Veritas Virumque/P1E2

"To being with, he is accused of a certain levity..." Professor Knight, Turnus wrote in his email to the advisor, ''it did not help at all and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. Destiny consulting just made me more confused on destiny and what I’m doing with my life.''

And he hit send.

It had been three days since the meeting with Gabriel.

Three days, and he hadn’t found a single piece of proof of Bastion Fanfarinet’s existence. The social media pages he thought he followed, or a profile on the school’s email system, or tabloid and newspaper articles written about the upcoming legacies of Ever After High will all blank. The previous Fanfarinet was Jacques -- that he now learned, and the upcoming one was clearly this Gabriel man.

By this point, he couldn’t just dig around, he had to ask around and take destiny in his own hands. On his Mirrorblog, Turnus posted:

He threw his phone in his bag, and left for his next class, Experimental Fairy Math. Lunch break hadn’t ended yet, but Turnus knew that if he sat around for time to pass by, he’d get too anxious to focus or think.

By the time he made it to the classroom, there was still twenty minutes left to go before class started. Expectedly, Klara Spejl was already in the room, pouring over a textbook. At the sound of Turnus opening the door, she looked up and beamed in her regular way - so warmly, that you’d forget that she was destined to get her heart frozen.

Turnus Wyllt would have probably regarded Klara Spejl as the only prince he liked at this school. She was the daughter of Kai, from the Snow Queen, so in all technicality, she was a commoner. But how could one not look at the grace she carried herself, and how much dignity she commanded, and not think of her as princely? She had all the charm a Prince Charming had, and more. Even the literal talking ravens and crows that frequented the woods by Ever After High would address her by a royal title.

“Your Highness,” he said, and slumped into the seat next to her. “Do you know anything about a Bastion Fanfarinet?”

Klara shook her head. “No. Why?”

“Professor Knight made me go to consulting. I think the guy who I talked to was the Ambassador in my destiny? But like, I feel like that’s wrong, because I don’t remember ever meeting him, but I do remember meeting my ambassador before, who was nothing like him--”

“Consulting? Is that like counselling?”

“I… I don’t even know. I barely had one conversation,” he frowned. “Well, I guess it was worth asking. Maybe my memories are just messed up.”

“So you’re not in counselling. That’s fine. Did you know that mental stress can affect memory and knowledge retention?” Klara said. Her tone was very matter-of-fact, with an under lining of concern. The corners of her eyes pointed down. “What else is in your life? How’s Gladiolus?”

Good questions. “I think Gladiolus is really busy. We’ll probably hang out tomorrow, but I don’t know.”

“No he’s not. He told me yesterday that his week was ‘super chill’, and that he had no major commitments.”

“Why did you ask me then?”

“Politeness.”

“You truly are the prince of small talk,” Turnus let out a small, tired sigh. He would never admit it out loud, but he was often envious of Klara -- how she could always hold a conversation with a person, how she could make anyone feel welcome… anyone except him, really.

Then again, no one could. Not at Ever After High, anyway.

As a student of Ever After High, you were surrounded by the future fairytales of tomorrow. All your coursework, hextra-curriculars, even your friendships, were cultivated carefully in preparation for fulfilling your future role. Even though a rebellion had recently occurred, even though a certain Raven Queen made it so that destiny was effectively null, it wasn’t as if the pressure of being a fairytale had disappeared.

In fact, among certain circles, it was more intense now. To be a fairytale was to be the creme de la creme, the superstars that the whole world will know and fawn over. Destiny was now an unstable podium to build status and reputation from, so the legacy students of Ever After High were becoming more try-hard.

Turnus was, technically, not a legacy. His parents never attended Ever After High, and as far back as he could trace, no one in his family had. A lot of the time, the rules of fairytale society was lost on him. In group conversations, he often felt like he had nothing relevant to say.

When the bell rang for his next class, the first thing Turnus did was check his Mirror Blog to see if anyone had answered his question.

The only replies he got were some well-meaning people asking if he meant ‘Gabriel’. Ramsey had quote-tweeted him, adding in a caption urging for others to “truly show chivalry” and “extend their kindness” by answering Turnus’ question. Still, no substantial replies.

Over the next couple of class periods, the activity and responses on his post waned. By the time he had finally gotten out of class and crashed onto his bed, too tired to do anything else, Turnus had given up hope.

So, naturally, he decided to take a nap.

When he woke up, there was a message. Not a reply, but a direct message.

Turnus halted. How could he ever answer that question, if he knew nothing but the man’s name and a few details he could remember from social media? He couldn’t possibly bombard Airmid Valerian with all the questions he did have, so he limited them to three.

He pressed send. And the message didn’t. Turnus tried again, then once more, but the message remained stubbornly unsent. He checked the router extension in his room, switched to data and back again, and tried replying on his computer. Despite all other utilities functioning, this one message stayed put on his end.

The two new messages sent. Might as well try the original one.

It didn’t.

Airmid Valerian responded,

followed by their room number.

~*~

Without hesitation, Turnus shoved his phone and keys in his pocket, and dashed four flights up the boys’ dormitories stairs to reach Airmid. There was no time to wait for the elevator, and besides, if Turnus didn’t take the steps, Ramsey would probably get on his case for skipping leg day.

