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NalloreGriffin felt himself hone in on his breath, using the gentle rise and fall of his chest as an anchor. Rooting himself in his rhythmic breaths, steadied and slowed, the Prince regained control over the irritation that prickled at his skin. Hywel’s obedience threatened to reopen the wound, his graceful descent to the starting step was equally obedient and foreboding. King Thorne looked down the bridge of his nose, those steely eyes slowly flicking between his Head Guard and his son. Griffin wondered what his Father saw as he looked at the two of them, side by side. Did he wish, as Griffin suspected, that Hywel was the one who carried the burden of the bloodline? He would be the easiest choice. Brave, strong, noble, obedient, loyal… All that Griffin proudly resisted, Hywel wielded like the true soldier he was.
The air still thick with tension, the Prince eyed his father with narrowed lids, crinkling at the corners. The news that there was mutiny brewing amongst the Alarians and beyond was unsurprising. Alaria had not won favour from the neighbouring continents nor had it garnered beloved patriots. King Thorne was an infamously well-protected ruler, the easier way to erase the Thorne bloodline was by targeting his son. Foolish the Alarian enemies would be to overtly declare war on the continent. Armies thriving with plenty soldiers, Alaria was known for its strength in numbers. Overthrowing the omnipotent King was a ruse best planned insidiously.
The Prince arched a groomed brow at his Father, knowing in his gut that he was pushing his luck. King Thorne’s patience was wearing thin and Griffin could sense it. From the ticking vein at his Father’s temple, to the fist gripped atop his knee, the King was displaying all the classic signs that the restraint he was practicing would soon dissolve. Hywel remained still at Griffin’s side, his face devoid of any emotion, expression ever the professional. His large, battle-worn palm, was rested upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. The Prince pictured, albeit briefly, the Head Guard quickly slipping the blade from its scabbard with practiced efficiency. Griffin would face Hywel with the determination of a scorned child with something to prove. Yet Hywel did not draw his sword. He continued to stand obediently, watching something that resembled acceptance spreading across the Prince’s face.
Inclining his head in punctuation, Griff took a slow step backwards, retreating from the Throne. He wouldn’t leave without being excused. He’d tested his Father’s patience enough. But the young Prince jabbed a thumb in the direction of the exit.
Combat and swordplay had never been Griffin’s strong point. He hated the adrenaline that poisoned his veins when engaging in battle. Heart too vulnerable, violence was an unnatural state for him. He didn’t think tactically, no thirst for retribution, no hunger for winning. The burden of taking a life from another was a weight the young prince was unwilling to carry. Griffin preferred to weaponise the art of articulation instead of swapping his tongue for the tip of a blade. Many Alarian men spoke with clenched fists and the clang of steel whereas Griffin wielded his ability to speak. The Prince had of course been to many a training session as part of his upbringing, a Royal incapable of fighting was unacceptable. But in spite of all the hours spent mastering footwork and combination attacks, Griffin allowed his sword skills to gather dust. He preferred to negotiate, to barter his way out of a situation. Hywel would have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The potential to be artful with a weapon was within Griffin but his resistance to violence was the true hurdle to overcome.
The Throne Room witnessed Prince Griffin’s low bow, dismissing himself from the summons. Without another word, he vacated the room with a slam of the doors. Feeling the eyes of his Father boring a hole into Griffin’s back, he ignored the Guards awkwardly adverting their gaze. The sound of retreating footsteps echoed in the chamber of the Throne Room. Heart beating, Griffin pressed his back against the closed doors, the cool wood seeping through his tunic as he slumped against them. A dull thud reverberated as Griffin let his head roll back. Eyelids fluttering shut, the Prince’s lips formed a hard line across his face. He felt his freedom being pried from his clutching fingertips, those adventures through Alaria’s market square quickly torn from his grasp. King Thorne was apprehensive enough of rumoured threats to sacrifice his best soldier, placing his one and only heir under the watchful eyes of Hywel. If only Council had taken heed when Griff had warned them of their selfishness. Perhaps then these threats could’ve been avoided. Instead, they ploughed on with their elitism and mistreatment of their subjects. Now Griffin had to not only suffer the consequences but endure punishment for acts committed against his best advice. And in lieu of reflecting, contemplating that perhaps fighting violence with violence would only indite further violence, they’ve decided to strengthen the barricades with Hywel at the helm.
As Griffin traversed the castle, staff bowing and curtsying in his wake, the Prince took the time to himself to gather his thoughts. His inner voice spoke loudly, crisp and clear in his mind.
His chambers welcomed him with the scent of this mornings bathe; Mint and lavender. His bed had been made; Pillows plumped and neatly arranged, duvet folded back exactly in half, thick woollen blanket placed ever-so precisely at the foot of the four poster frame. Priceless artwork hung on the walls; Battle scenes, hunting scenes, meadows, idyllic landscapes and the obligatory royal painting of King Thorne and Prince Griffin. They hadn’t posed together for this particular artwork, instead the artist had painted them separately and simply spliced them together for the sake of tradition. As Griffin clicked his bedroom door closed, his eyes hovered over the family portrait. The artist had accurately captured his Father’s disdainful gaze, a regally raised chin frozen in time. But what Griffin’s portrait lacked was the life that danced behind his own eyes. Even the Royal portraiture rejected his free spirit. With a brief exhale, the Prince crossed his chambers to the wardrobe that housed his fighting gear. He’d head straight to the Practice Fields and begin warming up. Hywel’s training regime was bound to be regimented and exhausting… He was wise to prepare accordingly.
