Chapter Text
The sky itself was at war, and the serene, rolling hills of Acorn Plains had become the battlefield.
Blades of lightning clashed jarringly and at random, artful technique abandoned in the face of the desperate need to gain the upper hand. Howling gales tore through the ancient treetops like cavalry riding fearlessly into combat. Thunder announced the arrival of fresh troops.
All the while, torrential rain fell without relief, as if a goddess were weeping bitterly over the battle that raged above.
Even the locals had been caught unaware. In their fields, the spring crops and the plows meant to reap them lay abandoned, ravaged by the wind.
Within his mansion, a wealthy farmer was fuming as he watched the spoils of his labor be plundered by the whims of the weather.
Inside her husband’s cottage, a widow was brewing herself a cup of coffee and snuggling up with her elderly cat before a lit hearth.
Shielded by the luxury that was brick and mortar, a little girl was pressed against the window in awe as she watched the stormclouds roil, her breath leaving clouds of their own against the glass.
There were those who had more to worry about than lost profit or a lover’s absence. There were those who had enjoyed a child’s innocence for but a scrap of their lives.
There were those who were starving, reduced to begging and scavenging for every meal.
There were those who huddled within the dusty cave beneath the gnarled roots of a long since dead tree—one that might very well become their tomb.
His little brother—one of his many—was wheezing again, a jarring, hollow sound like the frenetic buzz of a broken wind-up toy.
The sound had become so frequent as to be called ambience, but it was no bringer of peace and comfort.
Unpleasantly amplified by the confines of the shelter the dying tree had granted them, the ugly noise reached the ears of the oldest child even above the roar of the storm outside.
He’s getting worse.
And there’s nothing I can do.
The oldest banished the thought, the treacherous despair that was slowly coiling tighter and tighter around his heart.
Stepping lightly over the carpet of leaves from forgotten autumns, the oldest approached, cradling the false hope that there might be something he could do to help.
Nestled in his arms, the youngest stirred slightly. A handful of months old, the hatchling found respite only in shallow slumber that was haunted by the few memories he had of a life before this one.
The oldest, a mere six years old, crossed the gloomy space in a handful of wobbly steps. Long, hopeless days without food made such a meager effort far more draining than it had any right to be.
His sickened brother lay sprawled on his side, having not moved an inch in the three days they’d been here.
The resident spiders, resentful of their intrusive new neighbors, had begun to spin their cobwebs over his gaunt limbs, as motionless as any branch or leaf. At his back, his taller, leaner twin lay stubbornly refusing to move, clutching tightly to the dying child.
“Iggy.” The oldest said the twin’s name pleadingly, desperate for reassurance.
Iggy lifted his head wearily, his expression far more wise to the world’s hardships than any two-year-old should have to be. For once, his multicolored hair was forced into a uniform shade of brown, courtesy of the mud his family fought through in order to reach this humble shelter.
“It’s the dust, Luddy,” Iggy rasps. “Bad for his throat.”
Luddy—a diminutive the oldest had once detested, a crime his well-meaning parents had been repeat offenders of.
Now, Ludwig refused to let go of it, one of the few fragments he had left of a life he’d never thought would be taken from him.
He stooped to study the brother in question, already knowing what he would find. As if sensing his presence, the emaciated child’s eyelids fluttered open. He was an almost perfect copy of Iggy in all but size and health.
“It’s me, Lemmy,” Ludwig whispered, pressing his nose to his brother’s.
Those fevered eyes were lit with recognition. A thin, trembling smile appeared on Lemmy’s chapped lips.
“Daddy,” he breathes, a husky stirring of air that reeks of illness. “You forgot to read me… my bedtime story.”
—Lemmy is hopping about in his father’s lap, pressing his tiny hands to his lips in anticipation, tugging his blush-pink silk nightshirt over his knees, physically unable to keep still.
From his place at his father’s left, Ludwig watches and shakes his head fondly. Lemmy has been read this story a hundred times, but that never dulls his craving to hear it every night.
Their father bears Lemmy’s antics with endless patience. When the tale comes to an end and the storybook is closed, he pulls Lemmy close and grooms his disheveled hair with practice ease—
Ludwig wrenched himself away, shattering both their moment of contact and the intrusive memory in one cruel stroke.
“Daddy?” Lemmy’s face crumpled. He wept into his grimy hands, then lapsed into coughing once more.
