Chapter Text
The Sun had long since set when a knock upon his office door disturbed him from his work. Stars only faintly visible through the glare that the desk lamp cast on the arched window.
Between taking off his reading glasses and tucking a few stray strands of his blonde hair behind his ear (which was just a tad too long than appropriate for the crowned prince) he muttered a “Come in” eyes not leaving the report he was proofreading when a small pair of shiny black mary jane's stood at the base of his desk. Nervously shifting their weight from one foot to the other.
“I am ever so sorry to bother you your highness but you have been invited to the northern parlour- I mean your presence has been requested to join your parents for dinner.”
“Thank you, Lucy. I will leave for dinner in just a moment.” Maxon smiled gently. He didn't have to glance upwards to know of the light blush that painted her face.
It had been over five years since he’d learnt her name; since she left. But Lucy still was as equally surprised as the first time he called her by her first name and he still found Lucy’s nervousness around him just as humbling. It wasn’t as if he could ever forget anyone or anything that could possibly be associated with her.
She continued to stand there playing with the edges of the stack of paper in her gloved hands that Maxon hadn’t noticed yet. His attention hadn’t left the sheet which was proving to become a more frustrating matter every minute he continued to stare at it for. And the longer he continued to, the more he questioned what the hell his father was thinking.
He couldn’t begin to comprehend exactly why his father hadn’t followed through with the budget cuts on their military.
“For goodness sake.” He whispered loudly, running his hands through his hair, gently tugging at the ends.
A soft squeak escaped from Lucy as Maxon began to flick through the pages of the report rather aggressively. If he had been more conscious of her presence he would have apologised for startling her. However, an inexpressible frustration began to gnaw at him like frostbite.
They had discussed this for great length over the past few days with their mindless herd of advisors actually agreeing to a suitable conclusion where the overwhelming majority of parties benefited. Everybody except him.
Maxon forcefully places down his pen parallel to the edge of the document - desperately seeking a sense of order. Walking over to the small wardrobe compartment embedded into the wall (that was engulfed by a singular, ancient bookshelf) he shrugged on a dinner jacket over his slightly crinkled shirt that wore battle scars mirroring the seams of his desk chair.
It was almost like the King did not want Illea to become a prosperous nation.
Could he not see how this pathetic excuse of a war was damaging their economy, their image, and their relations with other countries? The man who had lectured his own son relentlessly for years on selfishness: and the catastrophic consequences of narcissism, was blinded by his own egotistical brain. Too proud to admit his mistakes. Too far in perhaps the greatest case of fraud and deception Maxon had ever been forced to study. Besides the citizens of their own country, nobody else was fooled or had been for the last twenty years.
His father’s dictatorship over him had always irritated Maxon; like an itch that couldn’t be soothed. Whereas now it infuriated him.
Was it not enough to manipulate his personal relationships, delay Clarkson's own retirement and subsequently postpone Maxon’s coronation for the last five years. When did it end?
His mind was left cluttered with a selection of different solutions, consequences and possible outcomes to this new problem.
Where else are they meant to find the small (but actually relatively large) fortune that would start the reconstruction of the Pan-American highway? Surely the economic benefits, political peace and the unification that came with that strip of tarmac were a priority in his father's corrupt mind? Or maybe another more pressing matter had arisen…
He should calm down, he told himself. And as much as he didn't want to, he knew that throwing a fit would be counterproductive - the sooner he solved this mishap the sooner he could sleep, rest maybe.
So with this optimistic attitude (although Maxon felt far from optimism) he threw his head back hastily, swallowing the last of the golden liquid from the petite glass on his desk, hoping to settle his emotional turmoil. Perhaps even come to some rational middle ground with his father - even if there was nothing logical with the gracious forgiveness he knew he should offer his father. Especially with his mother present.
With this at the front of his mind he eloquently asked Lucy if she was heading in the general direction of the parlour and if she would mind to share his company on the journey there. She enthusiastically accepted of course; who would reject such an offer?
They shared a gentle stroll as Lucy handed him, one by one, the drafts of tomorrow morning headlines. All bright colours and bold fonts.
