Achille was a pretty little blond boy with cherubic cheeks and bright hazel eyes. He wasn't the Crown Prince, but he was important. He wasn't cursed to die when he entered adulthood, unlike Crown Prince Aurore had been.

Achille's christening had been a lot quieter than Aurore's, and had far fewer faeries in attendance.

His birthdays were always quiet affairs. Holidays found Queen Emilienne, King Anthelm, and Prince Achille traveling to other properties the King owned. Never the same one twice, and never a pattern that could be easily predicted. Anthelm loved his son, but at a distance. Just in case. He was paranoid.

Part of Anthelm's paranoia came to fruition in his unpredictable nature, and in the quiet family affairs that birthdays and holidays had become. Part of it came to fruition in the walls that Anthelm built between himself and his Queen, and himself and his second son.

Achille saw a lot of Queen Emilienne, but more of his designated nursemaids.

He was seven years of age when the Crown Prince would be returning home. All he had been told was that he was going to receive a brother, of sorts.

--

Hyacinthe denied every step. He wouldn't be Aurore for them, he wouldn't be the prince, and he wouldn't give up his entire life to live one he didn't even remember.

"You tell me I have no mother," he said, bitter. "And you tell me my father had no hand in my rearing. And now that father -- a King! -- has a new Queen, who has given him a new son. It sounds to me that I am no necessary pawn to be had. Why do they need two princes?" And why was their no word on the reason he'd spent thirteen years being raised in the Wood?

"You are the Crown Prince," Loch said.

"Just make the littler the Crown Prince. I don't remember the Kingdom, why should anyone expect the Kingdom to remember me, anyway? Just let me live." He stopped and turned to motion to the Wood. "Let me live there, with the Lady as constant company." With the faeries.

"The People loved your Queen Mother," Liddy offered, a bit sadly.

"What would they want from me? I'm not her. I'm just Hyacinthe. I'm not even a memory of the woman, and I have no stories of her to speak of," Hyacinthe wrinkled his nose and outright refused to keep walking. "I'm not Aurore. Whoever Aurore was might as well be dead, now."

"Don't say that!" Liddy rounded on him, hands over his mouth to cover a gasp. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"When Aurore was given to faeries, to be raised in the Wood, Aurore died," Hyacinthe repeated, firm. "Hyacinthe was born, because that was the name he received, and that was the name he was raised with. There's no point in acknowledging someone who never came to be, just as there's no point in me taking on a name I don't remember and don't answer to."

"You'll learn to answer to it," Loch said.

"He doesn't want to. How would he learn to answer to it if he didn't want to? All he has to do is refuse to respond when the other name is called," Truss was still walking. He was the only one still walking. And he was the only reason Hyacinthe itched to be moving, again. It was a far brighter tactic than stopping with him and engaging him in conversation.

"He's right," Hyacinthe said. He wavered, then started to walk again.

Liddy released a relieved sigh, then turned to scowl at Truss with all the venom he could muster. It was Truss, so there wasn't much venom to be had. "Look," he said, turning back to Hyacinthe. "We all must do things we do not wish to do. You may not wish this, but it's come to you."

"I'll pass," Hyacinthe said flatly.

"I think we raised you better," Truss said.

"I think you're full of it. However you raised me apparently doesn't matter!" Hyacinthe returned. "You raised a boy named Hyacinthe, while it appears that my name is Aurore. Hyacinthe didn't know mother, father, Kingdom, or castle. Aurore appears to live in a castle. Hyacinthe..."

"I get it," Truss snapped. "You're pissed! Do you think you're the only one here who hates this idea?" He turned to Hyacinthe, and Hyacinthe nearly froze at the venom in the curl of his lip and the wrinkle of his nose. "We were told 'thirteen years,' now time's up and we have to give you back. It's not about whether or not we want to keep you with us. We do. We simply cannot, because we are bound to the original agreement."

Hyacinthe looked at his feet.

