidden amongst the pearls and rubies and, yes, even the comic books. Taking a moment to lament the latter's loss, he leaps from the ship and lands heavily on the dock, taking care not to jostle you too greatly as he scampers between a pair of buildings, leaving the Bonhomous and her crew behind in the dust.

Jewels and riches are nice enough, but Junior isn't blind to the plight that's been afflicting his father for some time now - a plight that can't be fixed by shiny things, sadly.

As brave and strong as his Papa has been in the face of never-ending rebuttal from Princess Peach, Junior can tell that his almighty resolve has at last been chipped down to the bone.

Bowser has been... quieter lately. And every breath that heaves out of his massive lungs seems more and more like an affected sigh.

Junior had overheard Kamek speaking to the King only a few short nights ago, when the youngling was expected to be sound asleep in bed, not sneaking into the kitchens for a midnight snack.

“I think this loneliness is heavier than even your mighty shoulders can bear, my King, “the old Magikoopa had bravely pointed out, though what he might have said before that is unknown to Junior.

Naturally, Bowser had promptly lost his temper and roared Kamek from the throne room. But the seed of suspicion had already been planted in Junior's brain.

His Papa... lonely?

He supposes if anyone would be able to tell, it would be their brainy advisor, Kamek.

As Junior bounds away from the Toads' Capital with a new friend tucked safely in his arms, he allows himself a moment to feel triumphant in his capture.

You may not be a princess, like Peach, but his Papa is still sure to like you. He's often watched the King get tongue-tied around ladies in dresses.

You're afraid now, yes, struggling fruitlessly against him and demanding that he let you go, but he's sure you'll change your tune once you see how well his Papa will treat you.

Friends of the Koopa Troop are friends for life, and you've already said you wanted to be friends with he and the King.

Junior's stubby tail waggles back and forth as he dashes through the outskirts of town, heading for the mushroom forest where he's stashed his clown car.

All he has to do now is get back before his Papa wakes up to find him missing...

--------------

To say that the Bowser Castle is in a state of disarray would be the understatement of the century.

If one were to look at it from outside the towering, stone walls, one might assume that the trembling spires and quivering parapets are afflicted by a localised earthquake.

But on the inside, vulnerable to the wrath of their King, the Koopas on duty find themselves wishing they only had an earthquake to deal with.

“WHERE IS HE!?”

Kamek's thick, round glasses rattle on the edge of his beak as he plasters himself to the door of Junior's bedroom, helpless to do anything other than play silent witness to the young Koopa's father – King Bowser himself – tearing open the boy's closet and sticking his immense bulk into the dark, cramped space, bellowing, “JUNIOR!?” at the top of his lungs.

If Kamek didn't know the king as well as he does, he'd mistake this behaviour for outrage and aggression. But as it is, he's spent too long as Bowser's advisor to be fooled.

Suffice it to say, Junior's inexplicable absence has worried the living daylights out of his father. It's just a shame that the king's worry is almost an exact mimic of his anger, and so often the two are lumped together by his critics.

And yet, for all the ferocity with which Bowser appears to be ripping his son's bedroom asunder in his mad search, it doesn't escape Kamek's notice that not a single thing inside has actually sustained any damage.

With a snarl of frustration, Bowser wrenches his nose from the closet and lumbers across the room to his son's bed, pinching the soft blankets and covers between his claws and peeling them back as if Junior might have managed to sneak back into the room when his father's back was turned.

Every attempt to calm the worked-up king down has thus far been met with belligerence and aggravated growls. Still, Kamek Koopa is nothing if not persistent.

“Sire, please, remember your blood pressure,” he calls chidingly, “I'm sure the young master will turn up soon!”

Bowser's tremendous jaws snap together with the force of a thunderclap and he shoots Kamek a molten glare. “Junior ALWAYS wakes me up on my birthday!” he seethes, his powerful fists compressing a pillow until it threatens to explode and spray feathers all over the room, “Not only did he not wake me this morning, now, I can't find him ANYWHERE!”

The last word is bellowed loudly enough to be heard from the deepest dungeon to the tallest spire.

Kamek's eyes squeeze shut behind his glasses, wincing in discomfort until his ears stop ringing and the quivering chandelier overhead falls still.

“Sire,” he sighs, pushing his spectacles further up on his beak, “The boy is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. You raised him, after all! Besides, he has his communicator with him, no? He'll call if he runs into any trouble.”

All at once, Bowser peels his lips back and lets out a low, guttural rumble that spills from his chest, dropping the pillow and instead snatching something up from the corner of Junior's bed. “Oh really,” he utters dangerously, holding a small, rectangular object between his thumb and forefinger and raising it into the air for the Magikoopa to see, “Then tell me, Kamek, how Junior is supposed to contact me when he left his communicator UNDER HIS PILLOW!?”

“... Ah...” Kamek is starting to get the sense that his King's threadbare patience is reaching its end. It's unusual for the boy to go anywhere without his communicator, but it's possible that he simply forgot it.

He's just about to concede and suggest that they send a troop out to search for Junior, if only to keep the King from spiralling into an all-out tantrum when all of a sudden, from somewhere beyond the bedroom door, the rapid approach of footsteps catches their attention, followed by a familiar voice calling out, “PAPA!”

'Oh thank goodness,' Kamek sighs to himself.

