The funeral was a day when the gods chose not to favour the kingdom, according to the Annals.

The Queen Mirielle was dead. There was no favour in that.

The Annals did not record the christening of Aurore, as the christening of Aurore had gone without note, without word to the people. No one rejoiced in the prince's life.

Not even the King.

The Queen was dead.

--

The Prince was nearly two years old by the time the fog had lifted enough from the eyes of the King for the King to realize that his son's christening had gone without note or remark. He himself had become oblivious to his existence.

"A grand celebration," the King used. "One heralded across all the kingdom. The Prince is nearly two years old." And the Queen was nearly two years dead. "This is a worthy cause to celebrate. His survival, against the odds." When the Queen had fallen ill, weakened, and then died.

Bitterness slowly consumed the King, even as he pushed on.

"Tell the surrounding kingdoms," he told his men. "Tell the people. Tell the faeries. I want every man, woman, child, and creature to know of the survival of the Prince. Of the birth and the christening of Prince Aurore, son to King Anthelm and Queen Mirielle. A legacy for the Queen, an heir for the King, and a future for the kingdom."

The people of the kingdom was still in mourning for their Queen, who had been one of them in spite of her high birth. She had been their hope, the saving grace of the kingdom, and the bright light that everyone looked to. Her trust in the King had prompted their trust in the King.

Therefore, the mourning was a counterproductive state for the kingdom to be in. A celebration of life was just the cure for it, even if the King, himself, was still ever in the throes of gray sorrow.

The message went out.

Far and wide, it was spread by criers, riders, and word of mouth. The people spread it faster than the runners and riders could, and the word quickly outraced the official message. Great cities of people knew of the Prince before the messengers passed into them. Small towns, too far out of the way to warrant their own messengers, knew of the news before lofty diplomats did.

The kingdom was abuzz. No.

The kingdom was aflame with the knowledge of the Prince.

Was he like his Queen Mother? Was he good?

He was young, they whispered. He was young and he was beautiful. Surely he would grow to be good, wise, and merciful. Surely wit and beauty would follow him from his Queen Mother.

They also whispered that the King had hidden the Prince from the people. He had kept the Prince in the palace, named and christened and away from the people and the light, in order to prolong the mourning and memory of his beloved Queen. This was bad taste.

The King lost some popularity, when it was realized that the Crown Prince was nearly twenty-four months of age. It was thought that the people should have been told of him when he had survived the first six months. A year, at most.

Though unpopularity started to plague the King Anthelm, the Prince found himself suddenly a popular topic, a popular unknown, a popular person. The people who loved the Queen loved her son. The people who had looked to the Queen as one of them looked to the Prince in much the same way. He was accepted before he was truly known, exalted before he was seen, heralded for wit and beauty he did not yet have. With the Prince Aurore by his side, the King could weather any unpopularity the people might see fit to give to him, and come out on the other side stronger for the criticisms and dislike.

Now, the Prince didn't know that he had become a popular topic, mind you. He was still little more than an infant beginning his toddlings and wanderings. The words and whispers of the people meant nothing to him. Except the words and whispers of his nursemaid.

"You will grow strong," she would tell him.

He would gurgle in agreement and follow through, as best he could.

"You will be kind," she would tell him.

He would share his rocking horse with a servant's little girl, happy to see her laugh, and to laugh with her.

"You will be fair," she would tell him.

He didn't know how she meant, but he would do his best. He would split groupings of toys evenly betwixt young playmates, he would eat what he was supposed to eat, he would forego teething on expensive items. That seemed "fair" to him.

"You will be good," she would tell him.

He would be as good for her as he could manage. He cried very little, ate his stewed carrots with his baby teeth, smile when people cried, laugh when they laughed, kiss away bruises, and be a ray of morning sunshine to anyone and everyone. Except his father the King, who did not often visit the dawn light in his son's eyes.

"You will be a good king, one day," the nurse would whisper to him, as he was falling to sleep. "The people will love you and cherish you, the way they did your Queen Mother. You will have their love, but you will strive to earn it over and over again. I see goodness in you, you child of light. I can see in you that you will do great things."

