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Morion despises paperwork more than anything. He loathes it more than Elusia, sitting for portraits, and green bell peppers put together. So when he hears a knock on his door, he all but launches himself out of his chair to seize upon the opportunity to procrastinate.
The knock at the door is an odd one. It consists of five quiet, tentative taps in quick succession. There’s only one person in Brodia who knocks like that, with such timidity yet such urgency. It takes all of Morion’s strength to push away the smile that springs to his lips. Fathers must maintain an air of gravitas, even more so if they are kings.
He opens the door and looks down at his visitor. And looks down some more. His visitor may be strong of heart, but they are quite short of stature.
“What do you need? Is something wrong?”
Alcryst stands in the doorway, clutching a book to his chest, eyes shining. He looks breathless, like he just ran all the way across the castle from the library.
“Channel catfish are more aggressive than giant flatheads or blues, but like all catfish, their flesh has a heartiness and versatility that makes them a staple dish in restaurants throughout the Brodian mainland!”
He looks up at Morion, the excitement plain on his face, waiting for his father's response.
Morion stares blankly back at him. He opens his mouth and prepares to speak with the eloquence that only a king of Brodia can possess.
“What?” he says.
“Chief among the most famous catfish dishes is catfish creole!” Alcryst continues to talk, bouncing on the balls of his feet with enthusiasm. “Catfish creole was popularized by Solm immigrants who came to Brodia during the Pale Sands Exodus of 514. They modified their traditional recipes to suit the climate and available ingredients in Brodia. Catfish creole is, as a result, a representative blend of the best our distinct, beautiful cultures have to offer!”
Morion could not have any less of an idea as to what is currently happening. Fortunately, his finely-honed combat instincts kick in. With lightning speed, he processes his opponent’s move, recovers his balance, and prepares for the counterattack.
Focus, Morion. Focus. We’re talking about catfish now. For some reason. Think! Catfish creole, Solm, some boring date that’s probably not important, recipes, ingredients… Ah! That’s it!
“A blend of cultures…” He smiles kindly at his son. “That is a beautiful thought, Alcryst.”
His gambit works. The young prince beams. “Yes!”
Then, with shocking abruptness, he dips his head in a polite bow, turns around, and stampedes off down the corridor.
The movement is so quick it gives Morion whiplash. He just barely manages to find his voice before his son disappears around the corner. “Alcryst?”
Alcryst stops, his crimson eyes round, as if he didn’t expect Morion to speak. “Yes, Father?”
“Was… was that all?”
“Oh.” Alcryst nods, decisively. “Yes, that’s all.”
Before Morion can say anything more, he turns around once more and sprints around the corner. Morion can hear his small footsteps pounding the stairs as he descends.
The king stands in the doorway alone, thoroughly nonplussed. Eventually, he raises his hand to the doorknob and slowly pulls the door closed. He stares at the wood, contemplating.
It’s not unusual for young boys to be passionate about their interests. Morion can recall with fondness the days when Diamant was absolutely obsessed with knock-knock jokes; even now, a well-timed one still sends him to his knees with laughter. And even further back, Morion remembers the six-month period in which he, at age nine, was enthralled by sword-smithing techniques to the point where he spent all his spare time trailing after the palace blacksmith. It’s perfectly ordinary. Even the most virulent of aristocrats in Morion’s court would agree.
But Alcryst’s interest in fish is… different. Since Morion first took him fishing at the tender age of two, his fascination with fish has been all-consuming, and five years later, the phase shows no signs of ending. He devours books about them at an alarming rate, and can – and does – recite them by heart to anyone within earshot, whether the conversation relates to aquatic life or not. Before catfish, it was rainbow trout. Before rainbow trout, it was goldfish. And before goldfish, it was Fishtopher, the plush toy the Queen sewed for his third birthday, whom the young prince still cannot fall asleep without.
Five years on, the courtiers’ whispers about the second prince of Brodia have only grown louder, despite Morion’s constant attempts to quell them. And five years on, he is no closer to unravelling the mystery of why Alcryst loves fish so dearly.
He concludes that standing in place and staring gormlessly at the door will bring him no answers. Nor – he reluctantly admits – will it bring him closer to finishing the mountain of paperwork still sitting on his desk.
Resigning himself to the fact that the minds of seven-year-old boys work in mysterious ways, he returns to his seat and picks up his quill with a sigh. He does his best to focus on the mind-numbingly boring reports in front of him, and to push all thoughts of catfish and children out of his mind.