At once, Bowser's colossal frame sags like a balloon losing air, leaving him immeasurably smaller somehow, without all that agitation swelling his chest.

“Junior!” he shouts back, trying very hard to sound stern, but incapable of hiding every ounce of his relief.

Kamek only just manages to shuffle away from the doors before they suddenly burst open so violently that their brass knobs smash into the walls and their hinges give an almighty squeal, and there behind them stands the previously mislaid Bowser Junior, sporting a grin so wide that his cheeks are doubled in size.

“PAPA!” he cries again, barrelling towards Bowser like a tiny, green and yellow torpedo. Immediately, the King thumps down onto one knee, though whether from instinct or habit, Kamek is hard-pressed to say.

A pair of tremendous arms spread open to catch Junior mid-leap, sweeping the boy up into his father's grasp and all but crushing him against a broad, scaly chest.

“Happy birthday!” The Koopaling's shout is muffled by the thick wall of of flesh he's being squashed into.

Kamek politely averts his gaze to the floor of Junior's room, falling into the familiar routine of visually categorising all the things he'll need to clean up off the boy's messy floor, giving the pair of them a moment to themselves as father and son.

Hunched over his child, Bowser permits himself just a few seconds to let an intoxicating relief roll over his shoulders and cool the fire raging in his belly.

“Son,” he rumbles, peeling Junior off his chest and holding the Koopaling up in front of his snout, drawing his brows together until they almost meet in the centre of his forehead. “Where have you been!?”

Junior at least has the decency to cower slightly into his shell, peeking out at his father with a hesitant grin pulling on the edges of his mouth. “I'm sorry. But you won't believe what I-!”

“You didn't wake me up!” Bowser simply bulldozes over his son's explanation, puffing out a stream of smoke through his flaring nostrils, “You always wake me up! And then I come in here, and I find you gone!”

“I-I know, but I had to-”

“You didn't even leave a note! You left your communicator! I've been tearing this castle apart trying to find you! What if something happened!?”

Uncomfortable with being the focus his father's unwavering glare, Junior begins to wriggle, embarrassed. “M'sorry, Papa,” he mutters, “I was just tryin' to find you the perfect birthday present...”

Slowly, something in Bowser's fearsome expression turns soft – Well... as soft as a ruthless, oversized Koopa's expression can turn.

For all that Bowser is as gruff and ornery as a dragon with a headache, when it comes to Junior, he's a total pushover.

The King grumbles something quietly under his breath and he pulls a face, squinting sharply at his son for several, gruelling moments before at last, his maw twists up into a grin.

“The perfect present... Haha!” A low chuckle rolls out of his throat, deep and resonant like faraway brontide, “Tryn'a impress your old man, eh? Well, guess I can't stay mad at you for bein' thoughtful.”

He gently lowers the Koopaling to the floor and ruffles his hair with one, meaty paw. Junior makes an indignant noise of complaint at the back of his throat and ducks out from under his father's palm, reaching up to fix his tousled ponytail.

“Yeah, yeah. Quit bein' embarrassin' and come see what I got you!” he huffs, snagging one of Bowser's immense fingers and tugging him urgently towards the bedroom door, “C'mon, c'mon!”

The King's heavy footsteps plod steadily down the long corridor in the wake of his son, who continues to try and drag the colossal Koopa along faster. Exhaling warmly through his nostrils, Bowser allows himself to be lead to the throne room doors, whereupon Junior finally lets go of his hand and bounds towards them, calling over his shoulder, “She's in here!”

It takes Bowser a moment to register what his son had said, but once he does, his smile wavers and he blunders, “Wait. She?!”

The boy disregards his father in favour of grabbing the doorknobs and wrenching them open, scampering inside. As soon as the towering doors swing aside, Bowser's sensitive nose is hit with a gentle aroma, far lighter and fresher than the musty, old throne room.

'Perfume?' he muses, incredulous.

And then, he raises his head, tearing his eyes off Junior and fixing his gaze upon a gaggle of Koopa Troopa guards who have gathered together in a circle at the centre of the room, their spears raised and trained on the same target.

'What in the world did Junior bring home this time?'

“OW! Hey! Would you mind watching where you point those spears?” a voice cries out sharply, unfamiliar to Bowser's well-trained ears, “This dress took my seamstress months to make! If you tear it, she'll tan my sorry hide!”

Beyond curious now, Bowser raises his snout higher into the air to peer over the Koopas as he stomps towards them with enough force to shake the guards in their boots.

“Hey!” Junior barks, “I told you guys not to hurt her!”

His father, meanwhile, has lost what little he has of patience. Swinging his meaty fist out, he grabs the shoulder of the closest guard and shoves him aside with a curt grunt, at last revealing what they'd been obscuring from sight.

The King blinks once, then twice, and then suddenly, his mighty heart skips a couple of beats and his jaw promptly drops.

------

The moment you feel the heat of a warm, wet breath sliding over the nape of your neck, you freeze, your mouth stuck halfway open in the middle of demanding that these guards tell you where in the world you are.

There's a presence behind you, a shadow utterly dwarfing your own that's been cast by overhead chandeliers.

You don't whirl around right away, somehow sensing that you're in the company of someone much, much bigger than you, stronger than you, and you'd rather avoid provoking it with any unexpected movements.

The Koopas around you have lifted their eyes to stare agog at a spot right above your head, slowly lowering their weapons as they begin edging backwards. Though whether that's out of deference or terror, you have no idea.