Two symbols marked the room that Airmid Valerian shared with Samuel Gulliver: a skull-shaped candle for the former, and an eyeglass for the latter. He knocked twice, and stood back to wait for the door to swing open.

“Come through,” greeted Airmid. They gripped the doorknob with one hand and held a mug of coffee in the other. The handle was shaped like a burning match, and on the mug’s surface were the words ‘it’s lit’, accompanied by a cutesy illustration of a book burning. Airmid Valerian was the next physician in Godfather Death. Already done with highschool-level science, he spent most of his time on the campus of the closest university trying to get a head-start on his destiny. In his room, textbooks laid scattered, and yet another sizeable coffee mug rested on top of a sizeable volume of “Activists, Unequal Healthcare, and Other Revolting Things (Part IV, Edition LI)”.

“We keep forgetting to hang out,” Airmid said, in reference to his roommate. Sam was propped up on his own bed, legs crossed and a bunch of notebooks surrounding him. He waved. Turnus waved back.

The future physician pulled out a chair, but Turnus shook his head. “I’ll take the floor, and a cushion”, so Airmid threw a cushion with a printed cover at him. It was of a Lamb of Fairy Godmother album cover, which Turnus only recognised because Ramsey liked the same band.

“Okay, so my point of being here,” Turnus sat cross-legged on the floor. “Tell me about Bastion Fanfarinet.”

“Where do I start?” Airmid frowned and took a long sip of coffee. “So, the crux of my interactions with him was over the span of two weeks. We travelled across Germany and France together. I once cried in his arms. That’s the abstract summary of it all.”

“I guess that means you have a lot to say? I’m all ears.”

Instead of continuing on, instead of rambling in that way Airmid Valerian was prone to, the future physician was quiet. He was frowning, thinking, and then, without even looking, undid the strap of the watch they wore.

One didn’t have to be rich, or even keep up with notable brands, to recognise what the watch was. It was a Scrollex - seen as one of the finest watches of watches.

“Here,” Airmid said, and dropped it in his lap. “Take a look.”

“It’s really beautiful.” The fine metal, the clockwork. These watches were meant to last generations, meant to exist through centuries. Much like Ever After High, they were legacies of their own. Turnus turned it over in his hands.

On its back face, was an engraving.

''To my son, Bastion Fanfarinet. Happy 16th.''

And then, a date.

The date was of only a few months prior, and presumingly of the previous owner’s birthday. With near absolute clarity, the engraving betrayed the existence of a previous owner, who was but sixteen years old.

“Happy Sixteenth, Bastion Fanfarinet,” Turnus repeated it to himself. “And where did you get this?”

“He gave me it. ‘Are you serious?’ I asked, and ‘No catch’, he’d said. It’s mine now -- the only thing that bears that name of Bastion Fanfarinet.”

Turnus felt his heart sink. “But like, that’s beautiful. He literally gave you time. He gave you a memorial.”

He passed the watch back to Airmid, but not without pulling out his MirrorPhone and taking a clear picture of the back of it.

“It’s near solid proof that he existed. All I really needed,” and he laughed nervously. “I thought I was going nuts! No one else remembered him. I’m glad you do. You seem like a trusty source.”

“Well, like any proper scientist, I’m glad you have some peer review right here. Sure, he left me, that I can forgive. Leaving, without any trace of his existence? Something’s up. I have a suspicion who.” He grimaced. Since Airmid hadn’t been making eye contact with anything other than the floor, the angle of his downcast head emphasised his downcast eyes. “It’s not necessary to get into that. Anyway,” he stood up, and offered Turnus a hand to pull him off the floor. “You should get going. I hope I helped, as a doctor should.”

“You did! Lots of thanks, Airmid. One more question, though,” Turnus said, making his way to the door. “Who else knew about him? Did he mention anyone else in his life?”

“He had a childhood friend, in fact. A princess named Pythia?”

~*~

Finding Pythia Adalinda was a breeze. She ran a prolific social media page, talking about what the Student Council was up to, what causes to support, and it was always updated with the latest news in politics. She mirror-blogged so often about what she was up to, that just following her page was enough to track her actions around campus.

So, on a weekday afternoon when she had posted that she was tabling a petition at Ever After High’s main courtyard, Turnus rushed over.

The crowd of signatures flooding in had barely begun, so Turnus approached Pythia at a sparse table. “Hi! Pythia Adalinda! Do you happen to know anything about Basti-”

Her strong, mellow voice broke off the rest of his sentence. "It would be better for you if you put your mind on more important things! Like, the Student Council Bakesale coming up! Or, or, perhaps this protest against the production of love potions in Book End!"

She sliced a flyer between him and her through the air, like a knife, cutting him off.

"Uh, I'm sorry Pythia…? I had a question."

"Politicians provide solutions, not answers." She seemingly caught sight of someone behind Turnus. Pythia pushed past him, carrying her stack of flyers. "It's been so long! Let's talk about--" and soon, she was rife in conversation with someone else.