He was sleepy, and falling to slumber, but he smiled at his nursemaid -- he called her Nana -- and he gave her a jerky nod to agree with her. He didn't know what she meant, really. But he wanted Nana to be happy with him. So he agreed.

Nana's were the only words and whispers he really cared for.

--

The sky was a bright, sunshiny blue with wisps of white cloud high, high, high in the air, on the day of Prince Aurore's public christening. The grass was slivers of emeralds, and the Prince wanted nothing more than to run outdoors, into the garden, and lie on the cultivated lawn as the clouds made wispy shapes, just for him, high above.

His toddling hadn't steadied very much, but he toddled fast, often just escaping the grips of nurses who weren't Nana. Nana was the cleverest and would often catch him, and do so while he was off guard.

But he was told to stay indoors.

He was told first by Bertha, the cook with the accent, who he didn't really listen to. He was told second by the Regent, who he immediately ran from. He was told third by Nana. He listened to Nana. He couldn't tell Nana "no," and he didn't want to. He smile at her and fisted both his little fists in her skirts, leaning against the back of her knee.

"He shouldn't be wandering," the Regent said.

"He's a growing boy," Nana replied. She didn't listen to the Regent any more than the Prince did.

The Regent left to avoid embarrassment. Nana was a force to be reckoned with, and the Regent wanted no such reckonings, especially with the caretaker of the Queen Mother's only legacy. Nana was trusted with Queen Mother Mirielle's legacy. The Regent, therefore, could not compete with Nana.

"You're a growing boy," she told the Prince.

He giggled and hid his face in the back of her knee. He toddled, he ran, he squirmed and laughed and shared, but he didn't yet talk. There was still time, of course. Nana assured the other nursemaids all the time. Plenty of children learned to speak later than others. And the Prince was so very bright. So very smart.

There was still time.

The Prince unhid his face and pointed to the window, grinning wildly.

"No, you must stay inside," Nana patted his golden wisps of hair, too long to be proper for the courts. But angelically like a halo, and allowed to stay for as long as the Prince desired them to. He liked his hair in his face.

On the other hand, Prince Aurore also liked to chew his hair, which was not a habit to be encouraged.

The Prince hid his face in the back of Nana's knee, again. But he didn't whimper, cry, shake, or scream. He accepted that he must stay indoors. He was just shy around the people who were so much taller than him.

Except Nana.

Well.

Nana wasn't exactly tall. She was a thin whip of a woman, shorter than the Regent by head and shoulders, and shorter than the stocky cook, Bertha, by a bit more than a head, but less than head and shoulders. Neither Regent nor cook were exceptionally tall, either.

The Prince released her skirts and darted off again, golden halo all about him. He wasn't dressed for the proceedings, yet, and he wasn't combed, washed, or otherwise made presentable for presentation to the entire kingdom. He was a wild boy, like dozens of children inside the walls of the palace and hundreds without, and thousands all around the kingdom.

Nana hated to stuff that wild boy into an outfit that was all for show and not at all for comfort.

But time was running short until the doors were opened to the numerous guests, and wild boys weren't invited to palace celebrations.

--

The Boy Prince was stuffed into his stuffy suit, made just for the celebration and never worn before, and he was made to stand by his father.

Aurore and the King looked at one another. The King was wary. The Prince was dissatisfied with the arrangement and sucking his thumb. The King turned his eyes forward. Too much of his Mirielle was in those eyes and in that halo of polished golden hair.

"Be still," Nana encouraged the Prince. "Stand at attention, like a good little soldier."

The Prince looked over his shoulder and up at her. He twitched, as if he might run over to hide behind her or hide under her skirts. But he seemed to think better of it and turned back around. He didn't remove the thumb from his mouth, however.

It wasn't hard to see the Queen Mother Mirielle in the Prince. However, it was unexpectedly difficult to see King Anthelm in the face of the little boy, still smaller than he should have been in spite of how much he ate each day. Anthelm was neither round nor extremely thin, he wasn't extremely tall or notably short, and his complexion was neither without flaw nor overly flawed. He was an average man in almost every way. The Prince was a picture of perfection, noticeably small, and tiny in all his proportions. Though not in any sickly way.