In spite of your own fear, you attempt to remain poised as you continue to turn until you gradually come face to face with a massive expanse of flaxen skin.

'That's a chest!' your brain helpfully supplies. 'Broad as a barn and twice as sturdy...' You swallow, reluctantly dragging your eyes up the length of that mammoth chest until your gaze inevitably comes to a stop on a gruesome face.

You're not quite fast enough to stop a gasp from slipping in between your parted lips.

Before you looms a veritable mountain of a creature – a Goliath in every sense of the word. Dragon-scale skin stretches taut over bulging muscles and just one of his limbs looks as though it would weigh the same as a full-grown man.

His head alone dwarfs yours. He boasts a robust and square jaw from which protrude the largest fangs you've ever seen outside of a prehistoric museum...

The spiked shell sitting on his back is equally as massive as its wearer, and heavy-bodied too. You don't doubt that bearing its weight for so long must have contributed to this giant's powerful physique.

In rather striking contrast to his body's colouration, a mane of thick, crimson hair sweeps back from the top of his skull, right between a pair of upturned horns that jut from either side of his head.

It's by that hair and the bushy, red brows that you draw a logical conclusion – This can only be Junior's father.

'This is Papa!?'

You're suddenly left feeling very helpless under his smouldering stare.

However, unbeknownst to you, Bowser's mind is running along a very similar track.

Of all the 'gifts' he'd been expecting his son to get him, the very last thing he would have guessed was to come face to face with a tiny, human woman.

His almighty heart gives a pulsing throb when you tip your head back and he sees your eyes for the first time, blinking up at him in what he'd like to imagine must be awe and wonder.

He can smell the subtle traces of your perfume lingering on your soft, delicate skin, tantalisingly sweet and decadent. Expensive too, he'd wager. The silk of your dress is exquisite and shines prettily in the light of the candelabras – a fine material typically only afforded by nobility. Within seconds, he deduces that wherever you've come from, it's a place of opulence and refinement.

You're certainly a pretty package, all wrapped up in finery... The perfect birthday present indeed...

Just like that, Bowser finds himself rendered very helpless, even jelly-limbed under your scrutiny.

“Isn't she pretty, Papa?” Junior pipes up, breaking the spell that had fallen over the King and the stranger in their midst.

Bowser blinks, and, realising that his lower jaw is hanging slack, he snaps it shut with a click of his fangs.

Right.. Right, yes. First impressions... Stars, he hasn't even waxed his shell today! Is his hair still sticking out at odd angles from where he'd slept on it?

Feeling oddly light in the chest, Bowser clears his throat – a resonant sound that makes you recoil a step – and he extends one colossal paw, deftly catching your dainty, little hand between his thumb and forefinger, and applying just the barest amount of pressure to keep you from reclaiming your appendage.

He expertly ignores how your expression screws up tightly with trepidation as he begins to lower his head, bending at his sizeable waist and swinging an arm backwards to rest on his shell in a perfectly controlled bow.

“Enchanté,” he rumbles smoothly, raising your hand to his mouth. You turn rigid in his grip, but he's quick to alleviate a modicum of your fear by giving your knuckles the gentlest brush of his rubbery lips, hardly pressing down enough to be felt. Never once does he break eye contact.

Your eyelids spring open wide in shock, staring hard at the gleaming fangs that protrude from his maw, all too mindful of the fact that they could bite your appendage clean off with just a sniff of effort.

“And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, hm?” His voice alone is powerful enough to thrum deeply inside your chest like a second heartbeat. It terrifies you, the unrestrained brawn that shifts below the surface of his scales.

He wants to know your name? The first question he asks, and it's to inquire after your name?

In hindsight, you suppose it isn't such an outlandish query after all.

More to the point though, how is such a brutish behemoth speaking so eloquently?

Almost at once, a stab of rancid shame demands a spot inside your chest. Who are you to assume how he should and shouldn't be able to speak?

Blinking absently, you flit your gaze from the colossal snout smiling in front of your face to the clawed thumb resting delicately against the back of your hand.

It hits you like a sack of bricks.

He's bowing to you.

'… Well,' you suppose, 'he may look the part of the Dragon who kidnapped the Princess, but his demeanour is that of a polished patrician... at least thus far.'

Throat bobbing as you swallow thickly, you dare to hope that he, unlike his son, can be reasoned with. Hell, for all you know, this is all just a big misunderstanding. He'll reprimand Junior for kidnapping you, and you'll be allowed to go on your merry way. If anything, he deserves the benefit of your doubt. Just once.

It takes a tremendous effort to gulp your heart back down into its proper place behind your ribs.

Clearing your throat, you almost tell him precisely who you are, status and all. But a tiny inkling of doubt stays your tongue.

Is it really so sensible to be telling him your regal status? Especially given that you're utterly alone here, a stranger in a strange land, treading unknown territory without any sort of phalanx...

“My name,” you start to croak, almost losing your nerve when his face lights up with a hopeful grin, “You may call me, Y/n...”

The breath he exhales over your face is slow and gentle, barely strong enough to disturb the hairs on your head.

“Y/n,” he murmurs, rolling the name off his tongue as if he were tasting a fine wine.

Hesitant, you give your captured hand a testing pull, and this time, he allows you to withdraw it and tuck it protectively against your chest as you back away from him. “A-and, you must be Junior's father,” you say falteringly, shooting the boy a withering look as you do.

