Once Upon a Dream by Megan Derr

Author:Megan Derr [Derr, Megan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: LGBTQ, Romance, Fairy Tales
Publisher: Megan Derr
Published: 2016-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

The Stable Boy

He woke up to the smell of grass and mud, sunshine, and a deep, twisting, writhing ache coursing through his body.

Curse.

He passed out again.

When he woke the second time, the sunshine had been replaced by moonlight and something was sniffing him. He groaned and dug his fingers into the damp grass, managed to lift his head up, and found himself staring into the eyes of a dog—a hunting dog, of good size and, he would hazard, sharp intelligence.

The dog chuffed at him and despite the pain, the confusion, the sense of panic clawing deep in the recesses of his mind, he dredged up a smile. "Run along," he croaked, then swallowed to try and get some fluid moving. "Back to your master."

In reply, the dog just howled.

He cringed away from the sound, tried to burrow into the ground, tears stinging his eyes as the movement set the throbbing ache to burning.

Curse.

The minute he had the thought, everything came flooding back to him. He was Prince Philip Degaré Hollis. Everyone called him Prince Diggory. He had been on his way to marry Prince Adalwin von Brant… and his bodyguard had betrayed him, tried to murder him. Benoit—Diggory would see him hanged at the very least. Him and the rest of his nasty little band: Elci, Ignance, Poris. Yes, they would all die, and as painfully as they had tried to kill him.

With that thought, he passed out a third time.

The next time he woke, the smell of soup made his stomach growl. He opened his eyes and stared up at a ceiling of open beams and thatched roof. Turning his head, he took in the table and chest that seemed to be the only other pieces of furniture.

Diggory slowly sat up, pushing back the heavy quilt that had covered him. Sharp pain stabbed at his left side and he curled his fingers around it. Benoit had tried to stab him, but only wound up slicing him. Unfortunately, the knife had been set with magic, a nasty-feeling curse he hadn't been able to figure out before he'd been shoved into the river, left to die of whichever killed him first: wounds or water.

Where was he?

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand up, relieved when he swayed slightly but managed to stay upright. Shoving loose strands of dark brown hair from his face, he looked further around the little house and saw the fireplace where a pot of soup cooked and a rocking chair set before it. There was a single door and a small window with no glass, only a large, heavy-looking length of cloth to cover it at night and in cold weather.

The floor was dirt, covered with straw, dried flowers and herbs, scratchy against his bare feet—and he noticed only then his clothes were not his own, but breeches and a shirt much too big for him.

Well, standing had worked well enough; time to try walking. Diggory took a step away from the bed and other than feeling mildly dizzy, he seemed well enough.

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