Veritas Virumque/P1E1

"If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals." I sing of truth, and a man. Or well, I write. Singing is not a skill I harness, though I wish I could. It’d make carriage car karaoke sessions more pleasant.

This is a story set at Ever After High. Yes, that one, the school for future fairytales? It’s eminent, good at what it does -- it has to be, or else the Charming clans, and other significant Royal families will complain, and that would be the end of it.

I could tell you many stories about this institution. In fact, I probably have. My narrator license has been put to good use already.

Here’s one of these stories.

So.

I sing of truth, and a man.

A young man, a prince, who hailed from a harsh, cold North, a land filled with mythical creatures - meese and goose -, a land with strange decorum so far removed from our conventional fairytale tradition. Our prince is from Canada, worlds removed from our dear German Ever After.

There’s no muse I want to summon -- did you hexpect that I would? I know, right now I mock the lofty style of epics. Our prince wouldn’t want that, so may I have the humility to continue my story in the most down to earth tone.

Turnus Wyllt began his mornings fussing over his hair.

Items of magic usually had little or nasty effects on him, but the thing about hair was that it was dead. It never experienced the same sort of physical repulsion he did with magical items, no force pushing back at him, like opposite poles of a magnet. Magical conditioner made it sleek, and magical oil fixed up damaged ends.

Any regular Prince Charming had perfect hair. Shiny, voluminous. Turnus, for once, was no exception. He had his hair straightened, and made sure to grow it long. It was beautiful, though less regal and more wise, like a traditional sage mage.

Somewhere, on the other side of the room, Orleans le Nouveau was using his hands as a comb.

The next King of the Gold Mines was always a presentable prince, and even overdressed for school. But as presentable as he was, Orleans barely spent an infinitesimal of the time Turnus did on hair. Orleans’ blond strands stuck out at weird angles and was unkempt in a charmingly boyish manner. Damsels were into that, apparently. Not that Orleans cared much, for he only had eyes for his future Toutbelle, but Kings do appeal to majority preferences.

It was six in the morning.

By the time hair was done, by the time the princes had freshened up and put on their day clothes and packed their bags, by the time Orleans had stared forlornly and dramatically out of the window and Turnus rushed to finish up the second half of his Kingdom Management thronework, it was seven.

And at seven, Ramsey Baartholomew was already outside the princes’ dorm room, checking his watch and looking frustrated. “Early to rise, early to bed, makes a prince healthy and well-bred,” the next King of Sheep and Ghosts recited, as soon as the door swung open for Turnus and Orleans to leave.

“We have literally two hours until morning classes start,” said Turnus. “You’d think we would have more chill.”

“I already did five laps around the school, so don’t give me that.”

“Coincidentally, that's when the hot princes do their morning runs.”

“I am the hot prince on his morning run,” Ramsey shook his head. “Anyway, when are you guys going to join me? The sun is just out, other princes run shirtless and you feel less guilt over stuffing your face at breakfast… it’s the peak of bro-bonding.”

Orleans cut in. “We’re joining you for breakfast. That has to count for something.”

“Breakfast… bro-eakfast… brofist?” Turnus frowned. “Brobreakfast.”

“Brofist!” Ramsey offered up a fist, to which the other two instinctively bumped.

If you enjoyed people-watching, the castleteria was best at breakfast. A lot of royals would still be in their pyjamas as they stacked up French toast and Peter Pan-cakes on their plates, and managing conversation was difficult for anyone this early in the morning. This was exactly why Ramsey insisted that he and his friends should always look their best before coming to the Castleteria in the morning -- it was one of his few chances to shine above the other princes.

When breakfast was over, they parted ways - Turnus off to Cross-Cultural References and Literary Allusions, and the other two off to Hero Training.

“I can’t join you guys for lunch,” Turnus said, when the squad regrouped after the one class that they all shared, Kingdom Management. “I was going to check on my advisor.”

“Awww,” Ramsey frowned. “Have fun battling the bureaucracy of Dr Charming!”

~*~

When Turnus got to the office that Dr Charming shared with Professor Knight, another student was just leaving. She took note of him, gave a scrutinising once-over and spoke sharply and stridently. “Dr Charming’s out. Prof Knight’s in, though.”

“Shame, I had questions.”

“Me too, bro. Me too.” The other student seemed visibly distracted. In the most milistic of ways, she was dressed like a prince. Roman regalia, Italian accent. No visible sign of her story was displaced in her dress, but hey, Turnus didn’t display his role externally either.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m the next Emperor Lucius. In the Arthurian Legends.”

“Okay?”

“Literally only found out today. I kind of just want to--” she made grappling hands. “Argh, scream or something. Positively or negatively? You make the call.”

“Alright.”

“So, I guess, I’m okay. Or I will be. Won’t be. Okay. Okay.” She forcefully frowned. “Ablative Charming. Not usually like this.”

Turnus knew other princes were weird, so it was nice to know that sometimes, it was awkward weird. “Turnus Wyllt.” Unless people asked, he never gave his destiny alongside name.

Her eyes widened. “Wyllt? Are you a Merlin? Turnus? Like the one Aeneas so valiantly fought?”

So many questions. Only a quick passing exchange, and he felt already sick of it. Not uncommon, Turnus realised, when talking to princes. “I-- I’m meant to be King Merlin’s son, yeah. No Italians kicking my ass, though.”

“You mean Trojans,” she corrected. “I mean, whatever.”

“... okay,” he darted past her towards the door. He knocked twice, and a firm, warm and friendly voice broke through.

“Well, come on through! Take a seat!”

Pushing open the door, Turnus entered. The office shared by the two advisors was said to be one of the most decorated rooms at Ever After High. The accolades framed on the walls or in the stained-glass cabinets spanned literal centuries. Each name inscribed told a hero’s story, and there were many names. Each name was someone loved, someone deemed worth honouring, someone worthy enough that even students in the 21th century would stop to admire. Turnus’ eyes scanned past them and right at the old face of Professor Knight.

