“…Dare I even ask where you have been since the morning?”
Griffin stared back at his Royal Highness, gaze flicking to the drumming fingers that thudded against the hilt of the throne. The repetitive taps of his father’s fingers grated on Griff like nails down a chalkboard and his eyes narrowed critically. Persistent, repetitive noises like that did something inexplicable to Griff’s nervous system. It set him on edge, made him unable to focus on anything else. But at the King’s line of questioning, the image of the beggar boy flashed into his mind; Those dampened, heavy eyes laden with pain and suffering, cattle-branded on his psyche. And here was the culprit, draped so ignorantly over his Royal Chaise on the raised platform. This here was the man responsible for such divide amongst his beloved subjects. The person responsible for children, like the one Griffin had met today, living in such squalor. It should be him, rubbing shoulders with the people of Alaria, offering a hand and resorting faith to those living in darkness. Instead, it was Griffin who went out amongst the people. Listening to their sad stories, buying them loaves of bread, offering them coin… Anything to counteract the neglect of his father.
“Gone are the days where I must report my every breath to you, Father-” Griffin replied coolly, his gaze shifting up to hold his Father’s steely stare. The King rose a hand, silencing any further retorts that may be coming his way.
Words devoid of any true remorse for his disappearance, the Prince’s tone was bored and tired. He’d grown weary of his Father’s inability to relinquish control. With anything, really, but in this case his son’s freedom. This father/son relationship was far less paternal and far more about exerting control over yet another person the King viewed as beneath him. There was no concern for Griffin’s well-being, no genuine desire to ensure his son’s safety. No, the King’s questioning came about purely to answer an unanswered question.
“I am still making reparations from your last outburst at council, so do not push your luck today and listen to what I say. You may throw a fit on your own time.”
A stifled smile threatened to break free on Griffin’s face. The meeting his father referred to had taken place a few days prior. As the Prince and heir to the throne, Giffin’s presence was mandatory at all Council meetings, much to everyone’s dismay. Council members nor Griffin himself were pleased for his inclusion but God forbid they challenge tradition. So week by week, Prince Griffin would begrudgingly attend Council, mostly appearing fairly bored and irritated. But when topics that directly involved the Alaria people were raised, his ears pricked up and he would offer his mostly unwanted opinion. Subjects such as bartering for land, building applications and royal gossip earned exaggerated yawns from the Prince at best. Occasionally, he’d even roll his eyes. Such behaviour would never be tolerated from anyone else. But Griffin was Prince. He was a force unto his own, his spirit only bridled by his father’s reprimands. On this specific occasion, King Thorne had resorted to using his more explosive scolding for his son. The topic of unsanitary drinking water in Alaria was being discussed and, perhaps more importantly, dismissed by the Royal Council. Griffin had boldly expressed that Alarian people had the right to drinking water, that this would only worsen the diseases that already spread below the castle. But, as always, his concerns were left hanging in the air, cold and abandoned. Though this was not unusual by any stretch, it was a day where Griffin struggled to swallow the rejection. Why did his Father’s gravitas and self-importance not apply to him? Why did the Prince of Alaria’s words fall on such deaf ears? The explosion that followed was fuelled by injustice and anger on behalf of Alaria. The Council meeting was derailed and Griffin had exited with a kick of his chair and a slam of the door.
“I am appointing Hywel to you, as well as a new curriculum. This time I intend that it be followed. He will be at your side going forward, not just to serve but to mentor you as well. Do not try and squander this arrangement, Griffin. He still reports to me.”
The shock and insolence that awashed Griffin’s expression was not unnoticed. He stared back at King Thorne, bubblings of protest brewing in his guts. A babysitter?! And the Head Guard, no less?! The Prince swallowed the bile that garnered in his throat, his inner adolescent roaring in his soul. A flurry of questioned flooded his consciousness, a stream of anarchic rebuttals threatening to projectile vomit from his lips. Hywel remained deathly still, his posture and expression ever-the professional. Though the Prince was an only child, Hywel was an honorary older sibling. The unofficial prodigal son. He’d served King Thorne with unwavering loyalty and blind obedience, something Griffin lacked completely. The King’s preference for Hywel was clear. In his approving nods, the swells of pride in his eyes… A seal of approval Griffin would never receive but that Hywel was granted regularly.
The Throne Room suddenly felt like a broom cupboard. The cold brick walls closing in, the tiles swirling before him. Heart thumping, pulse leaping, Griff ran a hand through his thick, blonde curls and felt his teeth grind as they gritted together. Hywel looked on, expressionless in his neutral stare. The two of them were, quite literally, one another’s counterparts. Two sides of very different coins. Strangers to one another, despite spending so many years in parallel lives. Like two cars on the same freeway, one weaving between lanes at breakneck speed and the other carefully humming along at the legal limit.
“My liege,” the Prince gritted out, his voice trembling slightly beneath the pressure of withholding the waves of emotion that ebbed beneath his surface. “To what end will Hywel be appointed to me? Surely the King’s Head Guard has other more important Royal Duties to tend to? Is he not a little overqualified to be taking position as a babysitter?”
The other guards dotted through the Throne Room shifted uncomfortably at their postings. The air became charged with the electricity of a brewing argument between Royals. Griffin’s feet felt like lead in his boots, fixing him in front of his Father like the gargoyles that sat atop the castle’s fixtures. Unmoving, yet riddled with the compulsion to scream, Griffin imagined his daily routine under the watchful gaze of Hywel. No more solo escapades into Alaria, no more frolicking through the Castle grounds, no more hour hacks in the saddle of his favourite steed… Hywel’s infuriatingly unflappable demeanour would be his new shadow. The idea felt like shackles on his wrists. Was this his punishment for the outburst in Council? A message that he’d finally stepped too far out of line?
The King didn’t rise from his seat. For a moment, Griffin’s protests hung in the air like unanswered prayers. The heavy silence rung out in the Throne Room and a stalemate formed; Griffin in the trenches, his father and Hywel atop the hills, peering down on him knowing his demise was inevitable.
Member
Stryder BC,
TokyoPewPew,
Krasnaya,
Bork,
vue2026,
Lunamaria Hawke,
ShankySpice,
RPM,
FourtyTwo,
Nallore
⊰