梦; of monsters, dreaming - W. Zhao

They say that a monster crept through these halls.

The palaces were complex; winding stone corridors, flickering braziers, and steep crumbling staircases. To wander through its halls unguarded was to seek death; to hold a single candle and go exploring after curfew only spoke a willing invitation to punishment.

Well, he wasn't afraid! He could do it!

***

A bellow, as if from an awakened beast, comes with such reverberating thunder that its echo seemed to linger for minutes, quietening with distance as it scraped across stone walls before falling away entirely.

...so what if he was shaking? So were the walls! He steadies himself with one hand along the rough-hewn stone, heart beating wildly, pulse fluttering in his throat. There was no way he could turn back now. Wood and iron beat a drum against his thigh with every step, painted fan at his hip — nothing else but his fists and determination to arm him.

"You're ... kind of dumb, aren't you?", he thinks to himself...

Even to his imagination, his teeth snapped at empty air, shaking his head and resolutely continued on.

“This is for you, friend! You should be encouraging me!”

Upon seeing light ahead, the young boy's face brightened pace quickening, footfalls soft as he could make them. It felt as if he'd been walking forever. And then...

"A-AH-ACHOOOOOOOO..."

He stops dead in his tracks, face going very, very pale.

The-the...THE MONSTER! And it was right in his room...

Faint candlelight spilled from heavyset doors left ajar, honey over stone. The young boy was so engrossed in his task of running forward that he ... bumped into something.!

"AGH!!" he said, lifting his watery eyes as his vision slowly cleared to see iron-clad boots; a very tall, very stern face. A guard. Two actually, he was done for!

But then...they smiled? And the bearded one...winked? They didn't turn from their positions, faces falling blank again as if a hand had waved over their faces. Magic.

This was a rare opportunity!

He cast one more anxious glance at the men flanking the doors, took a deep breath, and pushed them open.

The monster sat up, sheets pooling at the waist, hair mussed and cheeks a warm, feverish red. The bright, angry gaze affixed upon him set his legs to running, opposed to the frozen fear just minutes before.

"Kenjirou!" a child's stage whisper, happy as anything.

They were at eye level now, Takeshi hovering over the bed like this, gathering the prince's small hands into his own and pressing them to the other's forehead.

"Are you sick? All the servant's children were telling me there was a monster so I had to come and see you, I heard the roars all the way from the other side!"

Even in his excitement, his manner was serious, gaze tracking the other with rapt attention. Kenjirou's eyes were luminous, almost glassy as he let his arms be moved at will.

"Don't be ridiculous," says Kenjirou, his voice thready and impetuous. "If there were a monster, you'd be the first to kn-"

Suddenly he stopped, his entire face scrunching. Something twitched, hands slipping from Takeshi's larger grip to fist into the bedsheets.

“Move!”

A voice like his father compels him to life, and then he's throwing himself over the foot of the bed, the young prince leaning over his prone form as he turns his head and sneezes with all the force of a battle cry.

“Oh,” he thinks dizzily, with half a mind that he's crushing his friend's feet. “So it was you!”

When he scrambles back to the other's side, hair messy from the sudden collision, Kenjirou just snorts. His small, fine-boned hand reaches until Takeshi goes cross-eyed with focus to land on his head. Kenjirou looks tired, if not amused, and he watches as the boy pats around with his other arm to bring a handkerchief to his face.

"Well," a yawn, face going teary-eyed behind the small cloth. "You've seen me. Go back and sleep."

His hand was still buried in Takeshi's hair, patting absently as if he were a dog, and he'd had half a mind to rise and throw it off entirely; below, his older brother in miniature, to "respect your elders!" He was eight to Kenjirou's seven, after all. It just didn't make sense!

Never mind that he was a guard's son to Kenjirou's prince — never mind that even if he were a hundred years older, Kenjirou would still stand above. That had never mattered to them, not like that. And strangely, softly, never to their parents, either.

At least, not yet.

Takeshi slowly falls to his knees, a parody of a bow as he rests his cheek on the bed, Kenjirou's hand following. "I know you've got your big scary guards, but-" and here he yawns too, the world blurring with the force of it, "but- I can't just go back now! I'll protect you one day too, you know."

His friend's touch is nice; he pets his hair as his mother does, soft and scratching and never once pulling too long, too hard. He leans in, chin scooting across the bed covers as his body shuffles forward.

"Besides," he hisses, eyes darting around furtively. "I'll be in so much trouble if they see me after curfew."

Kenjirou hums, not once ceasing in his ministrations, his gaze shifting away. The curtains are drawn back, and the hazy veil of moonlight sets the soft contours of the child's face something faint and unattainable.

"You knew you'd be in trouble and you still came. You can't protect anyone if you're caught." A faint cough turned to the side. When he speaks again, his voice is weak with sickness and sleep. "Or sick."

His hand is warm, the bed is soft ... Kenjirou's voice is going through one ear and right out the other. It would be so easy to fall asleep here. But! He had a mission! A purpose! He'd not slipped out his quarters and braved all those fearful corridors for nothing! At the cough, he sits up onto his knees, eyes roving the younger boy's form.

"I came to give you this," he says solemnly, catching the hand that slips from his head to hold, the other going to the fan at his waist. Kenjirou stares at their clasped hands with near feverish focus as Takeshi gently unfurls his fingers, placing the folded wood and iron in his palm. It dwarfs his hand, just as it did Takeshi's.

"For the monsters," he whispers, and closes Kenjirou's fingers again, kissing hand and handle in a ghost of breath, quick as anything.

The prince has gone quiet, neither smile nor admonition giving rise to his countenance.

Takeshi had missed it, and Kenjirou himself would never admit it, but he lit up from the inside out when he'd seen his friend at the door, furtive and putting on a brave face and there. All for him.

Becoming aware of himself, he lets Kenjirou's hands go, adjusting his stance so that it's something properly deferential, facing away with an embarrassed cough. Manners! "It's a battle fan." Takeshi leans in, voice as if in secret, uncaring of the lisp that softens his words. "That means you have to be careful. It looks normal, so you can take it anywhere."

Kenjirou nods once, missing the warmth of the other's presence. The covers rustle in a spill of silk as he shifts back, patting the bed beside him. "Show me how to use it."

Thank you, he means, as his best friend clambers in beside him, as they sit shoulder to shoulder with the waning moon, talking softly, until Kenjirou falls asleep, head of smooth hair lolling over Takeshi's shoulder. The boy turns, pressing a kiss to the soft fall of it unthinkingly, pulling the blankets over them both as he blows the candle out good night.

The handmaidens were cunning, but their mouths did not run — upon seeing the little boy enter, they looked to each other in tacit understanding and unobtrusively exited the opulent chambers, one after the other. The little prince had always looked so sad, after all. Who were they to deny him a friend?

Under the cover of stars, guards at the doors and the world before them, two little boys curl, one into the other, and dream. Moonlit swords, the gold of a crown. Dragons coiled in the sky like clouds to rain; a show of power, a dance of good fortune.

There were no monsters, tonight.