In much the same manner as his son did when you asked for his name, Bowser swells with unabashed pride, pushing out his prodigious chest and pointing his nose at the ceiling. If you didn't know he was Junior's father before, you'd certainly be able to tell now.

“Name's Bowser!” he announces, flicking his gleaming, red eyes down to flash you, of all things, a wink, “King Bowser.”

And 'oh good lord,' you realise as your stomach bottoms out, 'Junior wasn't playing pretend at all.'

#super mario bros movie #mario bros movie #bowser #bowser x reader #bowser junior #bowser jr #kidnapping #infatuation #Bowser likes pretty things #Jr is a good son #Bowser is a good dad #possessive behaviour #slow burn

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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Twelve

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale Chapter 12

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six][Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight][Part Nine][Part Ten][Part Eleven] Part Twelve [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

It’s surprising how quickly the tournament and festival grounds between the estate and the supporting town went from a rather bare patch of land near the estate to this bustling and populous collection of tents and people.

The weather is even fair, none of the humidity that can sometimes start early as spring bleeds into summer.

While the galas in the city will be the wedding celebration for those of the middle and upper classes who were not invited to the wedding proper, this festival is the primary public celebration for the common people of Northridge, although plenty of guests who’ve already arrived are joining in.

You’ve never been to a fair of this caliber. Your family estates were a sprawling country house with very little town outside of the estate itself and your housing in the port city where most of your fief lived. You expect a sprawling country festivals to be a different sort than city ones—in some ways at least. The frivolity and wonderful smells and general atmosphere are the same, but there is more space and less permanence to it all.

Still, as with those city ones you attended with your family, you itch to explore on your own, not be stuck at the ceremonial high table—as wonderful as your meal has been. You eye Dale and notice the way he finally seems to have eaten his fill and hope no one notices that he’s had an entire turkey to himself.

Without meaning to, your eyes drift to his clothed arm and side, his now practically invisible cut on his forehead. People seem to believe that the speed at which Dale seems to be healing from the hunt only a couple days ago is merely a sign that the injuries had looked worse than they were. Dale himself is playing into that idea, as well as giving your bandages more credit than they likely deserve. Although at least the doctor is throwing his weight behind that supposition, having eventually been able to treat Dale without getting his head bitten off—figuratively or literally, of course.

Despite Dale’s injury due to the hunting incident, he’s still competing in the tournament which starts tomorrow. The only change in deference to the incident is that the lists were adjusted and the timing of who went up against who was tweaked, leaving Dale in the final group of competitors, rather than him drawing lots with the others. This leaves him with the maximum amount of time to recover. The physician had insisted that such an allowance be made and Grandmother had backed him up wholeheartedly.

You’re glad Dale didn’t push this allowance, both because you were worried about his physical condition, and if he could even properly assess it, in addition to your worry that someone would notice his faster than usual recovery. With both of those fears primarily assuaged at this point which leaves you with one primary concern. The tales told of the boar incident have been told and retold as these tales often are and while everyone knew such things happened, there was a level of admiration that made you uncomfortable.

In particular, the emphasis on Dale wrestling with the creature, how long he was able to cling to its back. That makes you worry about the very public martial tournament he’s about to compete in. In front of any early wedding guests, local townsfolk, and those who travel just to compete, Dale is going to fight and you’re rather worried he’s going to demonstrate some sort of supernatural strength—let alone any other abilities, if pushed.

These tournament displays are already notorious for their ‘accidents’, although how any of it can be considered an accident when the entire point is to attack one another with minorly blunted weapons while wearing a facsimile of armor is beyond you. You’ve never enjoyed them, perhaps because you were never able to attend until you were old enough to grasp the danger the competitors were in. Obviously anyone could get injured during typical training or practice, but these tournaments are on a different level. Everyone knows someone’s cousin or neighbor or whoever that had been permanently injured or worse in some similar display.

And to think some people like how dangerous they are, finding them more prestigious than something safe. Original Dale was certainly one of those types—thoroughly believing in both his own skill and with the strong conviction of someone young, who’d never had their body betray them, that that sort of incident happened to other people, not him. Now, your concern is that Dale will end up backed into a corner and in the heat of the moment give himself away—or as you said, from the beginning be unable to gauge his own strength. Even if initial suspicion is roused only regarding him having enhanced his abilities with illegal demonic supplements can only spell the end. Too many of the ways to detect such things overlap with those to detect possession.

You hope during the first few rounds of the tournament or perhaps even witnessing some of the various fair games will help Dale develop a better sense of what the typical human strength is. That is, if Grandfather ever lets you out of his sight.

You’d hoped with two of his children here, Wellington and Breighton, that he would be sufficiently occupied, but he and Grandmother seem determined to include you and Dale, which is actually very kind of them, at least on Grandmother’s part. Grandfather is acting mostly normal, but his eyes are too sharp on both Dale and you for you to trust his regard anymore. Grandmother is content to hold court at this dais table, talking with her children and other grandchildren, picking on food, for the rest of day—she’d told you as much her self. Grandfather seems more ready to walk to the various games and booths now that the most recent performance is over, but you’d rather not have him along.

It’s Dale who finds the right opening, as one of his cousins—and his three children—begs Grandfather to accompany them to the falconers’ competition on the other side of the fair. Dale resists the invitation to join them, claiming to want to continue his conversation with Grandmother. Then he lets her get distracted by someone else.