…Fifteen minutes later, however, those thoughts come charging back with a vengeance when he hears small footsteps echo in the corridor.
Once more, Morion hears five quiet knocks on his door, and with each one, his bewilderment only builds. Possibilities run wild through his mind as he pushes himself up from his desk. Did Alcryst simply forget to tell him something? Is this some strange kind of game he’s come up with? Some manner of prank at Morion’s expense? Is Diamant involved with this, somehow? Or is it an emergency – is Alcryst sick, or hurt?
Morion opens the door with a steely gaze, prepared for every possibility. “Alcryst, what is it n-”
“Asafetida is an unorthodox catfish bait that was banned in Firene under the Freshwater Fishing Regulations Act of 1108 due to environmental concerns, but is still used in tributaries close to the Firene-Brodia border!”
Alcryst is panting, visibly out of breath, but he expels the paragraph like it is the most urgently-important information in the world.
Morion crouches down to Alcryst’s eye level, alarm briefly overtaking his confusion. “For Divinity’s sake, boy, slow down. You’re going to pass out at this rate.”
With his hands on his knees, Alcryst wheezes, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’m sorry, Father…”
“Calm yourself. A prince does not overtire himself – he reserves his strength for when it is truly needed. Now, what’s all this about asa… asa-something?”
“Asafetida!”
“Of course. Asafetida. How foolish of me.”
“Asafetida is the dried gum oleoresin exuded from the rhizome of the Ferula plant. It is colloquially known as “the devil's dung” due to its horrifically pungent smell. Despite that, some Brodian catfishermen will soak their lines in an asafetida-and-water mixture in order to attract channel catfish. The practice is especially popular during times of the year when “regular” bait is scarce.” Alcryst pauses for a split second to catch his breath, then forges on, his smile only growing. “But in places where asafetida usage is either frowned upon or outright banned, anglers have resorted to even more creative baits!”
Morion does his best to listen to the tirade of information, as rapidly-delivered as it is. He seizes upon the last sentence and jumps in before Alcryst can continue rambling.
“Creative baits, you say? Like what?”
Alcryst's eyes glow the moment the question leaves Morion's lips. “Like fruit!”
“Fruit? Really?”
“Yes! Firenese anglers often use white grapes, mulberries, and ripe persimmons in the summer months, when such fruit is more plentiful and easily found than meat-based baits. And as for Brodian anglers, the strangest baits recorded in fishing almanacs over the centuries include fried potatoes, pork chops, raw steak, and... and...!”
Alcryst starts to giggle, doubling over. He's laughing too hard to finish the sentence.
Morion can’t help it – his son’s laughter is more infectious a sound than any he knows. He chuckles and pats Alcryst’s head. “What is it? Go on, don’t leave me hanging. What’s so funny?”
“Soap!” Alcryst bursts out laughing. “Brodian catfishermen on the Amethyst River swear up and down that you can fill an entire canoe with catfish using only a single bar of soap! Ahahahaha!”
Morion doesn’t understand why this, of all things, is sending Alcryst into hysterics. But he doesn’t really need to. He joins in his son’s laughter with an uproarious guffaw of his own. “Soap? Of all things on Elyos’ green earth, catfish like the taste of soap? You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”
“No! It’s true!” Alcryst giggles with both hands over his mouth. “Soap... Heehee! Oh, catfish are so, so wonderful! They should all be cherished!”
And that’s when it happens again. Still sniggering to himself, Alcryst stands up, bows in a swish of dark-blue hair, and charges off down the hall.
Morion reaches after him. “Ah, Alcryst-!”
But he’s too slow. Alcryst vanishes around the corner for the second time, leaving only the faint memory of his giggling behind.
Normally, his son’s laughter fills his heart with the most buoyant of joys, but right now, the only emotions in Morion’s chest are puzzlement and dread. Did he say something wrong? He can’t think of anything in particular that might have offended Alcryst, but…
It's sometimes hard to predict what will upset the second prince of Brodia. Morion’s gotten better at it, over the years. He knows Alcryst dislikes sudden loud noises, like the clanging of steel at the coliseum or the shouts of the royal guard as they run their drills. He dislikes most green foods, especially bell peppers (that one, at least, Morion can completely understand). And he especially dislikes the sight of other people in pain. Not just people, in fact – when the Queen had to perform emergency surgery on Fishtopher after Alcryst tore one of his fins via excessive cuddling, the young prince’s sobs filled the castle for hours.