Why did I do that?
Within his chest, Ludwig’s heart twisted painfully, a broken, jagged mess of longing and hardness, grief and resolve, trapped between his former life of love and luxury and the harsh reality that demanded he lead his siblings in his parents’ stead.
Seeing his older brother’s stricken countenance, Iggy held Lemmy closer to his chest and said quietly, “It’s not your fault, Luddy.”
If only that were true.
“He—he needs water,” Ludwig stammered, grasping for a way he could make his worthless self of use.
He was halfway to the cave mouth, heedless of the pouring rain pummeling the grass outside, when his little sister abandoned her claim to a corner to bar his way, her fierce blue eyes flashing in the shadows.
“No,” Wendy declared, as authoritative as a queen, yet only three years of age. “It’s your turn to rest. We’ll handle it.”
“I’ll go,” Morton offered immediately, heaving himself upright.
“No,” Ludwig said vehemently. He held himself straighter. “That’s final.”
Wendy’s scowl deepened, none too pleased to be given orders herself. Even with their family on the brink of starvation, old habits died hard—she’d never been one to submit to his supposed authority, even when his advice was purely logical.
—“I’m not listening…”
To prove her point, Wendy shoves her arms through the sleeves of her yellow raincoat and tugs the door open. The unrelenting downpour just beyond their shaded doorstep has brought out a deep russet hue to the terracotta walkways in their mother’s cherished garden.
Ludwig turns his back, huffing noisily, sweeping the stray locks of blue hair clear of his eyes. “Fine! Go out in the rain and catch a cold! I’ll just tell Mommy on you!”
“You wouldn’t!” Wendy objects, scowling beneath the drooping hood of her coat.
“I would,” Ludwig announces, marching away. “I’ll go tell her right now—”
Something cold and wet makes contact with his heel, stopping him in his tracks. Puzzled, he turns to find a slimy, pinkish worm as thick as his finger writhing on the floorboards.
He flees farther down the hall, screaming himself hoarse, drawing concerned glances from any nearby maids. Wendy follows in hot pursuit, giggling with fiendish delight, a worm in each hand—
This time, Ludwig was forced to shake his head fiercely to free himself from his thoughts and return to reality.
“Get some sleep,” Ludwig said quietly. “The storm will go away tonight.”
Even without looking, Ludwig could sense Wendy and Morton exchanging doubtful glances. After all, he’d made the same promise last night, as well as the night before.
“I’ll go,” Morton repeated firmly. Despite Ludwig being four years his senior, he was just as tall, and only getting larger. “You have to take care of baby brother.”
The infant in question shifted once more as if he could hear his name being mentioned.
Ludwig let Morton brush past him without further discouraging, stroking the downy tufts of sky-blue hair that graced Larry’s tiny head. Their baby brother had never known his parents for more than a day before their lives had been flipped upside down.
Using nothing but his own pudgy palms, Morton gathered the serendipitous blessing that was the rainwater and ferried handfuls to Lemmy’s mouth. With his initial task taken care of, Morton then offered Ludwig a portion of water that was quickly seeping through his fingers.
Only then did Ludwig realize how long it had been since his last drink. He greedily guzzled the water from Morton’s own hands. Precious drops dribbled down his chin, which he wiped away carelessly with the back of one hand, heedless of the manners he’d been taught.
Morton stared at his wet but now empty hands as if they might hold the answer to their worsening situation. While his siblings’ scales were the rich yellow of buttercups, his were a dark shade of taupe.
Burnt hide, as Ludwig had overheard the servants call the phenomenon. An unusual occurrence that happened at random, heedless of bloodline. Some of the gossipers even considered it an ill omen.
Their mother had never said so. She’d kissed Morton’s dark-scaled hands, fearless of the vicious curse it was rumored to bestow. Like chocolate chips, she’d called his scales. He would beam with pride each time she said it.
“When will Roy be back?”
Wendy sounded audibly concerned, just as she had when Roy had offered to go and forage—they all knew better than to return to the towns and villages they’d been cast out of.
“I don’t know.” Ludwig hated having to admit it—but his own failure to provide for his siblings was no excuse for dishonesty.
“Hope he finds something to eat,” Morton said wistfully, peering through the cave mouth.