The Professor waved, and gestured towards an empty seat in front of him.

“Hello, sir,” Turnus sat down, and internally cringed at how immediately formal his tone got. “I don’t know if you know me, but I’m Turnus Wyllt. I’m one of Dr Charming’s.”

“I don’t. Wyllt… you must be a Merlin, though you don’t look the part. I know, I’ve met the young lad Mercury already, and you cannot be mistaken for him at all.”

“My destiny is King Merlin’s son in the Princess Mayblossom,” the words coming out of Turnus’ mouth held no emotions. They were cold bricks, industrial and repetitive. “I’m no hero, Professor Knight.”

With that line, the old man shook his head, his face betraying a frown. “Now, now, don’t be like that. A young man like you can always strive to do good. Heroes are self-defined and true to oneself, and who are you, Turnus Wyllt?”

“Uh, I was hoping for less self-reflecting questions and more pragmatic solutions.”

“Well, self-reflection never hurts. Have a peppermint.”

Turnus took a peppermint. He didn’t open the wrapper though, and just slipped the sweet into his shorts pocket.

“So,” continued Professor Knight, “Introduce yourself, Turnus Wyllt.”

“Uh, can I just skip to the part where I ask you the questions?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’m worried about my grades. My Fairy Point Average has been dropping, and I know for sure that I want to go into higher education.”

“Let me pull up your transcript,” Professor Knight said, and turned on the computer at his desk. “Very admirable, the higher education goal. Several fairytales end up gaining honorary degrees, but unless you’re in a very technical field… what were you thinking of, Mr Wyllt?”

Turnus tucked a strand of purple hair behind his ear. “Applied Mathemagics?”

Within a few taps of the keyboard, Professor Knight had Turnus’ transcript up on the screen. “Well, you have all As in the sciences and mathemagics. I don’t know your worry.”

“My prince classes are dragging me down, Professor. I can barely keep a C.” His voice was short and curt.

“Well, that’s not to worry. You are a legacy. I can’t say admission into a good school would be too difficult.”

“Isn’t that biased?”

“That shouldn’t be too much of a complaint, is it? I mean, if you are concerned,” Professor Knight frowned, “there are other people you can talk to and connect with. There’s a place in BookEnd that’s offered destiny consulting services for years, and it’s become increasingly popular. Getting a slot might be difficult, unless you were referred to one of their trainees.”

He mirrored the frown. “But I don’t want destiny consulting. I just want support for my own life.”

Once Upon A Time, Turnus Wyllt's eyes sparkled.

Magic embedded itself into every element of this world; it fueled the very blood force of fairytales. Life was magic, magic life, and Turnus Wyllt lacked both.

He stared back at the advisor, eyes a dull purple. “I mean, I’m not that helpless.”

“Other fairytales found themselves in a sounder place through destiny consulting.”

“What do you mean by ‘a sounder place’?”

Professor Knight seemed to lack an answer. “Just try it out, it might be beneficial.”

Turnus slumped back into his seat, arms crossed. His legs would have been propped up as well, had that been an acceptable posture for an advisor’s office.

“Right, I’ll give it a shot. But I don’t have much hope and I can’t promise results.”

~*~

The destiny consultant trainee worked in BookEnd. He was exceedingly young, well-dressed, with hair the colour of caramel, and a smile so enigmatic and unfathomable that it struck Turnus with a distinct fear and familiarity.

“Hello,” he said, making no comment as to how Turnus was ten minutes late. “It’s Gabriel Fanfarinet. You can just call me Gabriel.”

“I’m Turnus,” said Turnus.

A lone grey desk rested in the middle of the office. It was neat - every paper was filed away or colour coded with a sticky note.

“Can I interest you in anything? I have coffee, hot cocoa, I know it's only 2pm but there's wine in the back fridge…”

Turnus blinked. “I'm good.”

“Clever,” he smiled in a very calculated manner. “Smart. As princes should do - never accept food or drink from people you don't know, even if they are your storymates.”

“Or, you know, people could stop poisoning and putting potions in things maliciously.”

He received no response.

Gabriel Fanfarinet made himself a drink - an iced coffee by the looks of it. Each move was swift, smooth, and even though the process ate away a few minutes, it was so pleasing to watch that it barely seemed as if any time was wasted.

While all this was happening, Turnus stayed on his feet. Even if they are your storymates, the man had said. Was that an off-handed comment? Or, given that enigmatic smile, very targeted?

“Right, well, we should get started,” Fanfarinet said. “Why haven’t you taken a seat yet?”

“When did you graduate Ever After High? How old are you?”

“Please sit.”

“What did you say your surname was again?”

Gabriel stalled for a bit. “Fanfarinet,” he said, after a confused second. “Why?”

Turnus remembered his own Ambassador Fanfarinet clearly. They only ever had one conversation, but he remembered social media posts, and remembered his name, his hair, and enough quirks to gather some idea of who he was.

“You’re not him.”

“Pardon?”

He gave the name of a boy who he had never talked to.

“Bastion.”

Except once, in Freedom Year. Turnus, so new and fresh off into his fairytale, had introduced himself enthusiastically, only to be met with a glaze so chilly that he never once talked to the other boy again.

“You’re not Bastion Fanfarinet. Where is Bastion Fanfarinet?”

“Sit down, Mr Wyllt.”

He was still standing.

“There is no Ambassador Fanfarinet named Bastion. Are you quite alright?”

“No, not really,” said Turnus. “Look, I don’t really want to have this discussion anymore. I’m going to leave.” He had yet to sit down, so all it took was a turn and a quick close of the door.