Before you know it, your arm is in his and you’re heading in the opposite direction from Grandfather.

Dale smiles down at you. “As happy as I am to speak with my family, there is so much else to do. I hope you do not mind my pulling us away—I simply have to walk around or else I’m liable to fall asleep after such food.”

You smile up at him, with how much of it he put away, you’re not surprised. “I agree. I’ve never had lamb cooked that way before, but we should see if Cook Ubrey can obtain the recipe.”

Dale seems pleased to talk about the food, comparing them with dishes he enjoyed on his travels. He wants to see if they can get some of those prepared in Northridge, he explains as you stroll by the various sellers that line the ramshackle lanes of the festival. All the townsfolk seem to have dredged their inventories to put their very best wares on display and the displays are eye catching—for all you follow your mothers rule of these festivals which cover multiple days: never buy anything on the first day. Part of her many lessons on being frugal, they had started when you were first permitted out of the house and to the marketplaces with a small allowance.

Dale has no such rule, but he seems as happy looking at things as he does actually purchasing items—only acquiring a new handkerchief and gloves. Instead, his eyes stray towards the games and sport more than anything. There are a mix of group, partner, and individual games, all with far more space to play than you’re used to, especially as you get closer to the outskirts of the grounds. Long ranges for archery and hammer throwing, are in the distance, but even nearby, the ring toss and horseshoe lanes have far more space to them than you’re used to.

You end up stopped by the horseshoe stall, watching a pair of brothers compete with more and more specific and ridiculous insults tossed between them. They’re drawing an entertained crowd of onlookers.

You notice the way Dale has a considering look on his face as the men throw the horseshoes and you try to evaluate their ability as well. “They seem like strong competitors,” you say with a nod toward the other horseshoes littered around and in particular on the ground before the stake. “Although it appears as though many underestimated the weight of the shoe and couldn’t reach the stake at first.”

Dale’s eyes narrow and then dart to the third lane, where a woman is attempting to ignore the crowd around the other two to make her throws. Sure enough, on her first throw, the shoe doesn’t go nearly far enough. “Yes, so it would appear. These two look strong though, not blacksmiths, but perhaps carpenters.”

You look the men over. Everyone is wearing, while perhaps not their best clothes, but certainly not their everyday clothes for the festival. That made it harder to tell what exactly people’s profession might be whereas wear and tear, stains, and so on would usually help point you in one direction or another. “Perhaps.” You watch as the older brother rings a second horseshoe around the stake to tie with the younger one.

“Accuracy seems to be more important than strength though,” Dale observes.

On cue the younger brother’s next pitch goes too far past the stake earning him a heckle from his brother about getting overexcited.

“Yes,” you agree. “That is a fair assessment. However, you don’t want to throw too hard or it might bounce off the stake regardless of your aim.”

Dale nods and you chat as the brothers continue to play until finally the older brother wins with a final ringer. He accepts his prize of a bag of horse bristles and a round of drinks bet from his brothers.

“Do you want to play a round?” you ask Dale, when he continues to look at the game and with the brothers gone, the crowd is drifting away. Perhaps this could be a good way for him to evaluate his own strength and accuracy. Low stakes, but with convenient comparables from a wide range of people.

Dale eyes the iron stake in the ground, the past throws which litter the ground around it, and the steel horseshoes in the bucket. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I’ve not played… in many years, I mean. When I was a child.”

You hope he sounds more natural when talking with his family. Perhaps you should be glad only Grandfather seems suspicious after all.

“Then it seems as though you are due to play once more,” you say and he smiles at you in response.

You both make your way over to the man running the booth and he readily accepts the coin Dale gives him with a grin. When Dale admits to not playing in a number of years, the man is quick to give him pointers and you feel yourself relax. Games and good food, even the weather cooperating, this is shaping up to be a fine day. You hadn’t realized how nervous you’d gotten under Grandfather’s watchful and suspicious eye—or even just the eyes of all the visitors and those who’d glance at the dais during the festival.

Some look your way, but it's easier to be anonymous, to be seen more generally at least, mixed in with the crowd as you roam. You’ve missed that about the city and this festival, for all its clear country trappings, is able to recapture that feeling.

Dale seems to have paid enough to have received horseshoes for a few innings and you stand nearby to watch, leaning against a fencepost. Dale’s frowning in concentration, dark eyes intent. His first throw arcs from the left to the right a bit too sharply and contrary to the others. He seems to have over compensated for the weight, resulting in the horseshoe going out of bounds past the stake.

The game runner is quick to tease Dale, but it's nothing too out of the ordinary. He gets better at straightening out his arc as he goes and while the horseshoes continue to go too far, he’s getting closer and closer to the stake.

It’s not until he’s left with just one more pitch that it goes wrong. Just as Dale is only starting to get ready to throw, a loud noise—likely a firecracker set off too soon–cracks through the air. You jump where you stand and a number of those around you swear, but your eyes are on Dale. He flinches and pitches his last horseshoe without thought instinctively.

The horseshoe flies at the stake and you already know it's been thrown with far too much force, especially given the lack of significant windup. Even more unfortunately, it's the most accurate throw yet. It strikes the stake soundly with a clang louder than any previous ringers. You flinch from the sound and the way the stake is pushed, rather than the shoe ringing around it. The stake ends up levering out of the ground entirely, sending a clod of dirt and grass into the ground and landing with a metallic thud.