Ludwig knew better than to hope. He turned away and continued caressing a slumbering Larry, trying and failing to take his mind off of the vicious talons of hunger raking through his stomach.
Even what little pickings there to be had in the towns had been richer than this. Even when door after door had been slammed in their faces, hostile dogs released to chase them away, there had always been deserted alleys with an abundance of trash to scavenge from.
Demons.
Monsters.
Dirty little Koopas.
Ludwig was young, but old enough to know what such words meant. Even if he hadn’t, the venom and hatred poured into each was quite sufficient on its own.
Their most recent encounter had been what had driven them far from any establishment.
The farmer hadn’t allowed them even the crumbling, dilapidated shed on the outskirts of his property. He’d instead chosen to drive them away with his pitchfork.
Ludwig returned to the dip in the earth he’d dug for himself and knelt to study Larry, wrapped in nothing but a tattered rag, then the mossy walls of their new home.
They were well and truly on their own now.
As if to prove him wrong, the awful squelch of feet sinking deep into mud slithered inside the cave.
The spark of shared panic was tangible in the air itself.
Iggy needed no prompting, already tossing handfuls of leaves and spare branches over him and Lemmy. Wendy was burrowing into a shadowed crevice. Ludwig froze, trapped between hiding the hatchling in his arms and rescuing Morton, who was transfixed by the entrance.
“Morton,” Ludwig hissed desperately.
Too late—a shadow descended over the entrance, hulking and burly.
Ludwig made a desperate lunge for his brother, only to freeze at the concern in Morton’s voice.
“You’re bleeding again, Roy.”
Recognition finally struck as new arrival staggered inside. Roy’s frame, tall and sturdily-built for someone only five, was plastered with mud, smothering the vibrant yellow of his scales.
“Sit down,” Morton pleaded, guiding Roy by his arm to the floor.
Roy inhaled sharply, clutching his side with a white-knuckled hand. Rather than staunching the wound, fresh blood oozed sluggishly down his leg.
Three jagged gashes, deep and crusted with dirt, the grisly mark that farmer had left as a vengeful parting gift.
“It doesn’t matter,” Roy grunted, pulling his arm free. He was breathless, his chest heaving. “I found—I found—a—”
“Sit down,” Ludwig repeated, doing his best to replicate the stern tone of his mother. “Now.”
Roy knew better than to argue with that. He reluctantly obliged, submitting to the meager treatment Morton could offer—a few handfuls of dirt rubbed into the injury to stop the gush of blood.
“I found something,” Roy finally blurted out, unable to help himself.
“Whatever it is, it’s not more important than this.” Ludwig smeared another handful of leaf litter against Roy’s bloody side.
“You don’t understand,” Roy growled, seizing Ludwig’s arm.
That tone jolted tiny Larry awake. A thin, reedy wail rose in his throat.
Ludwig’s battered, hastily-bandaged heart was ripped back open. He rocked Larry back and forth, whispering empty comfort.
Sweet, innocent Larry had done nothing to deserve this.
Roy beheld the damage he’d wrought with an expression akin to horror. He snatched Larry from Ludwig’s arms and hummed their father’s favorite lullaby.
That same tune worked like magic—Larry subsided, curling into a sniffling, dejected ball.
The moment Larry turned his face, Roy’s expression darkened, the innocent dawn fading to a vengeful dusk.
“You’re too good for this world,” he snarled softly.
Too good for the world—this terrible, unjust world.
A world that had broken them in a matter of months.
“He’s so thin…” Roy muttered, running one claw down Larry’s stomach.
“He’s dying,” Wendy said bluntly.
Ludwig flashed her a look in the hopes that it might make her hold her loose tongue. But, once again, she pushed back, more violently than expected.
“Face it, Luddy,” she spat, jumping to her feet. “We’re all as good as dead.”
“No.”
Roy hauled himself upright, swaying heavily on his feet. Larry whimpered, clutching his brother’s chest with tiny, skeletal arms.
“I found a place.” His voice was low, deceptively casual, but Ludwig knew hope when he saw it. “Just across the valley.”
Silence, pregnant with all that was left unsaid. The hopes and despair no one dared to voice.
“More people who want to kill us,” Iggy said dully. “Great.”
“He’s right,” Ludwig asserted, determined to shut this down. “We’ve been through enough. We can’t risk—”
“This is different,” Roy interrupted heatedly. “This place—it’s nothing like here. When the storm clears up, you’ll see it.”
