Rachel Hawkins - Grim

With that, his decision was made. Fyren would take the boy for himself and make Brenn grant him the life he’d always wanted. So he’d followed Queen Rose and her son out to the garden. Fyren had stayed hidden in the bushes, waiting for the moment when the queen was the most unguarded.

Once she was asleep by the stream, Fyren put his plan in motion. He grabbed a wild boar youngling, and before the beast could make a sound, Fyren had slit its throat with his butcher’s knife. Then he’d covered the queen’s dress with fresh red blood, and then discarded the boar’s body in the stream.

When the king came looking for his wife, he’d find her like this, covered in blood with the child missing. He would think his worst fears had come true—that a wild beast had snatched Brenn from his mother and eaten him, leaving only the boy’s blood.

Carefully, Fyren took the sleeping babe from her arms, and then dashed off into the brush before either the queen or the prince could. He kept running—traveling days with only short breaks to sleep in the darkest part of the night. He went over the cold waters of the Eisenfluss River, past the dark branches of the Verzanfrost Woods, and Fyren didn’t stop until he’d reached the highest peak of the Graulumberg Mountains, far out of the reaches of King Elrik’s kingdom.

The walls of the castle were high, just as Fyren had commanded Brenn to wish for, and all day and all night, they were filled with the sounds of the young prince crying. Nothing Fyren did seemed to ease Brenn’s sadness.

Fyren had told Brenn that a war had broken out and his parents had been killed. Fyren—being so sneaky and wise—had gotten past the warriors, and Brenn’s mother had commanded Fyren to take Brenn away, to keep him safe, and that Brenn was to do exactly as Fyren ordered.

Fyren had warned the boy about wishing for his mother or his father to return. He’d told him they both had been killed, and if he wished for them, they would rise from the earth, living as the unholy undead. They would be cursed monsters, and his parents deserved a peaceful slumber in their afterlife, so Brenn did not wish for them.

While Brenn had believed him, he had yet to comply with Fyren’s order to stop wailing.

Now that Fyren had a great castle at the top of the highest peak on the tallest mountain in the land, filled with riches and treasures, Fyren had begun to consider that his use for Brenn was done. If the boy didn’t stop crying soon, Fyren would have his head.

But he couldn’t do that just yet. Although it seemed that Fyren had all that his dark heart had ever desired, he didn’t know what the future might bring. It would be rash to get rid of his magic wishing tool so soon. Fyren had to find a way to silence Brenn before it drove him mad.

“Why is it that you cry so?” Fyren asked the prince finally. They were eating dinner, though the boy had hardly touched the roasted beef before them. Brenn only cried softly, staring down at the table.

“I miss Mother and Father,” Brenn replied.

“I have told you—they would not want you to be so unhappy,” Fyren told him. “You must be happy and stop this constant crying. It’s as your parents would have you do.”

“I know, sire.” The prince sniffled. “I am very sorry, but I am so lonely.”

The cook said, “I care for you and keep you safe from the men who killed your parents. You are not alone in this castle. I am as a father to you now, boy. Am I not enough to you?”

“You may be as a father to me, but you speak hardly a word to me,” Brenn said. “It is only you and I here, and you cannot be as a mother or my playmates back at home.”

The cook considered this for a moment and nodded. “Then make yourself a friend. If it will keep you happy and calm, wish yourself a pretty girl to keep you company.”

While the boy was excited about the prospect of no longer being alone, he didn’t wish for a friend immediately. He wanted to think about it long and well, making sure he’d made the absolute perfect friend before he made his wish.

The prince spent most of his time with his thoughts in the garden behind the castle. Fyren had given him the exact details of how he wanted his castle to be built, but Brenn had been left to wish for the garden on his own, so he’d wished for a garden exactly like his mother’s.

It was a few days later, as he was sitting out among the pink carnations, that Brenn was certain he’d finally crafted his wish.

With a loud, strong voice, he said, “I wanted to wish for a friend who is lovely and kind, loyal and patient, funny and gentle, strong and beautiful, intelligent and diligent, but the only thing I really wish for is a girl who will be my true friend for the rest of my days.”

No sooner had he made his wish than he saw the flowers next to him begin to move. He pushed back the petals and saw a girl, appearing to be just his age of four, curled up among the stems. She was nude, but her long golden waves of hair covered her.

Her lids fluttered open, and the girl sat up. She was as lovely as he’d hoped for, and he could see the warmth and playful spark in her eyes.

“What is your name?” Brenn asked the girl.

“I am Dianthus,” she told him, and smiled. “I don’t know how I came to be here, but I know that I am your friend.”

Twelve years went by, and Dianthus proved herself to be the truest of friends. She was far more loyal, kind and generous than Brenn would’ve known to wish for. In the dark castle, with Fyren lording over them, Brenn and Dianthus hid in the shadow to avoid his wrath.

Fyren still commanded the boy to make his wishes, but he’d grown even more ill-tempered as he aged, striking out in unprovoked rages. He’d become paranoid about everything, and he seemed to distrust the friendship between Brenn and Dianthus.

Escaping out to the garden as often as they could, Brenn and Dianthus created a world for themselves among the flowers. Fyren never left the safety of the castle walls anymore, claiming that he was afraid that the men who’d killed Brenn’s parents would come after Fyren soon.

While Brenn still listened to Fyren’s rants, he didn’t believe them any longer. He was now a young man of sixteen, and he wasn’t as easily fooled as the young boy Fyren had stowed away those many years ago.

Not to mention that Brenn had more pressing things on his mind. Like the change in his friendship with Dianthus.

For years, she had been his closest confidante, his only respite in the dark storm of his life. He’d shared with her all his darkest secrets, as he’d learned hers. He’d protected her from Fyren’s increasing tantrums, as she had nursed his wounds after horrible fights.

He’d considered her nothing more than this—nothing more than his everything—but as each day passed, with Dianthus growing more beautiful than she had been the day before, Brenn could no longer deny that he was in love with her.

“Do you ever notice that your lips are the color of the pink?” Brenn asked her in the garden as she lay among the carnations, reading a book.

“The color of the pink?” Dianthus lifted her blue eyes to meet his.

“The flowers.” Brenn was lying down next to her, and he rolled to his side. “You are far more beautiful than they will ever be, though.”

Then Brenn leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the mouth, and the kiss seemed to warm him from within, the heat radiating all through him like a flower opening its petals to the sun in the morning.

“You are my one, my one true love,” Brenn said, breathing in deeply and filling his lungs with the aroma of the flower bed. “I love you, Dianthus.”