Maxon had been wanting to ask Lucy about her husband and their plans once Aspen finished serving and if they would like to join him for dinner sometime. It had been a while since they had shared a casual conversation.
That was until Lucy handed him a copy of the Illean Insider. America of course would reject such an offer.
She stood in a stiff pose, in a mirrored cage surrounded by reflections of herself and her fellow bandmates. The headline read: Exclusive interview with DYSANIA on their upcoming new album.
America wasn't officially a part of the boyband but rather heavily featured as a producer, songwriter and artist on the vast majority of the band's past albums.
Maxon would know of course because hidden in his bedside table was a CD player with copies of all of the band's recent music. Well all of their music since America started to associate herself with the band. That collection was not including the hidden compartment in his closet; a stash of every single, EP and album of America’s including every other CD she had produced or written for.
It was far from ideal. She may not have been married to him nor did she wake up in their bed each morning.
Yet nevertheless he was proud of her. Or how far she has come, how she has grown and found herself amongst immense grief and everything she has achieved; even if it has been without him.
The reflections of an emerald cut, blue sapphire stone cruelly reminded him. He was happy for her, even if she was happy with somebody else.
Well that was what he persuaded himself as he stared for a growing moment out of the glass domed skylight. Maxon had to crane his neck backwards to properly gaze longingly at the framed moon and wondered if she as often as he did too.
If she related to the isolated pearl amongst an oily sea, (this was not to say that either of the two were perfect) if she noticed the two toned imperfections on its landscape. Or if she too felt, admittedly quite pathetically, a little less lonely and a little more grounded knowing that this floating spectator overwatched their insignificant lives.
"I'll um…" Lucy interrupted, "I'll pass these onto Stracos then."
"Yes definitely. I wouldn't like to let work distract me from dinner." Yes it would be a shame but nowadays it is getting increasingly difficult to distinguish his professional position from his personal one. "Well I must leave to join my parents then."
Maxon was almost tempted to ask about America; it was common knowledge that she frequently went out of her way to catch up with her three maids. But he knew that it would be pushing it if he did; Lucy had already kindly offered to misplace the magazine's in the hands of his butler. It would be far from wise to fuel the quiet and outlandish rumours that floated through the palace's halls.
"Oh yes, dinner, of course." Lucy blushed, obviously embarrassed to be the causation behind his tardiness.
“On the topic of dinner, your highness, Aspen and I were wondering if you would like to join us for dinner on Saturday evening. It’ll be just a small gathering between friends.” Lucy mumbled nervously. “We were thinking of hosting it at our new home. It really isn’t much. Just a little saltbox house a quarter of an hour from here.” She rambled, twisting her fingers together in a rather peculiar manner.
He did not mind.
Instead he found himself silently envying the way in which Lucy’s whole face lit up (and it wasn’t just the moonlight) when she talked about her humble domestic dreams. The crowned prince could never admit to yearning for such a simplistic existence. Maxon desired very little as well. Just the girl.
Moments later Maxon assured Lucy that he did not in fact mind but would rather be delighted to join in their celebrations. (Even if the gathering would be nowhere near as grand as similar events hosted at the Palace.)
Still he didn't mind. Over the past cold and isolating year he had learnt to treasure domesticity - friendships more than anything.
He lowered his hand reluctantly so that it rested on the silver handle to the parlour and bidded Lucy farewell.
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The parlour itself was on the smaller side. A place to share quieter, more intimate moments and notably more of a sort of conservatory.
Nestled within the folds of the Palaces' many roofs, this particular room had been one of Clarkson’s lavish gifts to his mother.
Although it was quite a way away from the palace's boastful manicured gardens the room - its walls and roof composing mostly of fragments of glass woven with intricate iron vines- felt as if it too was situated right in the heart of the gardens. Rammed full of various rare and exotic plants (many of which were gifts from Clarkson as well as foreign ambassadors) and lit by the joint effort by candle and the night sky. But the room's most alluring quality was its offer towards its occupants; the chance to momentarily escape to a fantasy far away from the world of politics.
Seated each on a cushioned wortiron chair at the centre of the room - where the roof ballooned to its maximum height - sat Maxon’s parents. A half empty plate in front of them each.