Ludwig crossed his arms resolutely. “We’re not going anywhere in this weather.”
To punctuate his command, thunder struck once more. This time, the tree itself seemed to quake, the groan of a valiant guardian nearing the end of its protective capabilities.
“We’re dead if we stay here,” Roy growled, holding Larry closer. “Larry deserves a life. Or at least a chance at one.”
The beginnings of another pitiful cry sank deeper than innocent Larry knew.
Ludwig’s throat clenched, barring the breath he sorely needed to regain his composure.
“Mommy and Daddy… want that.”
Lemmy’s absent words were little more than a rasp, slurred with illness. The madness conjured from the chaos of fever.
But those glassy eyes had achieved a fleeting moment of clarity.
Wendy let the pause stretch on endlessly before breaking it with a husky sigh. “We have nothing left to lose, right?”
A mutter of agreement went around the cave. Only Ludwig remained silent. Only he could recognize the lie for what it was.
You all.
That’s who I have left to lose.
Larry’s tiny eyelids cracked open, revealing brilliant blue irises. His mother’s eyes.
Help me, Mommy.
“This place is different,” Roy repeated for what felt like the tenth time. “Darker… lonelier. We can hide there.”
Hiding was one thing—survival was another.
But what other choice was there?
—“You have a special duty as the oldest, Ludwig.”
Ludwig nods eagerly, despite his lack of true understanding. He clings to his mother’s robe, buries his nose in it, breathes in her scent.
His mother smiles indulgently. “One day, you will lead your family when they need you. When your father I aren’t here.”
Another trusting nod. He climbs up onto her lap and presses his face into the crook of her neck. She smells of the lilacs and roses she tends to her in beloved gardens.
“Siblings are forever, Ludwig. You will protect them, and they will protect you. When you have lost everything else, you will have them.”
Ludwig agrees with every word, his young, naive mind incapable of imagining a time when he will have no parents to run crying to—
This time, the tidal wave of despair and loss squeezed tears from Ludwig’s tired eyes, a little more blood sucked from a creature doomed to die.
Their departure was silent, secretive, their only witness the ancient tree who had sheltered them.
Within its porcelain cup, the pool of steaming coffee offered the glowering reflection of a King.
Burning crimson eyes, shaded by arched, bushy eyebrows. Fiery red hair flowing from his crown to his nape in waves like folds of soft velvet. A broad, creamy muzzle lined with enough fangs to put a wolf to shame.
Bowser entertained the notion of common sense a moment longer, then downed half the cup in one gulp. He’d always been partial to the rich, intense flavor of the beans from the south.
Those elusive traces of sleep were whisked ever farther away with each sip—Kamek would not have approved if he were here, but Bowser heavily doubted he would’ve gotten much rest anyway. Not with such important matters to think about.
Or, perhaps more aptly, to sulk about.
“I’m not sulking,” Bowser growled aloud, even aware of his lack of an audience.
His lavish sitting room was empty save for him. Ebony furnishings, tiger-pelt rugs, and silken trimmings were cast in oppressive gloom, outlined only by the feeble glow the dying fire provided.
The King was seated in his favorite chair, a high-backed one upholstered in black satin. Beside him, on a side table, the dinner the servants had brought lay abandoned: roasted wild boar, a bowl of ginger rice, grilled leeks, and tiny lemon pastries. He’d had no appetite for anything but the coffee.
Bowser let his head flop onto his shoulder to study the nearest window. Outside, raindrops viciously hurled themselves against the glass like a horde of enemies. Such a storm was extremely rare in the Darklands—it still showed no sign of relenting.
Yesterday, it had made for a rather gloomy return to his castle, battered and bruised from a humiliating defeat.
Against a weak, pathetic human of all things…
The reminder dragged a snarl from Bowser’s throat. He poured his fury into flame, which he directed at the hearth. The smoldering coals were restored to a healthy blaze.
Mario would pay, soon. He was nothing but a trivial distraction. With him out of the picture, Peach would see that Bowser was the superior male, with wealth and alliances to offer her.
…Eventually.
Without thought, Bowser’s gaze wandered above the mantel to the sprawling, intricate map that hung there. His eyes strayed to the rolling, grassy hills of the Mushroom Kingdom, to the white castle in the center.
I would never marry a monster.
