Chapter Text
The snow was coming down so harshly, today.
The skies had not been clear since the prince had taken his leave. While his injuries, his wound, still felt a throbbing pain, he stood peacefully at one of the windows within his room. The king winced as he turned and began walking back over to his bed. That is where safety was.
He sat down on the bed, giving such a heavy sigh. He missed his son. His innocence.
That thought dragged his eyes to rest upon a photograph, one of when the prince was freshly baked. He reached and held onto its frame, pulling it closer to get a better look at it. They shared many features. Many of the Watchers agreed that his son looked quite alike to him, and they had joked that once his son was grown, it would be almost impossible to tell them apart.
That thought would have put a smile on his face, had he felt the need to show one.
The king very gently placed the photo back onto his bedside, resting his hand on his lap after placing it down. He closed his eyes for a long moment, taking a deep breath alongside it.
… What had he done to deserve this?
Perhaps he was too harsh on his son. Perhaps he was feeling regret in his heart, for his actions against the will of the prince. He had no right in speaking up against him—no use or purpose in speaking when he had those court gatherings with the Watchers. Perhaps that is where he went wrong.
His son had a will—much stronger than his, it seemed—to help. He can’t help being reminded of a close ally, a friend, his loyal first Watcher. He shared such a spirit with her … Such a spirit that could not be replaced. Due to this will, his son searched for a weapon: a weapon that even he could not stand such a burden of.
The king lifted his arm and dragged it across the bandages that were tied around his torso. Even these gauzes, new, were staining with the jam from that blade. That was not a normal sword, he knew this.
He huffed. Perhaps his injuries weren’t healing due to his sickly state.
He groaned, and stood up from his resting place, taking a deep breath as a way to tough out the pain of the wound. He walked back over to the window, staring outside. The little cookies were no longer out, as they had used to be. The citadel was in a state of terror, it seems—his son knowing every narrow passageway through this place was enough to convince the young ones that he would come back to finish them all off.
He remembered his son’s face, after the attack.
The prince was terrified. Regretful. Sorrowful.
He waited no time before banishing his own close family. His son was now outcast, exiled, unable to step foot into his kingdom once more. He couldn’t help missing him, remembering all the good memories they had shared at one point in their lifetimes.
… A tear fell from his face.
He struggled to stop the tears, the ones that would not stop their flow. The king brought a hand to his face, trying to wipe the tears away from his eyes. This would be an embarrassing outburst to walk in upon. Their resolute monarch—broken into tears over the inevitable betrayal of his own child.
How pathetic.
His arms shook. It took long moments for his tears to stop, as he held his head low, facing away from the window.
Maybe, one day they will meet again.