Yet, just now, Alcryst didn’t look upset in the slightest. So why did he leave?
…Fortunately, only ten minutes pass before Morion is granted another opportunity to answer that question.
The third time he hears those familiar small footsteps pounding the carpet, he is already out of his seat, having not even bothered returning to his desk. He has bigger fish to fry, as it were. He briskly crosses the room as, like clockwork, the five quiet knocks ring out. His hand is on the doorknob before the last one finishes echoing.
Morion opens the door, crosses his arms, and leans against the doorframe with an amused stare. “Back again, son?”
“Catfish have enhanced tasting capabilities due to the presence of taste buds all over the external body surface and inside the oropharyngeal cavity.” Alcryst hunches over his book, reading aloud. “Specifically, they have a high sensitivity to heightened levels of amino acids in freshwater.”
Morion silently admires how Alcryst’s seven-year-old mouth pronounces oropharyngeal flawlessly. He hasn’t the foggiest idea whether oropharyngeal is even a real word, let alone what it could possibly mean, but he’s proud regardless.
The young prince runs his finger along the text as he recites the words for his father. “These amino acids cause maxillary and mandibular barbell movements, which orient the catfish's posture and food search. When the food stimulates the taste receptors, it causes more excitation which manifests as exaggerated biting, turning, or mastication.”
“Oh. No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Wow. What a… lot of information. Did you learn all of that just now?”
Alcryst nods. “Yes, Father.” He shuts the book with a snap and, for the third time, turns to go.
This time, however, Morion is prepared. He grasps his son’s shoulder, rooting him to the spot. “Hold a moment, Alcryst.”
Alcryst blinks rapidly, once, twice, three times. He silently obeys, but he fidgets in place. Morion loosens his grip a touch. He could not forgive himself if he hurt his son, even inadvertently.
“What is this all about?”
Alcryst tilts his head to the side, looking about as confused as Morion feels. “What… is what all about?”
“All this shouting about catfish, and this running to and fro. What’s got you in such a hurry?”
The moment the words leave his lips, Alcryst’s face falls. “Oh…” He hunches over, clutching the book to his chest like a shield. “I’m sorry. Am I… Am I bothering you, Father?”
Morion’s heart jumps. “No, Alcryst, no. Of course not.” Lowering himself down to Alcryst’s level, he cups the young prince’s chin, lifting his face back into the light. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to know if something’s wrong, and whether I can help.”
Alcryst’s crimson eyes shimmer with guilt. He swallows, clasping his book even tighter, but bravely, he speaks.
“Today… Commander Saphir said, in the library, there was a new book about catfish. She got it down off the top shelf for me.”
“A new catfish book? That is exciting news. Is that what you’re holding?”
“Yes! Ictalurus Punctatus: A Comprehensive Guide, by Sir Gillbert Baits.” Alcryst hugs the book like he’s cuddling Fishtopher. “And the eighth edition comes with one hundred and twenty additional pages of appendices!”
It’s amazing how much time some people have on their hands, Morion says internally. “Impressive,” he says aloud.
“It’s a really, really good book. And I wanted to show it to you, because… because I know you like catfish, too.”
Morion’s heart quivers. Somewhere, some part of him – the absolute sappiest part, which he keeps safely hidden beneath layers of armour and bravado – trembles as Alcryst’s simple, earnest words reach it. And like a sword sliding into its sheath, in his mind, an answer finally clicks into place.
“Is that so?” he says softly, in a voice he reserves only for his sons.
“Yes. But then, Diamant said… you were very busy today drafting parliamentary addresses and finalizing the Crown’s policies on army debenture repayments… or something. And he said I shouldn’t distract you unless it was really, really important.”
“Oh? And why did your brother go and say something like that?”
“Because, he said, it’s rude to talk on and on about catfish without regard for the other person’s feelings.” Alcryst looks down at his shoes. “So I thought, if I only came here to tell you the really super-important things about catfish, and then left right away, maybe that would be okay…”
At last, Morion has the full story. He heaves a sigh, but the edge of exasperation is neither sharp nor damning.
“I’m…” Alcryst curls inward like a snail. “I’m sorry, Father. I promise I won’t do it again. I’ll go now-”
“Now just hold your horses, boy. When did I say I wanted you to leave?”