Bowser banished the thought, even as his poor heart gave a painful tug. At times, Peach’s vehement refusals of his affection stung even more than the injuries Mario had inflicted.
She’ll see. Eventually.
The string of knocks on the door was both a welcome distraction and an irritating interruption. Bowser waited expectantly until he remembered he’d dismissed his servants for the night.
“Come in.”
He tried hard to keep the sigh from his voice. Sighing was certainly not kingly.
Bowser sat up straighter and arranged himself in a regal manner, just before a hunched figure appeared in the doorway, pausing to bow before stepping into the light.
“Forgive my interruption, Your Majesty.”
“Kamek?” Bowser blinked, surprised to see his chief advisor and healer at this late an hour. Kamek’s white-trimmed blue robes were peppered with darker spots, as if he’d briefly been subjected to the downpour outside. “What’s this about?”
Kamek opened his mouth as if to reply, but his eyes snagged on the empty cup on the table, its rim stained beige. He shook his head disapprovingly.
“Coffee, Your Majesty?” he asked accusingly. “At this hour?”
It took quite the admonishing to shame the King of the Darklands. And yet, heat rose to his cheeks. “I don’t need you to—”
A cursory glance at the doorway yielded far more than Bowser could have ever expected, stunning him into silence.
Two wide black eyes were peering at him at Kamek’s left.
Young. Dark. Frightened.
“What in the Mother’s name?”
Bowser immediately regretted his exclamation when his tiny visitor cowered and retreated from view. A murmur of fear rose up from behind the shelter of Kamek’s robes.
“Don’t scare them anymore than they already are,” Kamek said with uncharacteristic sharpness.
The terror on the child’s face had branded itself into Bowser’s mind, bitter and raw. No one scolded the King without serious punishment—but all he did was nod, appropriately chagrined.
“Wait—they?” Bowser echoed, keeping his voice low. “How many more are there?”
Kamek’s aged, creased face betrayed the smallest flicker of emotion—guilt? He bowed his head before Bowser could be certain.
“Go on—say hello to King Bowser,” Kamek prompted softly. “Don’t be afraid, little ones. You’re safe here.”
His urging seemed to have been in vain, until those dark eyes appeared once more, framed in thick locks of deep blue hair, curled at the tips. A single protruding fang dug into his lip as he weighed the risks.
“What’s he look like?”
Without waiting for an answer, the owner of the gruff, wary voice stole a glance for himself. The child had been blessed with the same piercing black eyes, narrowed in an eternal squint, but his head was pink and shaven clean, smooth enough to suggest hair had never been there at all.
“It’s not safe yet,” the blue-haired child scolded, nudging the other back behind Kamek.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Kamek said kindly. “King Bowser won’t hurt you.”
Four other faces were shown, one by one. Three males and one female. Each Koopa was entirely unique, but their air of unity was as firm as a battalion who had braved the horrors of war side by side.
And what horrors they had seen.
Bowser’s scrutiny missed nothing as they edged inside, still half hidden behind Kamek.
He saw every bandage. Every hideous bruise and scrape. Every rib and bone laid bare by starvation.
He saw the seventh child, a hatchling male so scrawny and emaciated it seemed a breeze might carry him away from the blue-haired child’s protecting arms.
“Who is responsible?”
The concealed, underlying snarl in Bowser’s tone went unnoticed by all but Kamek. In the face of such mounting rage, the Magikoopa showed his palms in a gesture for peace.
“The sentries at the outpost on the northwestern border found them wandering.” Kamek spoke quickly, recognizing his precarious position. “I was there to talk with the healers, remember? I stayed longer to help tend to their injuries. They just woke up this morning.”
Bowser leaned forward into his chair, digging manicured claws into the satin armrests. Twin curls of smoke were rising from his nostrils.
“Answer my question,” he growled. “Who?”
Kamek shook his head sorrowfully. “They say they’re all siblings, and they’ve been all over Acorn Plains for a while now—but they can’t tell us why.”
Can’t or won’t?
Another glance at the pitiful children convinced him. A welcoming display might incline them to share their tale. In any case, it seemed they were in dire need of a little unconditional kindness.
Cooling his rage, Bowser heaved himself from his chair and settled down on the plush carpet, embroidered elaborately with intertwining dragons with flowing manes and benevolent faces.
