Chapter Text
When I was born, my father had not been home to give me a name. My mother, simply being a wife, had no right to give me one. For many years the kingdom on the north bay of Apophyllite had referred to me solely by my title. Prince.
As I grew, I and many noticed the lack of figure that I held. Despite my youth, many servants whispered of my lack of anything remarkable. It was not my fault, I had no father to teach me. My mother wasn’t anything, she was a like dull vase that loved to spend its days watching the window.
When my father did return, I was around nine. When mother sent me to greet him at the door, he handed me his cloak and the other servants his weapons. He must have forgotten he had a son or perhaps he expected something better of me.
When it was time for his feast, the palace was in a frenzy. It had not prepared to serve a man who deserved more than a simple plate of fish and bread. When it was all finished, it was beautiful. Meats of all sorts and mead and fruit.
When I had taken my seat next to him, he had finally regarded me. “You are my son?” I nodded. “Are you mute?” He laughed and the advisors around him laughed. I can see his eyes linger on me for a moment before he addressed his court.
He spends the night drinking, retelling his victory against the north kingdoms. His noble fights against the beasts of the earth, the only portion I could fully recall was the tale of his time with the demi-God. Orius. Son of Luther and Gaia.
I had heard tales. When the servant children would be put to bed, I would sneak down to the chambers and put my ear to the door. He was a key-factor in the winnings of many wars, he even slain bigger beasts. (the ones that could not be killed by men.)
“Surely you do not wish for us to believe you slain the Snake of the southern hills on your own?” An advisor goads, his face flush from the mead. My father had drank far more than this man and yet he still seemed more sober than each of the men in the room. “Ay? Why’s that?” He says, with a slight sneer.
“I mean the Snake of the southern hills is a big beastie innit?” My father nods, stoic. “He was as tall as-“ The man’s cup hits the table before My father can finish his newly started story. All the men in room
go quiet, the look on my fathers face makes known the fear I had not wanted to confront.
My father becomes a blur from beside me to infront of me to in front of the man. My father was aligned so perfectly with the man, that I could not understand why he would scream in such terror. I had known violence and this surely couldn’t be it.
He was so still. Violence had always been painted as something brutal, big motions. However as my father steps away from the man, I see the brutality in his small movements. The advisor has blood dripping down his cheek, it’s the minor things I notice before true horror makes itself known.
His eyes had been pushed into their sockets, grinded into a ugly red that made me want to hurl. His hands tremble around his face as he cries. He cries blood. His body shakes like he is sick and an eternity later he’s dragged by his arms out the dining hall door.
My father found himself back on his throne, recounting tales yet again. This time the men did not laugh, nor did they cheer. They all listened silently and fearfully. I did not understand then the full extent of their fear besides the fear of physical violence.
My father had returned and he had already taken out one of his advisors who’d dare question him. Even for such a small thing as a story. He was not someone to trifle with, that much then I understood.
When the advisor gave their respects and left, my father had called me to his chambers. I enter and the husk of something awful fills my nose, I look for my mother near the window and find it devoid of her presence. “Is that you boy?” He shouts, his voice sends tremors through the palace. Or perhaps I am just cold.
I walk closer to his place on the bed. I feel sick as I notice the bodies on the bed, none which held mothers hair color. Her hair was a deep black, however it reflected the moonlight beautifully. I had never felt such a deep discomfort, maybe it was the presence of my father that made it worse.
“Do you have a voice boy?” I frown, I did not wish to further disappoint him with how my voice squeaked out each word. “I do.” I whisper, i’m scared he doesn’t catch my voice until he hum.
“They say you are simple. Is that true?”
“…Yes.”
He hums, it’s deeps
“Tomorrow, we will wake at dawn and train.”
I want to frown and to protest. However the idea of what my father did to those who defy him shifts my thoughts. “Yes, father.” Is all I can muster before I take my leave. I can not stand the smell. Nor can I handle the idea that his first night would not be spent with his wife.
That night I laid down on my hollow bed and could not get a wink of sleep. I would let my anxieties of what tomorrow held cloud my vision until I could see the sliver of sun rise up from the sea.
I knew it was time for training when two maids entered my room to wake me, something they never had done before today. “Prince, your father has requested we feed and dress you.” I can nod and watch as they set up the small table at the foot of my bed.
They left my garb at the end of the table. Knowing full well I had always preferred to dress myself. I would dress sluggishly, It was so early in the morning I had not passed a second thought of my appearance when I walked out my room door.
My father had looked at me for an eternity before he began the training. It started with running, It was something I hadn’t done much of. For I had no reason to run as a prince.
When I began to slow behind his light jog, he would pull out a whip from his side and strike at my feet. When the jog was over he gave me nearly 5 minutes to rest before we practiced with our kingdom's most known weapon, the bow.
I did not look at my father throughout the practice. My hand fumbled with the arrows and my weak little arms couldn’t pull it far enough to reach the target. In all fairness, I was nine. However, that did not stop my father from letting out a frustrated sigh.
I don’t want to cry, but I do. I had never disappointed anyone before. No one ever was frustrated at me, for I was always out of the way. “I’m sorry.” I whisper, making sure to keep my face from being seen, lest he think me less of a man.
“My son-“ He says, a sentence which warms me in a way I have never felt. “It.. It is fine. If I had known I would have an heir, I would have hired a tutor for you.” I cry harder and this time, I let myself cry. If he’d forgive me this once, then maybe he’ll forgive me again for crying in presence.
“If your mother had not hid this fact from me..You would be fit for war by now!” he chuckles quietly, It wasn’t uncommon for men to train their sons when they were young. “..I would never blame a boy for the fault of his parents, my boy, that much I’ve learned during this time on earth.” He kneels in front of me, taking a cloth from his bag on his hip.
He dabs it more gently than I ever expected of him. “Pick up the bow son, you have a famous archer's blood in you y’know?” I smile, he mirrors it. I would ask a question, ask who he was talking about.
But I don’t.
I simply pick up my bow and start up again. More motivated than I have ever been.