Well, you think, so much for an easy way to help Dale reign in and evaluate how much strength a typical human has without anyone taking note.

The man in charge of the stall and the few onlookers stare in silence before a child claps. Dale winces. You’re inordinately grateful that too many had been distracted by the sound and didnt notice what happened. Still, some murmurs break out as the stall owner starts to say something, turning to frown at Dale in confusion and then closes his mouth. He recovers after a few seconds, saying, “Stake must have gotten loose, jostled by the other competitors.” He looks uncomfortable and somewhat disbelieving even as he continues, “Apologies, mi’lord. Still, a mighty impressive throw.”

Dale inclines his head in thanks for the compliment as you decide it’d be best if you moved on from here before anyone thought overmuch about what just happened. As soon as possible. “I believe I see a vendor with wine, my lord. I find myself rather thirsty in this heat.”

“Of course, my lady,” Dale agrees easily.

Neither of you chose to speak of what just happened. Dale ends up talking about the wine you purchase and comparing it to some he came across on his travels. You hope he’s only mentioning places Dale visited, but you’re not well traveled enough to know for sure.

You pass other games as you walk around, picking up some nibbles along the way as you both try to relax. You pass a few more games, but Dale seems reluctant to give any of them a try and you don’t feel comfortable encouraging him either. You’ve never understood the point of some anyways. You eye two blindfolded women trying to catch a chicken in a pen in particular. Many seem to be for the watchers' amusements rather than for the ones playing.

You end up watching a children’s small boat race and following along with the river around the eastern edge of the grounds for some cooler air. While the weather is fair, there are far too many people in such a confined area for it not to get warm. You end up circling back to some of the larger, more martial games, skirting the wrestling ring to find yourself at tug o’ war with the offshoot stream as the halfway marker. It’s the middle of a match, with an hourglass signaling plenty of time before a tie has to be called and the scoreboard showing two to one for those on the farther side of the stream.

Both sides are trying to recruit from the growing crowd and the divide seems to be those from the town proper and those who work on the estate itself. With those from the estate down a point. You determine that the first to make it to three victories wins the large coin purse, filled by those who paid to compete.

You stop to watch as the estate team loses further ground, cursing some who evidently took a break for some ale and haven’t returned—they do have notably fewer players. A laundress from the estate joins in, her arm strength winning them at least a foot on the onset, but the teams seem even enough that a young man drops out at his father’s bidding from the town side with no loss of ground on their end.

You narrow your eyes trying to see if you can name or at least place each member of the estate team. While the estate has many workers and none of these are in their uniforms, but you’ve been here long enough you should be able to at least guess at their position based on familiarity. Grandfather and Grandmother always address their servants by name and you want to do your part to show you’re a worthy successor, with the same attention to detail they have.

You’ve identified two footmen, a scullery maid, the laundress who joined most recently, a carriage driver, and two guards when one of the people in the middle the rope spots Dale and grins at him.

“So kind of you to grace us with your presence, my lord,” he calls. You’re pretty sure he’s a stablehand, one you’ve seen Dale speak with before. He certainly seems familiar enough to be joking with him.

“You have something that can tempt me down from my tower, Micha?” Dale asks with a false imperiousness that matches Micha’s as you both drift closer to him.

“Only the very honor of your soon-to-be estate,” he replies with a grin, not moving an inch despite the other team trying to take advantage of what they see as his distraction by making conversation.

“I suppose that might be important enough, but you seem to be losing,” Dale points out, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the tally marks.

Micha rolls his eyes. “Yes, because Keyler and Tawny left to fetch Nair from wasting his time playing marbles and help us out. So now we’re down two and can’t afford to send anyone else after them.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Dale replies with a teasing glint in his eyes.

Micha sticks his tongue out like a child and Dale laughs. Then Micha’s eyes light up. “You could always lend us your immeasurable strength so we can muster the numbers we need to win.”

Dale falters at the suggestion, dubiously looking over the rope and the competitors.

“You can join at the end,” Micha says with a scoff, “Wouldn’t want your clothes to get too dirty.”

You’ve never been so grateful that Dale used to be so fussy about his clothes before, anything that lends plausibility to his reluctance to join in. You’re certain he’d take the opportunity to impress his superiority on others otherwise.

“Come on, D-milord,” Micha asks, wheedling, “help us out while Geoff hunts down the others.”

Tug o’ war seems very high risk to you, gambling on a bad hand, but maybe he’s learned from the horseshoes. With enough men here, perhaps any discrepancies in Dale’s strength won’t be obvious. Of course, it could be far more obvious instead, you think, shoulders tense.

His eyes dart to yours and he looks hopeful, earnest. You reluctantly hold out your hand, “Let me hold your cane and your coat.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he says with a smile, handing them over and accepting the gloves handed to him so he doesn’t get rope burns.

The estate team decides to shuffle their whole order while the town team tries to take advantage of the movement. In the end, one of the guards dashes off to find those missing teammates Micha spoke of and Dale’s near the end of the line of people on this side of the river. He’s far enough from the mud per Micha’s offer in deference to his clothes, but not that far because the flag that marks the original middle of the rope has moved significantly closer to the other team’s side of the river.