He pretended to read the flyer, to look less awkward as he stood around the booth, waiting for Pythia to finish her conversation. But the flyer was short, he was done within the minute, so he ended up signing the petition that the table was for.

“Pythia? My question.”

“That’s not what I’m here to answer,” she said, and as mellow as her voice was, it was so cold.

It reminded Turnus very distinctively of another interaction, one from Freedom Year.

The first time Turnus Wyllt saw Bastion Fanfarinet was move-in for Freedom Year. Exiting a sleek carriage car that was stylised like a dragon, Bastion Fanfarinet accompanied Pythia Adalinda up the main steps of Ever After High. The doors of the car opened like a pair of wings, and servants followed the pair, carrying suitcases with them.

His hair was pink-tipped, and within a month, it would cherry blossom into a full pink. The popularity of alternative colours among villains would be cited as the reason (Turnus had heard that because more villains tended to dye their hair, the villain community could order dye and bleach in bulk).

Of course, Turnus already knew Bastion’s name and face. He had checked school records before coming to Ever After High, and decided that he would try his best to make friends with the man who would call him liege. Brutus had been helping Turnus carry his suitcases into Ever After. When Bastion and Pythia passed them by on the steps, Turnus had yearned to reach out, extend a hello, and introduce himself.

He didn’t.

What stopped him was the way Bastion Fanfarinet had walked. He was physically very closed off - his hands were tucked into his blazer pockets, and he kept his gaze straight in front of him, no deviation.

Over the next semester, Turnus would try catch the boy’s attention. Or, at least, he would dream of it. Often times, he would catch sight of Bastion Fanfarinet, often a book in hand or him glaring angrily at his phone. Turnus would keep updated his any of Bastion’s social media, and always felt, for some reason, vindicated when Bastion Fanfarinet was cold enough to scare off any girls fawning over the ambassador’s pretty face.

Still, for some reason, they only managed to have a verbal hexchange once. Bastion Fanfarinet had been in the Li-fairy, his pink hair showing his dark roots, pouring over a book. With no one else around, Turnus Wyllt felt comfortable enough to approach.

“Hi, Bastion Fanfarinet? It’s—”

“I’m sorry, I am really busy right now.” The reply was instantaneous, and voicemail-like. All his enigmatic handsomeness seemed now like an airbrushed magazine.

Turnus had decided then, equally instantaneous, that he would give it another year before talking to the man who would call him liege.

~*~

Immediately after his question was completely ignored by Pythia Adalinda, Turnus felt a distinct sickness in his stomach. He turned away from the table, and felt a sharp pain in his eyes.

Oh no, he thought, this was stupid. Being absolutely brushed off like that shouldn’t be enough to reduce him to tears. The way that the interaction played out made him feel like he wasn’t worth anyone’s time, that no one had the patience for his issues.

When heading back to the dorms, he was suddenly tackled from behind.

"Turnus!" said the source of the tackle.

"AHSHHHFHGJHHHHH," said Turnus. "Gladiolus, what in Ever After--"

“You’ve been a little slow on the hext messages.”

“I am so drained,” Turnus shrugged off his boyfriend’s hug. “Listen, I’ve done so much searching, and this is the only thing I got. Wait…"

He took his phone out of his back pocket and started searching through his gallery.

Gladiolus stood there expectantly, until Turnus pulled up the one picture he took of the back of the Scrollex. The mermaid frowned. “This is a lot to get worked up over.”

"I don't think so. You see-" His screen turned a navy and vibrated from an incoming call. Bro-tus, read the contact name. "Wait, hexcuse me… hey bro."

“Turnus! Turnus!” Brutus Wyllt’s voice rang loud and clear through the minute phone speaker. “Can you believe it’s about two weeks out?”

“I’ll be there. I’m really busy right now.”

“Well, that’s just how school feels. Wait until you’re working! Sofia and I send our best regards!”

Sofia Wares was his brother Brutus’ fiance, and within two weeks, married to Brutus. She was smart, so smart that Turnus was sure that she only gained their mother’s approval from her resume alone.

“Anyway, we’re just booking some things last minute. Any alcohol requests?”

“I’d like mead,” he said. A very quintessential high-fantasy drink, and something that Turnus would definitely regard as ‘his aesthetic’. “And a break.”

“We’ll try get you out of school early! You deserve one! Anyway, goodbye for now, love you, lil bro!” Brutus hung up before Turnus could get in another sentence.

Gladiolus waited for Turnus to put his phone back in his pocket before speaking. “But Turnus, I was going to ask - did you ever agree to the camping trip with the boys?”

“Tell Ramsey and Orleans I can’t, my brother is getting married and I want time off school. Just a week.”

“But a week here is like an eternity! You’ll miss so much.”

"I don't think he gets it. Dude's never attended Ever After High," Turnus shoved the phone back in his pocket. "As far as I know, no one in my family has. I wish I had a full list of people who have, though."

"The school archives."

Turnus' face lit up. "We have school archives? Are they accessible?"

“Yeah, they’re located near the Vault of Lost Tales in the Lifairy--”

"Okay, neat. In that case, I'm getting an early night! Bye Gladi, all the love," and Turnus continued on his original route, in a sprint this time.