Alcryst’s eyes widen. He looks shocked at the idea that Morion still wants him around. Every time that look enters his eyes, it breaks Morion’s heart a little, but he refuses to let his pain show. He meets Alcryst’s nervous glances with his own confident, stately gaze.
“Do you want to know the truth, my son? The truth is, you can’t always believe everything Diamant says. He’s a smart young man, but even he isn’t right all the time. Only fathers are.”
Alcryst blinks up at him in disbelief. “Really? Is that really true?”
“Yes,” Morion mutters. “In fact, when it comes to fifteen-year-olds, you should take most of their assertations with a grain of salt.”
“Pardon, Father?”
“Oh, never you mind. Talking to myself.” Morion waves his hand dismissively, then gently sets it back on Alcryst’s shoulder. “Listen carefully. It’s true that I am very busy today. But it’s not a distraction to hear you talk about catfish. Frankly, it’s more distracting to have you constantly coming and going. So, how does this sound for a plan?”
Alcryst leans forward in anticipation. “Yes, Father?”
“Instead of charging around like a headless chicken, you can sit in here with me, and read your book while I work. And then you can let me know when it’s time to talk about catfish. Would you like that?”
The words are barely out of his mouth before Alcryst’s face lights up like it’s his birthday, Diamant’s birthday, and Brodia's National Fishing Day all at once. The fear in his expression melts away like snow, and his smile blooms as bright as Brodia’s tallest maple trees.
“Yes!” he exclaims, with a gleeful hop. “Yes, please! Is that really okay?!”
“If the King declares it, then it shall be so.” Morion squeezes his shoulder with a smile. “And don’t just tell me the most important facts. Tell me the less important facts, too. I want to hear them all.”
And he does. That is the truth, from the depths of his heart.
Beaming, Alcryst takes a couple steps forward and headbutts Morion in the stomach. After a second, Morion realizes that this is Alcryst’s attempt at hugging him while his arms are full. He ruffles the young prince’s hair in response. “Go on, then. Come in and sit down.”
Alcryst practically skips into the room, completely ignoring the empty chairs, and settles down onto the floor, lying on his stomach on a sunny patch of carpet.
Morion sighs again, but remains silent. Alcryst is already absorbed in his book, scanning the pages at a voracious rate. Anything Morion says now will fall on deaf ears. So he says nothing, returning to his own seat in the afternoon sunlight.
Together, father and son bury themselves in their respective pursuits.
After several minutes of mutual, comfortable silence, Alcryst lets out a soft gasp, and he looks up. “Father?”
“Yes, my son?”
“All species of Brodian channel catfish generate sound through stridulation and drumming.”
Morion smiles as he sets down his quill. “Stridulation… I don’t believe I’m familiar with that term. What does that mean, Alcryst?”
“Stridulation consists of the clicking or grinding of the bones of the fish's pectoral fins and pectoral girdle, and drumming consists of the contraction of specialized sonic muscles.”
“Really? How fascinating.”
Alcryst grins, bolstered by his father's simple words of encouragement. He kicks his legs as he continues to explain. “Due to the high density of water, sound travels four-point-eight times faster and over longer distances underwater than in the air. Consequently, sound production via stridulation is an excellent means of underwater communication for channel catfish.”
“I see.” Morion nods, sagely. “So that’s how catfish talk to each other?”
“Yes!” Alcryst wriggles with delight when he realizes that his father understands. “That's how catfish talk to each other. Isn't that marvelous?”
He gazes at Morion with the utmost enthusiasm, the purest love, the sweetest, deepest trust. His son’s trust – a treasure more precious than all the jewels that slumber beneath the mountains.
“You’re right.” Morion smiles, both to Alcryst and to himself. “That is marvelous indeed.”
Alcryst makes a happy noise, a bit like the coo of a dove, and he returns to his beloved book as Morion returns to his accursed paperwork. He is well and truly unmotivated now. His mind is filled with sunkissed rocks, mirrorlike lakes, the gentle rocking of a boat, the laughter of his sons. They really do need to go on another fishing trip soon. This weekend, preferably. Weather and time permitting.
Between his fishing flights of fancy and Alcryst’s frequent interruptions, it takes Morion three times as long to finish his paperwork that afternoon. But he doesn’t mind in the slightest.