Mist swathed the city of Corona, tucking it in as a mother does her child. It had been a night like this one. Little fireflies darted in and out of the fog banks, sparkling exuberantly as they danced through the sky. They called out to each other in that muted night, blinking out their little messages. They were living gems and his own lanterns were but pale imitations. His wife watched from the balcony, her husband silhouetted against the moon, and drank from her cup of wine.
It indeed had been a night like this one. The parchment had been so light and yet so heavy in his hands. And he had sat by the fire for many hours before deeming his reply suitable. He had known the answer, indeed, he had learned the answer long ago. But it was ever so difficult to put the things one knows into words one can can write. Many inkwells were drained and papers wasted before his letter was ready.
And the King drank deeply of the honeydew of memory. As he gazed out into the fog, his vision blurred, and the distant draughts of the past came flooding in. He let himself slip away into nostalgic indulgence.
"You are there to learn lessons."
Those were the words of his father, spoken calmly and without fanfare. There was no point in objecting-his father was gone before he could even compose himself. Only
The next days slipped by in a haze. He was measured. He was studied. He scurried about like a headless chicken. Muddled days turned into muddled weeks. His life was regimented. He was part of a regiment. He got up. He trained. He ate. He slept. So it went.
All the while, he learned nothing. Nothing of worth, anyways. Oh, he learned the proper care of his uniform, the proper way to walk, the proper way to talk, how to swing a blade, how to slay a knave, how to ride a horse, how to shout 'til hoarse, and other petty amusements, but truly nothing of worth.
Until he met him, the brash scoundrel.
Author Notes: Hello m8s. I am going to write a serious story about serious things and not silly things.
This time, no skull thrones or absurd tangents. Or juggling heads. Or other crazy things. A serious story about serious things.
LIKE BROMANCE. AND BROJOBS.
okay no brojobs
I will attempt to characterize any historical figures as best as I can using the book learnings learned from all my fancy shmancy books and what-not. Here goes. Historical and artistic liberties, as always, may be taken, and I will not comment on them.
Also, still pickelhaubes, somewhere. Not a plot point this time. Probably. I don't care if it's ahistorical, I fucking love that hat.