The air still thick with tension, the Prince eyed his father with narrowed lids, crinkling at the corners. The news that there was mutiny brewing amongst the Alarians and beyond was unsurprising. Alaria had not won favour from the neighbouring continents nor had it garnered beloved patriots. King Thorne was an infamously well-protected ruler, the easier way to erase the Thorne bloodline was by targeting his son. Foolish the Alarian enemies would be to overtly declare war on the continent. Armies thriving with plenty soldiers, Alaria was known for its strength in numbers. Overthrowing the omnipotent King was a ruse best planned insidiously.
“Surprising that the beloved Thorne Crown is under threat -“ Griffin sniped. “After all, we do so much for the people of Alaria and beyond. It seems so unjust that there are whisperings of betrayal…”
The Prince arched a groomed brow at his Father, knowing in his gut that he was pushing his luck. King Thorne’s patience was wearing thin and Griffin could sense it. From the ticking vein at his Father’s temple, to the fist gripped atop his knee, the King was displaying all the classic signs that the restraint he was practicing would soon dissolve. Hywel remained still at Griffin’s side, his face devoid of any emotion, expression ever the professional. His large, battle-worn palm, was rested upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. The Prince pictured, albeit briefly, the Head Guard quickly slipping the blade from its scabbard with practiced efficiency. Griffin would face Hywel with the determination of a scorned child with something to prove. Yet Hywel did not draw his sword. He continued to stand obediently, watching something that resembled acceptance spreading across the Prince’s face.
“I can see my opposition to this arrangement is a waste of time and energy,” Griff gritted out, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. “Though you may wish to consider that, although appointing protection to your successor is a necessary precaution, there would be less likelihood of opposition if Alaria worked to change it’s reputation amongst continents.”
Inclining his head in punctuation, Griff took a slow step backwards, retreating from the Throne. He wouldn’t leave without being excused. He’d tested his Father’s patience enough. But the young Prince jabbed a thumb in the direction of the exit.
“Unless you have anything further to add, Your Majesty, I’ll be taking my leave. Seems I need to change into my armours and fetch my blade.””
Combat and swordplay had never been Griffin’s strong point. He hated the adrenaline that poisoned his veins when engaging in battle. Heart too vulnerable, violence was an unnatural state for him. He didn’t think tactically, no thirst for retribution, no hunger for winning. The burden of taking a life from another was a weight the young prince was unwilling to carry. Griffin preferred to weaponise the art of articulation instead of swapping his tongue for the tip of a blade. Many Alarian men spoke with clenched fists and the clang of steel whereas Griffin wielded his ability to speak. The Prince had of course been to many a training session as part of his upbringing, a Royal incapable of fighting was unacceptable. But in spite of all the hours spent mastering footwork and combination attacks, Griffin allowed his sword skills to gather dust. He preferred to negotiate, to barter his way out of a situation. Hywel would have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The potential to be artful with a weapon was within Griffin but his resistance to violence was the true hurdle to overcome.
The Throne Room witnessed Prince Griffin’s low bow, dismissing himself from the summons. Without another word, he vacated the room with a slam of the doors. Feeling the eyes of his Father boring a hole into Griffin’s back, he ignored the Guards awkwardly adverting their gaze. The sound of retreating footsteps echoed in the chamber of the Throne Room. Heart beating, Griffin pressed his back against the closed doors, the cool wood seeping through his tunic as he slumped against them. A dull thud reverberated as Griffin let his head roll back. Eyelids fluttering shut, the Prince’s lips formed a hard line across his face. He felt his freedom being pried from his clutching fingertips, those adventures through Alaria’s market square quickly torn from his grasp. King Thorne was apprehensive enough of rumoured threats to sacrifice his best soldier, placing his one and only heir under the watchful eyes of Hywel. If only Council had taken heed when Griff had warned them of their selfishness. Perhaps then these threats could’ve been avoided. Instead, they ploughed on with their elitism and mistreatment of their subjects. Now Griffin had to not only suffer the consequences but endure punishment for acts committed against his best advice. And in lieu of reflecting, contemplating that perhaps fighting violence with violence would only indite further violence, they’ve decided to strengthen the barricades with Hywel at the helm.
As Griffin traversed the castle, staff bowing and curtsying in his wake, the Prince took the time to himself to gather his thoughts. His inner voice spoke loudly, crisp and clear in his mind.
“You are Prince Griffin Thorne of Alaria. You are the next in line. The rightful heir to the throne. It is your blood rite. Yours. This is merely a stepping stone. A footnote in your epic sonnet. Be gracious. Be fair.”
His chambers welcomed him with the scent of this mornings bathe; Mint and lavender. His bed had been made; Pillows plumped and neatly arranged, duvet folded back exactly in half, thick woollen blanket placed ever-so precisely at the foot of the four poster frame. Priceless artwork hung on the walls; Battle scenes, hunting scenes, meadows, idyllic landscapes and the obligatory royal painting of King Thorne and Prince Griffin. They hadn’t posed together for this particular artwork, instead the artist had painted them separately and simply spliced them together for the sake of tradition. As Griffin clicked his bedroom door closed, his eyes hovered over the family portrait. The artist had accurately captured his Father’s disdainful gaze, a regally raised chin frozen in time. But what Griffin’s portrait lacked was the life that danced behind his own eyes. Even the Royal portraiture rejected his free spirit. With a brief exhale, the Prince crossed his chambers to the wardrobe that housed his fighting gear. He’d head straight to the Practice Fields and begin warming up. Hywel’s training regime was bound to be regimented and exhausting… He was wise to prepare accordingly.
♡