You nibble your lip as you watch Dale try to sort out his footing amid the renewed shouting between teams. Without his cane and with all the shuffling, he's clearly not steady on his feet, despite the rope to hang onto the people in front and behind him on the rope.

You’re glad another wineseller is next door and help yourself to some more drink as you watch Dale struggle not to end up in the mud as another person joins the town team. By the time you’ve received it, Dale has settled into some sort of stance in between the jostling and movement of the rope as everyone on both teams has awoken from the tied lull to truly throw their backs into the competition.

Micha turns his head to face Dale and says, “Are you here, milord? Or have you gotten soft from all the travel and airs?” Dale stares at him for a moment before sticking his own tongue, pulling a startled laugh from him. “Then lose your perfect posture. Drop your weight and lean.”

Obligingly, Dale grits his teeth, dropping his stance and leaning at the same angle at the others. Micha glances back again and nods approvingly, “There you go, now you’re remembering.” He turns back to face forward and gives a whistle. “V! Let’s regain this ground!”

A kitchen hand at the front whistles back and counts down from five, her lighter voice cutting through the crowd and noise. On ‘two’, everyone on the estate team takes a step back with their left feet, hand tight on the rope to pull it with them. Dale’s out of sync and while he keeps up, it's clear he’s not contributing anything of particular help. The town teams are quick to pull back on their end and a few of the estate team reluctantly have to resettle their feet much closer together than initially planned.

“Again!”

This time, you count in your head and after four beats, the team tries again, leaning at an even deeper angle. This time, Dale’s ready for it. He pulls his own weight far better this time, getting a better feel for how much strength everyone else is using and with the timing correct that round.

The town is trying to arrange their own pulls in the lull between, but they’re not as organized and someone drops out, leaving them unbalanced.

The next pull has Dale's arms tighten further than before, the muscles obvious under his white linen shirt. Not only is he able to step back further, but so is everyone in front of him.

“There we go!” Micha cheers along with the others

Steadily, their team brings the flag back to the center of the stream, getting surer ground under their feet and working the other team up. Dale’s focus must seem like mere concentration on his grip and stance, but you bet it's him seeing just how much strength he can use. That first pull was a little too much in your estimation and Dale seems to agree as no other round to the retreat as much as that one.

By the time Geoff returns, you’ve finished your glass of wine and the flag is far closer to the estate team’s side of the stream bank. As they make room for them on the rope, Micha tries to entreat Dale to stick around. “See how much help you were able to provide, esteemed one?”

“I have done my duty,” Dale replies dryly, handing his gloves over to a rather intimidated looking man, clearly not expecting to be replacing the Northridge heir. “And I believe the team maximum is eight.”

“If you want to leave us for your fiance,” Micha volleys back, eyes darting to you, catching you by surprise. “Just say so.”

Dale smirks. “Would you not choose a lovely woman over mud?”

“No,” Micha replies cheekily with a wink at Dale. “No offense, milady.” You smile even as the others boo Micha and encourage Dale to go to you. The laundress goes as far as to tell Dale if he’ll not join you, she will. You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks at such blatant flirting, even if it's obviously motivated by alcohol more than anything else and perhaps the novelty of joking with a lord.

“This is the gratitude I receive for lending you my aid,” Dale replies in the same theatrical manner as he and Micha seem to like to play at. “I see how it is and take my leave of you.”

He accepts his coat, pulling it back on, before taking his cane, his fingers warmer than usual when they brush yours. You leave as the newly bolstered estate team begins another round of heaving.

With the wine you’ve had and Dale’s good cheer buoying your spirits, you let yourself get cajoled into a game of ring toss. Strength, you only have a minimal amount, no matter the basic skills you’ve had lessons in—accuracy though, you’re a bit better with. That's about gauging your own ability, your own strength and the distance you need to cross. If you can see your target and it's not too far away, you're reasonably confident.

The weight of the rings is what you need to account for the most and you’re not discouraged when your first toss comes up short. Your second is even closer and your third neatly rings around the short pole. Dale tucks the blossom you win neatly behind your ear, the color complementing your gown and Dale complimenting you.

Passing the longbow ranges, Dale steers you towards the hammer throwing. He is quick to walk over to the table with the various spare hammers. The game runner is quickly gathering up competitors, aiming for five players, each with three hammers. The wood of the hammers is dyed to distinguish the different competitors so none can confuse who threw which.

“Do you mind, my Lady? I think I have this one,” he tosses the red hammer from his right to left, “well in hand.”

You can’t help the dry look you give him at the word play, “Very well.” While you’d initially consider this too high stakes after horseshoes since there is no target, just pure distance and therefore with nothing to reign him in, you trust he’s learned well from the tug o war game.

He lines up with the others while the game runner tries to fill the final two spots for this round. You linger at the fence, letting others peruse the hammers.

“My Lady?” You turn at the voice to find Steward Bilmont next to you.

“Steward,” you say with a smile before you notice how anxious he seems. “Is everything alright?”

His eyes dart from Dale lining up at the throw line to those nearby. “Yes, yes. Fine. Well, could I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course,” you say and follow him down the fence until you're midway down the throwing lane, able to see but with no one particularly close by. “What’s happened? Something with—” Your eyes dart to your fiance.

Bilmont nods. “As we suspected, Lord Archibald did see something while on the hunt, something that has made him suspicious of Lord Dale—and you.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. “Me?”