The King had dark brown hair that extended from the top of his head and into the well-trimmed beard that covered his chin and the one scar the King was said to have. His eyes were brown and his skin just a bit ruddy.

The Prince had bright golden hair and big blue eyes. He ran around the gardens and, from the garden playtimes he'd had, his skin was a warm tan, almost artificial in how even it was, and how unmarred. Even his Queen Mother's skin had not been so perfect.

"Stand still," Nana encouraged again.

That the infant Prince, nearly a toddler, was standing at all should have been enough. But more was expected of a royal child. Too much. And the King had not nearly enough sympathy for his on. They simply had not had much to do with each other.

The King was lucky the Prince even recognized him.

The Prince gnawed at the pad of this thumb and tilted his head forward a bit, until he was looking up at people through his long eyelashes.

"Open the doors, let them enter," the King said. He was at his best. He was dressed to make a good impression. And he had his son beside him. The King straightened further, which caught the eye of the Prince.

The Prince imitated, looking up at his father.

The King glanced back. It was a sweet picture, but all he saw was Mirielle. He had to look away.

The greetings went slowly, person after person.

All the while, the Prince was obediently still. He sucked his thumb placidly and watched each person greet the King and, in turn, be greeted by the King. They came with gifts to bestow, and a steady mountain of Things developed on a long table to one side. The Prince watched the mountain of Things as well as the greetings. He could feel, in his small bones, that many of those were either for him or because of his existence.

"A pleasure, Ferdinand," the King said to one.

"It has been too long, Iphigenia," he would say to another.

"Adhamh, are you here alone? How is your brother?" he would say to a third.

"Eirik, greetings," to a fourth.

"Hebert, I am glad you could make time to celebrate with us." "Jeanna, it is a pleasure." "Dulcibella, how is your son?" "Philippe, I almost did not expect you. Is the civil unrest settling down, back home?" He seemed to know most of the lords and ladies who came, and by name as well as station and situation. And then he seemed to know their families and the politics of where they were from, no matter whether they came from near or far.

If he could be impressed, the little Prince might well have been impressed with his King Father's incredible mind and capacity for memory. For the most part, however, the only things that really impressed him were the size of Iphigenia's earrings, Hebert's girth, and Dulcibella's incredible height.

Philippe was the first to surprise the Prince into paying more immediate attention.

The smiling lord greeted the King, as a former peer, and then knelt before the Prince. He was all smiles and crinkled gray eyes. His face was smooth-shaven, unlike most of the men, and he seemed very young. He had dimples. The little Prince hadn't seen such obvious dimples before.

"Hello, little one," he greeted. "Your father was a friend of mine, you know. I always thought my son would be married to one of his children."

Prince Aurore wasn't entirely sure what the Lord Philippe meant. However, wide eyed and a little shocked at being addressed, he stepped back and pointed at himself. He was very bright, as Nana made sure he knew. He felt his hair ruffled, and thought it must be his father doing it. It didn't feel like Nana.

"Oh no," Philippe laughed. "You are very adorable, my Prince, but I think that my dear family would be more amenable if it were that my son, my dear little Pip, were to marry a lovely little girl. We Philippes go quite a ways back, and Pip is the sixth Philippe."

The Prince didn't quite understand this, either, but he nodded.

The King smiled.

There was a moment that felt like a painting, where everything was still and happy and comfortable. And then Philippe moved on. The next person greeted was a boy of perhaps seven years of age. He had Philippe's dimples.

"Ah, Lord Pip," the King greeted, smiling a bit more softly. There was no political undertone to his greeting. "I see you are well."

"I bring a gift for you," Pip said. Then he flushed bright red and turned to the two-year-old Prince. "For you, rather," he corrected himself. He shoved it at the Prince.

