Work Text:
King Frederic was silent as the boy was brought before him in chains. He was familiar with Varian, of course. His old friend, Quirin, had to start bringing his young son with him whenever he traveled after-
But this was the first time he was able to inspect the boy up close. Those high cheekbones. The slender point of his chin. The way the corner of his lips tilted downwards crookedly as his jaws clenched in a firm frown. He remembered the last time he saw those delicate features, that night years ago.
She had sometimes accompanied Quirin, content to browse the capital's marketplace as her husband conducted his business. That night, both she and Quirin had been grateful to be offered a room in the castle when the sudden downpour started. That night, when a soaked messenger bird had brought news from one of his many endless search parties - the bodies of an old woman and a little blond girl had been spotted off a cliff in a carriage accident. He didn't know if it was them, and wouldn't know until the party was able to scale down and inspect the bodies. It hadn't been, he knew now, but the tidal wave of grief and anger that washed over him at the time carried him away from his wife, away from the bed chamber they shared. He couldn't face her.
So he wandered through the dark halls, unable to sleep and unable to find solid ground amidst the turmoil of his emotions. That was when he came upon her, a vision of beauty and grace alone in a small sitting room, curled up in front of the massive crackling fireplace with a thick tome in her lap and a frown upon her face as she glanced up at the intrusion. Her soft green eyes were steady as she stared at him, and he found an anchor in her steadfast gaze. Her frown deepened as he shut the door and approached, the corner of her lips tilting downwards crookedly as her jaws clenched.
He wanted to say he had no idea what he was doing, but that would be a lie. The storm raging outside the window was nothing compared to the storm within him. He was desperate for the comfort of a warm body without having to subject his wife to the reason behind the needed comfort. So lost and adrift was he, that he grabbed on to the first tiny bit of control he could. And she let him. He was her king, after all.
He never saw her again after that night; she had stopped accompanying her husband to the capital. But now before him once more were those same high cheekbones, that same pointed chin, that same crooked frown. On a face staring him down not with soft green eyes, but sharp blue ones. His gaze flickered quickly to his side, where the queen's throne sat empty, its usual occupant resting in her chambers after the whole ordeal. Guilt and shame washed over him, and he felt the turmoil within him rising again, this time without soft green to anchor him. Just his own cold, icy blue staring back at him, judging him, accusing him. Daring him to acknowledge his past deed. He couldn't do it. He couldn't allow his wife to be hurt any further by this embodiment of his biggest mistake. And he could no longer face the only evidence of his greatest regret.
"...take him to the dungeons."