Once upon a time and at the bottom of the world there sat three illustrious kingdoms, each varying in size, in stature, and in cause. It was the oldest kingdom that was best known to the world, almost entirely made up of the color pink—pink flowers blossoming along the shorelines, pink petals floating on the winds, little pink cheeks on little pink babies, and pink sunsets along petaled horizons. It was a peninsula known for its utmost dedication to class, wealth abundant with thanks to their eternally generous God.

The second kingdom was born from the first's rebellion, led by men who carried the name Gaat. A failed coup d'etat had led to banishment, not just for the men, but for their followers, their loyalists, and their heirs. An entire subsect of people, lost to a wooded island with a shore made up of rocks. The Gaats, as the King of Caspar had put it, belonged to an island where the wildlife was as overgrown as their dreams.

More quietly and over the course of many nights, a third kingdom was formed almost by accident. Between the two kingdoms sat a tiny island at the center of the sea, the perfect place of respite for sailors coming to and fro. It was here, where the seas were clear and blue, where the wind smelled of salt and the sand felt of velvet, where the foam of the sea would build and crystalize and shine along the shore—it was here that sailors of all stripes would find rest among their travels and tell the tales of their ventures. Out of a shared loneliness, the island thoughtlessly became a home for those without one. Through their loneliness, companionship was found.

Some sailors chose to stay behind when their ships left the shore. Some brought their wives, bore children, and left their families with love, finally happy and settled now that they had a life to return to after their time spent on the waters. The kingdom of Melchior was made up of a humble people, but nevertheless, they were happy. Finally, they were happy.

It was the ships' captains who kept the peace, and not until many of the island's old had passed and many of the island's young had been born was a leader elected as a monarch to those left on land. They came to trust the retired captain of a well-known ship, respected by all and known for his heart. He was the type of man for whom every citizen already yearned in times of crisis, so to officially mark his command as law was to experience the natural order. He and his heirs were trusted unconditionally and when he passed, the entire kingdom mourned in a state of personal grief that is unusual for a king.

It was his third great-granddaughter who fell in love with the knight.

It is a story that has been told time and time again—one of true love, and courage, and empowerment. The princess who loved the knight and the knight who loved her right back. With her love by her side, the princess turned to a queen, ruling firm, but fair, holding strong the morals and beliefs of that old sailor's island. She always lent an ear, always helped where she could, always hugged as though the heart of her third great-grandfather had been rebirthed in her spirit. The citizens wore her clothes and ate from her table. She had met their children and mourned their husbands. The princess and her knight, many have said, were Melchior's most loving rulers. There were no doubts that the soul of her firstborn son would be just as pure.

He had come into the world too early, brash and loud, but he was ever so loved. By his mother, by his father. By the nurses who had helped him come to be. By the servants, and the guards, and all those who shared a breath with him. The son of their princess. The son of their queen. Word of the new prince blazed through the kingdom as though it were coated in oil and all of the tavern bets were finally settled—baby boy or baby girl, this moon or the next, the name: Scott. Prince Scott of the island Melchior, the gift of his life so completely flooded with promise and glee that of course a sailor song was sung.

Eyes of the sea and a
heart full of fight,
the boldest young son
of our princess and knight.

We sing out our song
and we pray for your might,
through all of your days
and through all of our nights.

Lain across his mother's breast, the legend of Prince Scott begins through the word of his people. Not even a day passes without the promise of a crown. His people want to be safe, they want to be saved, they want to be happy, and so they place all of their hopes on the shoulders of an infant, pleading for a future by his hand that is as blessed as the present by his mother's. Unknowing of their fates, mother and infant sleep, his breaths so much smaller than her own.

When the moon is renewed and once again shows full over the sea, the public travel through the gardens dressed in their very best silks, whispers and giggles washing over the crowds. Some of them even sing, the night's drinks already warming their bellies. They all hope to catch a glimpse at the island's newborn, as though they may wish upon him in the same way they wish upon a star.

The rose bushes bloom at the start of their season as the public make their way past the proud guards. The palace is made up of stone, and yet it feels so much warmer once inside. Flames light the way to the ballroom, and the queen truly does glow with her newborn in her arms. The food is plentiful and delectable. The music is perfectly in tune. Spouses and lovers and friends all dance across the night, warmth and merriment brimming. The island started as a home to sailors. Now it is home to all.

But among the kind crowd, a loveless man walks. Through the silks, through the songs. He wears a cape that is black as night, a dark hood pulled over his head so that only his smile shows. He does not dance with those around him and he does not participate in the feast. His presence is purposeful and his intentions are narrow. He neglects the one-two-three beat of the song and instead slithers to the front of the crowd.