"Are you done arguing?" Truss asked. He wasn't any calmer, but he was much quieter.

"I'm done," Hyacinthe murmured.

--

"Your Majesty," Liddy stepped forward and bowed low before the dais. The Fair Folk were not expected to give such displays, but Liddy believed in giving a person the respect their own culture would expect. The human king, therefore, received a low, almost groveling bow.

Hyacinthe frowned at the display. Looking at the King was like looking at the village on the Wood's border. The people looked a bit like him, yes, but they weren't like him. He had more in common with the moss-dressed Lady of the Wood than he did with these stuffy humans and their superfluous laces and ruffles. The King looked like the kind of doll that a child wasn't allowed to play with. Thus, a very useless doll, up on a shelf.

Liddy bowed to the Queen, next. Hyacinthe didn't much like her, either. He felt he should dislike her because she stood where his mother should have stood. But really, he disliked her because of the stuffy human royalty she was, not the person she had allegedly replaced.

"Masters Loch, Liddy, and Truss," the King greeted. "Please forgive the lack of celebration." Why would they even celebrate? "I felt that this should be a quiet affair, in case anything should come up. It is easier to defend a small party of people than it is a ball full of dancers, music, food, and merriment."

"This is true," Truss said. But he said it with a roll of his eyes.

Hyacinthe wanted to stay with Truss.

The door across the hall creaked open with the kind of creak that begged for oiled hinges. The patter of feet then announced a small being and a larger one entering the room. The small one, a little child with too-blonde hair, ran past Truss and Hyacinthe to hide behind the Queen's skirts. The larger person entered at a more sedate pace. "Forgive me, my King," she said, "the Prince insisted."

"No, no. He might as well." The King motioned between Achille and Hyacinthe. "They should meet."

The nursemaid turned to look at Hyacinthe. For a moment, she seemed absolutely puzzled. Why should a seven-year-old prince meet with a sixteen-year-old boy in a knee-length tunic and little else? Then her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth. Hyacinthe grimaced at her.

"Milords, is this..." she motioned with the hand not on top of her mouth.

"Aurore," the King answered.

"Achille's brother," the Queen said. She smiled in a kindly manner, then turned to usher Achille out from behind her skirts. "Achille, dear," her smile put Aurore on edge, "meet Aurore."

"Hya—" Hyacinthe started. Then he cut himself off and tilted his head to the floor. Sadness overwhelmed his veins and the floor did nothing but just about show his reflection, with how unpleasantly shined the marble was.

"Aurore?" Achille asked. It sounded like an accusation. He looked as if he were accusing.

"Yes," the Queen said. "Today, he is a man. Sixteen!"

"Oh," Achille said. He didn't care. Then he brightened. "So, there will be pastries!" Apparently, he didn't care unless he would receive sweets.

"Perhaps," the Queen nodded.

Hyacinthe would have preferred just an apple. Or, perhaps, maple sugar treats. Truss had sometimes brought maple sugar treats to him, in the winter months at the cottage. But, he didn't much like pastries.

--

The last straw came when clothing was laid out for him. Stuffy, formal things that had no place on his person. The collar alone offended him, and he would have liked to tell Truss, but the three fairies were in the guest wing of the palace and Hyacinthe was in the royal family's wing. He had no idea how to navigate either wing, so he simply stewed and tossed the horrible, collared monstrosity at the wardrobe, kicked the ridiculous shoes under the bed, and threw the gloves at the fancy paned glass window above the desk.

There was a stack of interesting books on the desk, artistically stacked to look more like a decoration than a useful material.

The books? He could live with those.

The clothing? He'd rather go around naked.

The leggings ended up shoved under his pillow after a moment's thought. Then Hyacinthe tucked himself into the space under the provided desk, book in hand, and tried to forget the stuffy palace full of stuffy things and stuffy people.

He tried to stop feeling... smothered. Hateful

He hated the palace.