“Come over here,” he said invitingly, offering one hand.
The young Koopas hesitated. Most looked towards the blue-haired male for guidance, as if he were the undisputed leader.
The child took note and seemed to balk at this responsibility. His frightened gaze seemed to search Bowser to the very core, as if suspecting trickery.
After a few moments of stalemate, Bowser employed a different tactic. He reached for the tray of dinner he’d left virtually untouched, set it down, and pushed it forward. A heartfelt peace offering.
Noses were raised to the air, sighs released. Still, the leader remained reserved, battling his hunger with remarkable maturity.
The burly child with the squinting eyes was the first to cave, breaking away from the group and dragging the tray over to his family. He snatched up a lemon pastry, as if to shove it down his own gullet, but he instead approached the hatchling and offered only tiny pieces of the buttery crust at a time.
Smelling food, the infant’s eyes shot open, as blue as pieces of raw sapphire. He zealously crunched down on each piece, even nipped at his brother’s fingers in his haste to devour more.
The others took the selfless act as their invitation, clambering onto the edge of the carpet. Bowser watched with a fond smile as his dinner was plundered, plates and fingers licked until not even the smallest crumb or smear of grease remained.
Even more shockingly, nothing was taken for one’s own. Each sibling offered the spoils of their raid to another, grooming them as the other was fed.
Ever united, in spite of the world that had tried so hard to break them.
Wait…
Bowser blinked hard to make sure it hadn’t been a trick of the light or even an inexplicable hallucination.
Now that their backs were turned, the shells of each child were entirely visible. A rainbow of different colors… and spiked.
Spikes.
It was no trivial detail or genetic quirk. The only Koopas that bore such spikes were those with royal blood flowing in their veins.
What about firebreath? Bowser wondered, studying them. It was another royal trait, one that could manifest as young as five.
“Where do you come from?” His question was little more than a whisper, one that went unheard and unanswered.
Now that he was sure there was no mistake, he had a chance to look closer. Though spiked, their shells were curiously not divided into plates of carapace as royal shells were meant to be.
There are tons of smooth-shelled kinds of Koopas…
So half royal… and half something else entirely.
Impossible, was Bowser’s first instinct. The royal family kept famously detailed records of any related members, even very distant ones, but spiked shells were a privilege given to those with only the purest blood.
There had to be an explanation—an obscure royal elopement, for instance. Or a secret affair, perhaps. It was well within the abilities of royalty to erase such a scandal from history.
But not history so recent… These kids are closely related.
“What are your names?” Bowser inquired, while still racking his brain.
The child cradling the infant swallowed visibly. It took him a few moments to work up the courage to speak. “Um… Ludwig. I’m Ludwig.”
One by one, he introduced his brothers and sister.
Ludwig. Roy. Iggy. Lemmy. Morton. Wendy. Larry.
The cycle of names ran over and over in Bowser’s mind, no less unfamiliar with each repetition. “Where do you all come from?”
Beholding the fire, Ludwig shuddered like a seer beholding a future massacre. “We… don’t know.”
Bowser assessed Ludwig’s face. Young, but surely old enough to remember his birthplace. “Why did you leave?”
Ludwig’s blue brows were knitted together in concentration, then frustration, as if the information he sought were locked within a vault. He glanced towards his siblings, hoping for enlightenment, only to find the same blank expressions. Eventually, his shoulders slumped with defeat.
“I—I can’t remember anything…” He stopped, tenderly brushing aside a stray strand on his baby’s brother’s forehead.
Fresh pity burrowed into Bowser’s heart. “What about your parents?”
A blank, uncomprehending stare, as if the word were foreign. “Our… what?”
“Your… mommy and daddy,” Bowser pressed, choosing words that he hoped would be more familiar.
The same puzzled faces gazed back, leaving Bowser at a complete loss for further questions.
Orphans, then. Perhaps they’d never known a mother and father at all… But how else would they have survived for years? Not even Koopa hatchlings, quick to mature as they were, could have scraped by without being raised past infanthood.
No past. Nothing to go on. They don’t even know their parents.
Bowser’s disappointment must have shown. The children ducked their heads submissively, edging closer to Kamek for protection.
Of them all, only little Larry appeared to be aloof from his siblings’ fear, meeting Bowser’s stare with the boldness and innocence of someone too young to understand what a major breach in etiquette it was—one never looked King Bowser in the eye.