The cloak shimmers as he moves, all the beauty of the night's starts trapped on the shoulders of a selfish man. He reaches for his hood, pulling it from his serpentine eyes. As it falls, the cloak pulls itself apart, thread by thread, until there is nothing left except for a man as cold-blooded as the snake that wraps itself around his glowing green scepter. When the queen sees him, she holds her prince just a bit tighter, holds her breath just a bit longer. "Dear me, a ball?" he says. "I must have misplaced my invitation."

"Gaat." It is barely a whisper on her lips, lost to the song and dance. Around them, her people smile and sing and celebrate, but the song seems to take on a minor key.

In her arms, the prince squirms as though he senses the rebellious king. A squeak passes the boy's lips, and Gaat looks upon him with that same slick smile. Scott opens his eyes and stares at the man. "This must be him," Gaat says. "The young prince I have heard so much about."

"Do not come any closer—"

"Ah, ah, ah," he chides, and with the flick of a sorcerer's hand, a thorny grey vine grows from a fresh crack beneath her feet, wraps itself around the arms that cradle her baby. It creeps across her skin, scratching as it crawls, and she cannot move. "You would not rob me of my chance to meet your young boy, now would you, Lucille?"

Gaat's snake rattles its tail, but in his mother's arms, young Scott feels no fear. A small fist reaches out from his mother's hold and yanks on one of the vines, an act that is met with a whimper as the newborn draws blood. Each crimson drop that lands among the thorns leaves a red rose growing in its wake. "Brave little boy," says Gaat. "He will make a fine knight, don't you think?"

Vines still grow, newly anointed with the roses of her prince, scratching and scraping at her skin. "I would spit on you, Gaat," she says. "But I fear giving you the impression that you deserve even that much."

Scott's whimpers then dissolve into cries, powerfully loud things that echo off of stone and bring the party to a standstill. At last, the public see their queen wrapped in thorns and the gasps wash through the crowd. Gaat seems all the more happy with the attention. "Unkind words like that make me happy that I did not marry you."

"I didn't marry you," she spits.

"Very true," he says, and with that he turns to the crowd, grabs the attention of the final few who still have not noticed him. The music tapers off, an entire kingdom waiting to see what might happen next, a fear for their newborn prince unlike that which they have ever known before. Gaat's smile still spreads across his lips. "You did not marry me, despite the arrangement between the kingdoms, and why was that?"

He pauses, as though waiting for an answer, but she will not do him the honor of speaking. She will not let him have any of the power he desires. The vines crawl up past her shoulders, threatening her neck, but still she stands with her chin held high.

Gaat does not have the patience for her. "Because you fell in love," he tells the crowd. "And with a knight, no less. You could have had a king!"

"I do have a king," she snaps. "And now, a prince."

"A prince," says Gaat, turning back to the boy, closer and closer, until the queen finally rips herself free of the thorns, driven by a mother's love, a mother's fear. It is all she can do to wrap herself even tighter around the prince. "The princess and the knight, with their charming young prince, beloved by all of those in Melchior."

It is the sound of silver sliding from its sheath that brings about a flood of relief in the queen, because she knows that sound. She knows it in her heart, in her mind, in her body. The princess and the knight—her friend since childhood, her protector since adolescence, the epic love story of the ages founded on years of promise, and sincerity, and devotion. Having barreled through the crowd, the knight draws his sword in her name and in the name of their son, and she knows that he could never be bested. With the blade at Gaat's throat, his words are not much more than a growl. "I know not the reason you came here," he says. "But you will not harm my bride, nor my son."

Gaat's free hand lifts up into a false surrender and he has the audacity to laugh. "Harm them? My word, no. If I wanted to harm your son, then I assure you that I would have done it. In fact, I only come to extend to him my well wishes."

The serpent on the scepter has a skin made up of black and brown diamonds that moves with a dizzying effect. Its tail rattles as it slithers around Gaat's shoulders and the two of them, man and snake, cast their eyes on the young boy. "They do grow up so fast, after all," Gaat says. "Before you know it, your young prince will be a king. I only hope to extend my wisdom onto him—only wish that his commands are taken as law. Let all he says, be. Until there are no more stars in the sky. Until the moon no longer lights the sea—"

"Your wishes are not welcome here," the queen says. "Now go, Gaat. Go, before you are slain."

"Slain," he echoes. Then, with a tsk, "Very well, Your Majesty. So you say, so it shall be."

Despite the sword that still rests at his neck, King Gaat reaches into the air and drapes his hood back over his head. Thread by shimmering thread, the cloak forms itself once more only to tear itself apart again, this time taking Gaat with it. As he dissolves, the ghost of his laugh lingers, echoing off of the walls even when he is gone.

And then the king—her knight, forever and always—cuts at the rest of Gaat's rosebush, frees the woman he so famously loves, and lets his sword fall. It clatters against the stone floor, the only sound in that grand ballroom, background noise in his desperate need to hold his family close. "All will be well," he whispers to her. "He is gone now, and all will be well."