Work Text:
Each time he put it on, the smile grew easier and easier to wear.
It worked best with minor officials or other heads of state. Those who were too low on the ladder to have any ambitions for the throne, and so had little stake in the prince’s moods. They put on their own smiles happily enough, and continued to titter away, eager to move on to the next feature of the court.
It worked well with the servants, those who had no choice but to heed it. They could hardly ask after his satisfaction, to even do so would signify a lack in their service. Smiling at the servants gave them an excuse to turn to other duties, and him the freedom from their endless ingratiation.
It was easier, with other children. Once, a girl had tugged him outside to play in the fresh snow. She didn’t know about his condition, and he didn’t think to refuse. A steward caught them, brought them to the emperor. He didn’t know a girl could wail like that. Ever since, he’s had little opportunity to speak with other children his age.
His father, when he deigned to look at him, paid it little mind. He knew it discomfited him, but so did everything else about Sophus. The papery skin, the bulbous eyes, the spindly bones. He only put the smile on for public appearances, or portraits. As tedious as it was for everyone involved, Sophus thought of it as good practice.
His great-grandfather hated it.
The first time Sophus put the smile on for him, he was little more than six years old. Sophus held out a snowpetal for him, the first to bloom. It was a custom he’d heard of from somewhere, perhaps a loose-lipped servant or an oblivious child. The young give the first winter blooms to the old, to honor familial ties and the long path to the next warm season. The flower’s petals were so fine, he had to pinch the stem gently between his fingers not to crush it. Sophus was still getting used to the feeling of smiling, then.
When he saw it, Emperor Solus’s face changed. His skin paled into the white stone of the mausoleum. There was something like recognition there. Then his brows furrowed, lips twisting into a snarl of disgust. His eyes burned with a fire Sophus had never seen before.
Hatred.
The Emperor Solus is lauded as the figurehead of Garlemald, the very model of Her dignity and honor. He is known to be implacable in the face of overwhelming odds or glorious victory. To Sophus, this was the first emotion he had ever seen animating his great-grandfather’s face.
Emperor Solus raised his hand, as if to strike the smile off of Sophus. Foolishly, he had held it, a rictus grin. He stifled the flinch, but his fingers had already twitched. The flower’s stem was crushed, bent in two places. The petals fell slowly to the carpet, snow on velvet.
His great-grandfather’s hand hovered in the air, a blade above Sophus’s head. Sophus counted the seconds as he unstuck the muscles in his face, putting the smile away. He couldn’t look away from the fire in his eyes. Sophus’s body chose flight too late.
Emperor Solus’s hand came down, a thunderclap on Sophus’s wrists. Sophus hadn’t moved away in time. Solus had simply changed his target. His hands were flung to the ground, the flower reduced to pieces. The parts Sophus had been taught. Stem, pistil, petals.
Sophus had gone cold, save for the burning in his wrists and the tears in his eyes. He did not wail. Emperor Solus had already turned his back to him.
“Never do that again, boy. Not in my presence.”