Bowser was unable to tear his eyes away, absently trying to recall what his own childhood had been like.
…Shit.
He instantly regretted dredging those years back up from the box he’d placed them in and ignored.
Reopened, the box had nothing to give but loneliness and sorrow.
Bowser’s only parent had been his father, a stern king who’d cared far more about the affairs of his kingdom than his only son. His only company had been his reserved tutors, attendants, and bodyguards.
Of course, as the heir to the throne, Bowser had never worried about being hungry or homeless.
And yet, during meetings and banquets and other important occasions when he’d been granted the rare treat of being in the same room as his father, he’d watched the King from his little throne, hoping for just the smallest of smiles. The tiniest bit of proof that he was loved.
But Bowser had never received one, only the sharp sting of what had felt like deliberate ignorance.
But even he was better than no one at all…
“Haven’t you found anyone willing to help you?” Bowser asked, almost pleadingly.
Suddenly, Wendy looked away from the hearth, all shyness gone. Her blue eyes shone with their own fire, fueled by spite.
“Oh yes, we’ve found plenty of people,” she practically spat. “Called us demons. Tried to kill us.”
Finally. Someone to blame. Someone to punish.
“Who?” Bowser asked, in as level a tone as he could manage. All that betrayed his ire was the puff of smoke that had escaped his jaws. “Koopas like you and me?”
If any of my subjects dared to do this to a bunch of helpless kids…
Roy gave Bowser an apprising glance. “No,” he concluded, pausing as he reached for a proper description. “They were short, with really big, spotted heads…”
Toads.
Worthless, puny Toads.
Bowser had never thought much of such defenseless insignificant creatures. If anything, he’d pitied them for having drawn the short straw in the game of genetics.
No scales. No natural weapons. No tendency towards violence—or so he’d thought.
The Toads of Acorn Plains had long resisted many full-fledged Koopa invasions and even the guerilla warfare waged by rogue bands… but they had no right to take that out on children. On royalty.
“Toads,” Bowser snarled. “Those were Toads.”
Too late, he realized the ferocity in his tone had caused the children to retreat back to Kamek. Dismayed, he reached out to them in apology.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s not you. I would never, ever hurt you like they did.”
Young as they were, the children knew sincerity when they heard it. They warily approached once more, even a little further, as if they were slowly rewarding him with scraps of trust.
The sight bolstered Bowser’s confidence. He studied each of them in turn through blazing eyes. His voice took on the rumbling cadence of a growl.
“You are Koopas. You are strong. Toads called you demons because they fear you. Each of you is worth more than a thousand of them.”
Even as he spoke, he thought, You are royalty. I’ll raise you to be part of my army.
And someday, you’ll have your revenge. I swear it.
“They can have the empty royal suites.” This time, Bowser addressed Kamek. “They can stay here.”
“Really?” Ludwig’s tiny head shot up, those eyes wide and dark with disbelief.
“I would never lie to you.”
Bowser beckoned him closer once more. This time, he came without pause nor hesitation, even hurried. Without stopping, he pressed his round cheek to Bowser’s knuckles, nuzzling him.
In that moment, Bowser’s heart was split right open—irreparably broken.
Not by loss, but love.
“From now on, this will be your home,” Bowser vowed in a voice that shook with emotion.
And anyone who dares hurt you will die at my claws.
“Thank you,” Ludwig breathed as he placed his chin in Bowser’s colossal palm. Shiny trails slid down his cheeks, bronzed in the firelight.
Poor, young child. He deserved so much better.
He deserved a father.
Me.
Guided by an instinct he couldn’t name, Bowser’s tongue slipped between his teeth and drew itself up Ludwig’s forehead, smoothing his silky hair. He was on the verge of doing so again when he stopped, mortified.
But Ludwig showed no displeasure—quite the opposite. He even went as far as to clamber up onto Bowser’s lap and crane his neck, eager to be groomed as his birth parents surely would have.
The spell was broken. The remaining children abandoned their shyness and crowded around vying for Bowser’s attention. He balanced the task of grooming each once, lovingly and carefully.
They’re mine to love. Mine to protect.
Mine.
No thought had ever been as wonderful.
Last of all came Larry. Ludwig raised him as far as Bowser’s chin. The hatchling went so far as to purr beneath Bowser’s grooming, even pawing at his neck as if returning the gesture.