“Yes, I overheard him speaking with Lady Breighton,” Bilmont explains in a low but urgent tone, eyes darting around for any who might overhear him now. “He thinks that you have bewitched Lord Dale.”

You stare at him, your thoughts still. You blink. “What?”

Bilmont nods again, more vigorously. “He thinks that Lord Dale either fell ill on his own or that perhaps even that was some manipulation of yours and that you used dark influences to help him recover.”

“What?” you repeat. You want to laugh. You’ve no experiences with dark influences except those that are now happening at Northridge because of Dale himself. “How? To what end?”

“To gain power over him,” Bilmont explains. “Lord Archibald is now suspicious that your… that how you present yourself is some sort of act. That you desired more control over Northridge than you believed Lord Dale would give you and so you’ve now done something to make him more responsive to you, more pliant to your manipulations.”

You inhale sharply at his words. That is… not good. “And he told Lady Breighton this?”

“Yes.” Although at that, Bilmont seems to lose some tension, saying, “The only good thing is that if he was looking for support for this theory, he did not find it.”

“Wait, truly?”

Bilmont nodded.

“But…” You frown in confusion. Breighton truly is as intimidating and intelligent as she had first seemed to you nor does she think particularly well of Dale. You’re surprised she isn’t siding with her father. “I thought given Lady Breighton’s general opinion of Dale and, well, I’m not certain what she thinks of me I suppose, but I was under the impression she found me rather…” Shy? Boring? Uninteresting? “…humble.”

Bilmont looks rather pained at that, almost sheepish, as he admits, “Yes, well, she does. That’s precisely why she doesn’t believe you would or could do something of this nature. She said she had seen no evidence of you having any particular knowledge or skill with demonic influences—and that she had met such individuals before. Additionally, she does not feel lord Dale is acting over all in character and views the discrepancies Lord Archibald noticed as either slight or evidence of maturing while abroad.

“Since she has had barely any interaction with Lord Dale for a number of years, she cannot compare his post abroad personality to his recent, ahem, change. She does claim to have met those possessed before and maintains Dale shows none of the classical signs, especially not given the time that has elapsed since the illness. Demonic influences she has less experience with, but as Lord Archibald has even less than her, she also said that you do not demonstrate the signs of such a practitioner.”

“Likely because I’m not,” you reply.

“She went so far as to say she’d believe Lord Dale had gotten mixed up in such demonics himself before you,” Belmont adds with a touch of incredulity at how close to the truth she is, “perhaps for power—to which Archibald took offense, saying Lord Dale would never be so foolish.

Belmont shrugs helplessly, “In the end, Lady Breighton could not be convinced of your involvement and Lord Archibald could not be convinced of Dale’s.”

“But Grandfather was not swayed by Lady Brighton’s argument either,” you deduce. That would be too easy.

“No, not primarily,” Bilmont replies, disappointment evident in his voice. “While I believe he was disappointed she did not see his side, he seemed more thoughtful than discouraged. He seems determined to prove his theory, or at least test it.”

“Oh good,” you can’t help yourself from saying. “Grandfather is going to try to prove I’m a demonic influencer and likely in doing so expose—” you cut yourself off, unwilling even in your agitation to say it aloud. “How does one even prove such a thing? He’s no demonic scholar or practitioner himself.”

“He did not say.”

“Of course not.”

A flash of red catches your eye and you realize it’s finally Dale’s turn at the hammer throw. You try to sort your thoughts as you watch his hammer land neatly in the middle of the other competitors, demonstrating ability, but nothing out of the ordinary. His next throw is only a few feet beyond that. His third is a good few feet beyond the others, but not remarkably so. There’s one more person still to throw, but you’d not be surprised if Dale won.

You’re glad Dale’s managed to regulate his strength correctly, but Grandfather is far too close to the truth for your comfort and you’ve no idea what to do about him. “Strategies?”

“I will keep you alert to anything else I might overhear and recommend you stay on your guard,” Bilmont replies after a moment’s silence.

“Yes,” you answer readily enough. It's becoming rather tiring though, to always be on your guard, vigilant to exposure. “Perhaps I can find something that might suggest what he’ll try. Nothing else to do but wait.”

A small cheer goes up from by the throwing line. You look over to see Dale is motioning to you and automatically you begin to walk back to the main table, Bilmont trailing behind you.

“My lady, come, see what I’ve won.” He cheerfully holds out a skillfully crafted hammerhead as well as a wreath of some kind. When he sees who’s with you, he raises his eyebrows. He's also not oblivious to the atmosphere surrounding the two of you, no matter how you try to hide it. “Steward Bilmont, is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course my lord,” Bilmont says hurriedly. “Although I should be going. My apologies for distracting you from fun with trivialities, my Lady.”

“Of course, Steward,” you reply. Before Dale can ask, you accept the flower crown he holds out to you, fingers careful with the blossoms. “It’s lovely.” You spot the length of ribbon running through the wreath, likely the real prize.

When you go to hand it back, Dale pushes it back to you. “For you, my lady.”

“Oh. I thank you,” you reply, not sure how to place it. You’ve not worn such a crown since one spring equinox celebration when you were a girl. “Could you place it?”

Dale smiles, accepting it back. He reaches for you, motioning for you to incline your head. He carefully sets the crown on your head, adjusting it. Finally he leans back, eyes kind on you. “There. Perfect.”

Oh, how you wish that was closer to the truth than it is.

[Part Thirteen]

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