Prince and Lord's son looked at one another for a long moment, less comfortable than the last. Both had listened to the talk Philippe had made about marriage, and it seemed to breed suspicion between the two of them. Prince Aurore bit at the pad of his thumb. Pip wrinkled his nose.

With a hop and a skip, Pip had caught up to his father.

Prince Aurore watched him go, with the edge of suspicion still following his gaze. He curled his hand into the skirt of the King's plentiful robes, the way he would have held onto Nana's skirts, and looked to the next people the King would greet. He felt himself shiver a little.

The Fey and Faerie Folk were next. They were something entirely different.

The Prince had seen plenty of part faeries. Plenty of half-elves and hybrids that had at least one portion human. But he had never seen fullblooded faerie folk. They were nothing like Nana or the clergywoman Eibhlin. But, also, they were so very like Nana and the clergywoman.

They were the unknown sparkle in Nana's eye, the sharp ferocity under Clergywoman Eibhlin's deathly calm. They were the unknown and the unknowable.

The Prince was far too young to appreciate what he saw before him. He was too young to know that the Fey and Faerie did not often meet with humans. Too young to know the danger they put themselves in, and the discomfort they offered to all of the humans. There was magic within them, and humans could not control it. What a human could not control, they were apt to fear or destroy. King Anthelm, though kind and good, was no exception.

These, the King painstakingly knew the name of. They lived much longer than humans, so it may have been a shorter list to learn. But there were occasionally long, almost fearful titles that spilled from the lips of the King. Titles not even of the nobility. "Second Handmaiden to the Fey Duchess Leilana, Aelfhilde," the King greeted. "Fourth to the Lord Pylemont, Sir Knight Delios." And so on. Ladies, lords, duchesses, dukes, princesses, handmaidens, servants, knights, messengers. The King seemed to know each one, and each one seemed to pay individual respects.

"Ah, wit," Aelfhilde said.

Nana stepped forward, now that her half-kin were present, and lifted the Prince into her arms. "Yes, wit," she said. "Wit, grace, and humility."

"And a halo," Aelfhilde smiled and traced the Prince's chin with her forefinger.

"And beauty," Nana said.

The Prince let his chin be traced by the foreign finger, though he would have shied from anyone else. His eyes were wider still, in wonderment and mild bewilderment. The Fair Folk were so different in their appearances and mannerisms. They were nowhere near as laced-up and straight-backed as the human royals. And their underlings were as important as anyone else. It was as if titles were just words, to them.

"My gift is agreement," Aelfhilde, the handmaiden to Duchess Leilana, said. She smiled at the Prince, more softly. It was a more human, more undestandable, expression. "I agree with the assessment of your nusemaid, little one. Wit, grace, humility, beauty. And a halo. You are innocent, and you will long be so. That much I can say."

Sir Knight Delios regarded Nana and Prince Aurore for a long moment, then simply -- silently -- knelt before the human princeling.

"The gift of respect," Nana whispered. Whether to the Prince or to the King was difficult to discern.

The lessers among the Fair Folk, Faeries, and Fey gave their small gifts first. Respect, agreement, compliments, and small magical protections or charms. After them, the Benefissi and Malefissi took their turns, six in total.

The first was the Benefissima and Malefissima, two women, in a pair. They each took one of the Prince's hands, though he'd been sucking his thumb a moment before, and bowed their heads to kiss the backs of those hands. "He will be hardworking and diligent," the Benefissima said.

"He will be strong and perseverent," the Malefissima said.

Nana thanked them with a polite bow of her head. The King followed her example, though only after Eibhlin bade him, from her place on the other side of the room. Neither Benefissima nor more vicious and stern Malefissima were offended by his lagging respect.

The second was the Benefissimus and the Malefissimus, two men, in a pair as well. They walked up to Nana and the Prince and each placed a hand on one of the Prince's small shoulders. "He will be beloved," spoke the Malefissimus. "He will inspire loyalty."

"He will be trustworthy and honest," the Benefissimus added.

Nana and the King bowed their heads, again. This time, the Prince bowed as well. Then his thumb was replaced in his mouth.