“Squirmy, aren’t you?” Bowser said affectionately. He cautiously met Larry’s hands with one claw, fearing his own huge hands would crush such delicate things.
“May I hold him?”
Only after he’d voiced the desire did he realize its intensity, the pull of a father. Even more shocking was Ludwig’s wordless passing of his baby brother, his face aglow with trust.
Larry’s tiny, husky purr grew louder as he was cradled, beholding Bowser with eyes that seemed wider than the moon.
Mine.
Once Larry’s downy hair had been groomed, Bowser noticed the filthy cloth the child had been swaddled in. The thought of a royal being reduced to rags brought a scowl to his face.
No infant in his care would be dressed like a peasant.
Bowser reached for the end table and yanked the scarlet silk runner off the end table at his right. He was faintly aware of Kamek rushing to catch the lamp that had been on the verge of tumbling to the ground, but his focus lay in unwinding the tattered rag and replacing it with the stretch of silk.
It was a far cry from the traditional ermine blanket that would swaddle a prince, but Larry seemed satisfied. He wriggled a little in the soft fabric, cooing in admiration.
“I hope you like it,” Bowser purred, giving Larry’s little head one last lap from his tongue.
It was only one of the many gifts Bowser planned on giving him. This poor thing deserved to be spoiled a little.
“Maybe, for your birthday,” Bowser whispered, “I’ll attack Acorn Plains and kill the monsters who did this to you.”
He hadn’t realized Kamek had heard until the Magikoopa nodded his approval, his elderly face set with conviction. “You have my complete support, Your Majesty.”
To have rather pacifist Kamek agree to such violence was no small thing. The notion was heavily tempting. But as Bowser considered for several long moments, he shook his head.
“I don’t want them to grow up in a war,” he decided, nuzzling Larry.
Not yet.
But you’ll be ready soon.
This tiny hatchling would be reared in the shelter and luxury of his castle—and learn from Bowser himself. How to take down an opponent far larger than him, how to travel undetected, how to trick his enemies into delivering themselves right into his lap.
With unwavering certainty, Bowser knew that this child would be no spoiled royal.
Someday, Larry would be one of the fiercest warriors in the kingdom, command the respect of the entire Koopa Troop.
But for now, he deserved to have a proper childhood.
Bowser carefully returned Larry to Ludwig’s waiting arms. “Do you know your last names?”
Ludwig considered, then tried, “We have middle names.”
Another odd, missing memory of theirs, though this was especially strange. Why would only their last name elude them while their middle and first names did not?
No matter. Bowser would fix this as well.
“Koopa. Your last names are ‘Koopa.’” Bowser reached down to pat Larry’s head, as if dubbing a knight. “Larry Koopa.”
It wasn’t much—it was the first thing that came to his mind. But in their eyes, he found approval. Each child straightened and craned their necks to look up at him, already loyal soldiers awaiting command. He gently ushered them all closer, like a hen gathering her offspring under her wings.
Mine.
“What will you tell the court, Your Majesty?”
Kamek asked it softly, cautiously. It was as if his magic allowed him to guess exactly what his king was thinking.
As simply as that, all of Bowser’s hopes were crushed.
These children, these sweet, wonderful children, needed a father—but that was one gift he couldn’t give them.
The court would never accept them as his children, let alone heirs. The traditions that encircled such matters were so ancient and revered that even he couldn’t hope to change them.
Only blood children could be heirs; nieces and nephews could only claim the throne as a last resort; there should be no more than one heir at a time.
“They’re not my kids, but they’ll always be royalty,” Bowser answered curtly.
The marble tablet the Laws of the Throne were etched on was only a tablet, so old that Koopas no longer spoke the language it had originally been written in. Nothing, least of all some old laws, was allowed to dictate the future of these children.
“This is your kingdom now.”
Planting his palms on the carpet, Bowser lowered his head until he was at eye level with each one. They stared back trustingly, hanging on to every word.
“You will honor it one day,” Bowser told them, taking the same gruff tone his father had used the few times he’d deigned to speak to his son. “You’ll make it proud of you.”
Six little faces nodded back, young but deadly serious.
Larry only watched. Silent, and yet, Bowser could have sworn he saw the hatchling’s head bob just a fraction of an inch.
A silent promise written in the smallest of gestures.