The crisp sound of the door closing chilled the conversation shared between the two. Almost immediately - and certainly against royal protocol (there were no guards in this parlour to watch) - Amberly rose from her chair to meet her son halfway across the floor in a warm embrace. If their societal position did not dictate their personal relationships so much, one might have called it a hug. Nevertheless it thawed and evaporated whatever imposing accusations laid on the front of Maxons mind and threatened to escape from the cusp of his lips.
“Maxon dear,” Amnberly cooed, her hands cupping his face, her jewelled fingers skimming up and down his stubbled cheeks as he stared back lovingly at her. “Ever since Kriss’s departure I thought I’d see you around more.” She joked lightly. “But this hasn’t seemed to be the case now has it? I hope that a hobby of yours was the reason behind your absence.” Suddenly her expression was just that bit more serious. Maxon chuckled nervously, his eyes slipping from his mothers guiltily and fell onto his father who took one last gulp of his drink, placing the glass down next to a barely empty canteen.
So that's where he inherited his drinking habit from, he thought. And suddenly Maxon despised himself for it.
The whole of Clarkson’s manor was authoritative. The stiff brow warmed menacingly, challenging Maxon not to give an incorrect response. Although Maxon had to admit, he wasn't entirely sure what the singular correct response that his father was looking for was.
“Sadly not Mother. I was simply reviewing tomorrow's tasks.” Maxon glanced quickly at Clarkson’s seemingly unbothered expression. Good. Anything else could have led to severe consequences. However Amberly was left forlorn, her faint smile desperately trying to lift up the corners of her eyes.
“Really Mom, it's fine. It's better now. Since she left I've had the chance to focus solely on my work. It was virtually impossible to improve and perfect both of those aspects of my life at once. Maxon chuckled to himself, playing off the severity of the turn of events in his life and muffling the scraping sound of the iron chair scraping against the floor as he seated himself. Napkin laid neatly across his lap.
“Are you sure, Dear? It’s been five winters.” Amberly looks away, hastily shoving a spoonful of her desert in her mouth; astounded by her own tongue.
Even his stoic father choked and spluttered on his new drink.
They all knew well that Amberly wasn’t talking about Maxon’s ex wife. The divorce had only been finalised that winter gone (the media hadn’t wanted to let anybody forget about the tragic story that soon) yet compared to that infamous winter half a decade ago Kriss’s departure felt like a lifetime ago.
It was incredible how she had managed to maintain (consciously or not) such a prominent presence in the Palace since then. Although her visits were few and far between it seemed that no one could forget her. Her name echoed between gossiping maids and her aura reflected off of the very walls of the institution itself.
Every insinuation of her, ripped open his gaping wound. He had once convinced himself that it would heal with its signature indented shape. Ravine deep. But now he voluntarily poured salt into it.
The agonising torment became some twisted coping mechanism; with a faint aftertaste of everything he let go.
Maxon bathed in the awkwardness for as long as his mother let him.
“Natalie is getting married in a fortnight,” Amberly tries to bury the tension.
“I’ve heard.” Gosh, that liquor was getting to his tongue.
“We were invited, Calix.” Amberly sighs. “We need to make an executive decision whether or not we are going or not, or who is.”
Maxon almost looks at Clarkson for permission before he reminds himself of everything his father hasn’t let him do. Choose a wife, rise to his duty, save his marriage. Elsie and now Natalie. It was all just a reminder of how much further ahead everybody else was, how far he should have been, all of the sense and clarity he should have found by now.
“America is engaged now.”
“I have heard my dear.” Amberly rests her hand over Maxons. She had actually been called personally by said fiancee, Amberly was almost completely sure that she had been the first person America had told. Clarkson still didn't show any kind of engagement in the conversation, but Maxon knew that he wasn't not listening. Perhaps he was allocating the budget for that highway elsewhere in his head. “But you really do need to make a decision. I am going, your Father unfortunately cannot.”
Maxon nearly rolled his eyes, his Father probably thought that the wedding was beneath him. Still… she might be there. That alcohol must have really gotten to his head. So he confirms with his mother that he will join her and hastily eats his meal whilst she discusses cohesive outfits.
A fortnight.