Work Text:
My love,
It’s a pleasant spring day today. The auðkam flowers are beginning to spread. The orange of their rough stems spring from the ground where-ever one steps, and I’ve been made aware many times that the groundskeepers will remove them as quickly as possible. I’ve been told “my apologies, my prince” sixteen times this morning thus far. I keep looking around, expecting to see you. I’m not accustomed to being the one with the title, eloska. How do you bear it?
But, I am attempting to be cheerful today. The auðkam flowers are underfoot, and all I can think of is the time – do you remember? We were so young, then. We had – well, you had. I would never have done such a thing on my own. You were being a bad influence, Alfonse. Let the record show, I disavow ownership over the incident entirely, and all subsequent ones too, elos.
I miss you, so much.
In any case, you snuck down into the kitchens and dragged me along, and Brandur had sat that bundle of auðkam flowers down on the table and wandered off, and oh, I can’t blame you. Before they bloom they are very ugly things, and they do look so much like carrots, but eloska. My darling. My love. Did you have to eat half the thing in one go? Your skin was orange for days, and we when finally steeled ourselves to show up for lessons that evening...well, it wasn't funny to us at the time, but... Alfonse, the auðkam flowers are blooming here in Embla once more, and every time I step over one, all I can see is your face scrunching up and shrinking into itself. All I can remember is how horrifyingly foolhardy it was for me to think you shouldn’t have to endure such a thing by yourself. All I can think about is how, really, it’s impossible to think at all when the nightmarish sourness of unbloomed auðkam root is on your tongue.
Between your antics and my curse, however did we survive childhood?
They make an auðkam ale from, you know. In the north of Embla, where the soil is sweetest. The vineyardfolk loath the auðkam farmers for the monopoly, and I am learning that they bother the court incessantly, endlessly, and tirelessly about their feud. How, how, how do you bear having a title, Alfonse Gustavsvin the First, Crown Prince of Askr, First Sword of the Order of Heroes, steward of Gnostalheim, guardian of Sjálfvili, and on, and on?
Alse.
I’ve grown accustomed to the idea that I can never send you these letters, Alse. But, in a few weeks time, the kitchen should receive a case of auðkam-talek from an Emblian smuggler hoping to establish trade. Don’t fear – that’s the only thing she’ll do. She isn’t a state spy. Well…insofar as I am not the state.
One can’t be too careful in the Emblian court.
Though I am ill-used to the title of ‘prince’, I have learned that much.
But as to the ale. I think if Brandur is still there, and if he is still sweet on the head cook, he’ll notice it soon enough. He’ll remember, he’ll laugh, then he’ll send some to you, and perhaps you will think for a moment about a time when you and I were happy. When we were happy, and when we happy together.
And maybe, maybe, if I’m very lucky…you’ll know I’m thinking of that time, too.
I miss you. Keep safe this spring, my love. The flowers are everywhere.
As always, my regards to Commander Anna and Princess Sharena.