GOLDEN

Prologue

On a castle high in the mountains, a bored prince sat slumped in a chair much too small for someone of his stature. He was bored of normality; bored of dances, bored of women preening at him like peacocks, bored of getting what he wanted. He supposed it would at least suffice for another moment.

"Remy? Fetch the guards, please. I need to go to the seamstress," he practically sings. He very well knew that he didn't need to ask for a guard to accompany him, but only did so to appease his omnipotent mother. She seemed to grasp firmer and firmer on the reigns of his free time as he aged.

"Why, sir? You have a closet full of suits," Remy questioned. His favorite butler; less of a butler and more of a friend, at that. Like a relative he could play ball with but also ask about financial advice. Not that Remington had any; he needn't worry about trifles like that under the roof of his ever-gracious masters.

"I wish to buy mom a birthday gift," he explained, eyes rolling back as his neck dropped onto the arm of the loveseat. "I asked for her measurements yesterday so there shouldn't be any sizing mistakes." Of course there would be no sizing mistakes. Silver String had been the only trusted tailor to his kin for, what, years now? He's seen many try (but never match) the skilled handiwork of the seamstress there.

"Of course, sir. Would you like to walk in my company or should I call for the town car?" Remy didn't even know why he asked such a futile question. A boy that can't seem to settle for more than a movement of music wouldn't dare choose the latter option.

"I'd rather you alone walk with me into town," he answers. The servant smiles wryly at his lord. "I've been noticing that I get easily bored with the fanfare now that I'm older." He felt freer when with Remy; he loved him like an older brother, though he rivaled in age with the prince's father.

"Of course, your majesty. Ring me when you  would like to leave." Remy bows, crinkles a smile, and seems to disappear into the wallpaper. Seen, but only heard when called.

"So I'm allowed to call you by your first name and you can't call me by mine? Very funny," he yells in the general direction of the doors. He hoped Remy had heard him, rolling his eyes once more and struggling to get up from the plush furniture.

Down the hill, in one of the thin veins of the village, a pauper believes that he was born in the wrong generation. He wouldn't actually consider himself a pauper; classic literature ate away at his brain like a cow on grass. Day in and day out. Things would be so simple if it was the eighteenth century.

"Margaret!" He shrieks at his pest of a sister. "What did I tell you about putting crisp packets in the microwave?" He recalls how he could ever be related to someone so.... stupid. A box of rocks, he'd called her affectionately one night. That was about as close to nice as he got.

"The foil inside just.... lights up!" Margaret smiled something rotten at him. She seemed to be a pyromaniac from birth, it seemed. He could fondly remember all the times she'd burned him whilst tending to the fire in the winter and the bonfires in the summer.

"You are the dumbest kid I've ever met," he goads, pinching his nose shut as he extracts the shrunken crisp bags from the oven. How she hasn't managed to light the house on fire, he'll never know.

"You can't say that!" She protests, her toothy grin growing wider. "I have stitched dresses for the ladies in waiting to the princess!"

Not this again, he thinks to himself. Ever since he let her take one of his projects on, she's been mad about filling in for her brother. He was fit to fit the royals, who seemed to ask for new suits and lavish dresses every week, but seldom allowed Margaret to intervene with his work unless he was swamped. Her boasting was exactly the reason why. "Did you stitch her wedding dress? What about the queen's daily wear?"

That seems to shut up her bragging. "You're lucky this town is small or else I would have killed you by now," she glowers. She stomps off between the organza wall and the cotton shirts.

"Yeah, yeah. You love me," he says to himself. He likened to conversing with himself frequently these days, he mused. He returned to the worn chair he had been sitting in moments prior to the outburst in the kitchen and continued to reposition the seam of a seemingly endless ballgown.

-

And she's writing again! I don't know how far this will go but I think this story will be kind of fun. Haven't read princess and the pauper but I know it's a Barbie movie? Oh well. Close enough.