Chapter Text
The sky was a dark grey, gloomy rain falling heavily from the sky. Not a singular happy cloud could muster itself onto the afternoon sky this day. The kingdom was silent beneath him, only the church's old bells tolling once in a while in mourning call.
It was a little funny. Nim had never been a truly religious queen. She hadn't once told Shattered about any "holy" or otherwise specified deities or beings, his father and some of the teachers he'd had being the only ones to educate him on some cultures' religions, yet the church had insisted they would let the bells sound for her.
They hadn't known her like he did. At least they were trying to honour her image however they could, sponsoring some of the Mourning Fest.
Part of the mourning fest was, though, that no one would eat all day. So why they had given them so much money was unclear.
Maybe it was meant to look charitable in whatever God's eyes they followed. He didn't keep up with it anymore.
The edge of the window was partially dry and partially wet from the rain. Sitting there, feeling the breeze and rain soak his pants, seeing the curtains blow out of the corner of his eye, hearing the howling of dogs that didn't understand why their owners were all hanging their head low...
He hadn't been there when it happened. Shattered had left his mother's side once at the request of his father, speaking to Cicilla about some "important documents" or whatever his father had said, and they were ambushed. Cruelly, his mother, Nim, a beloved Queen and mother, had lost her life on the same day the peace treaty had been supposed to be signed.
Another maid had ran to Cicilla and whispered in her ear that day, and she'd grasped Shattered's hands and pulled him along forcefully. She'd insisted that he was safe when she pulled him behind a library corner and locked the doors on him.
He'd sat in the silent darkness for what felt like hours. He didn't know exactly when but eventually Cicilla had returned and locked them both in the room, holding the little prince closely and covering his head in an attempt to silence the screams from the outside. She'd hummed sweetly to him, but refused to answer his questions on what was happening.
Eventually, he had given up on trying to question her. He just held on as tight as he could, blurring out any sounds. They weren't screaming because of something bad. Mother would find him. Nim would find him and Cici and they would be fine.
... The sun had already gone down, leaving room for the stars to sparkle and moon to shine, when the screaming had stopped and murmuring conversations returned in the castle.
Cicilla had scolded Shattered, really angrily - and she'd never gotten angry with him before even when he ran off or skipped classes - when he'd tried to come up and out with her. She said it hadn't been safe yet, she can't allow the heir of the throne to get into reckless and unnecessary danger, and so she'd made him sit back down with her scarf in hand and locked the door again.
More time passed. He still couldn't tell if it had been twenty minutes or two hours. Eventually, Cicilla unlocked the doors again, with a small following of maids at her side. She'd wrapped the scarf around him tight and secure and made him walk along, without taking his hand this time.
(Part of him was unhappy that he was not allowed to be securely gripped anymore. But another, louder part in him was glad that she allowed his strong facade to stay untouched.)
Cicilla very clearly had a specific way mapped out. No traces of anything were on this path. But she wasn't as sneaky as she'd believed, because when Shattered turned his head just a little bit he could see down every other corridor.
There was so much blood everywhere.
What had happened? Why had it happened?
(Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. So idiotic of him to ask. Obviously people had been slaughtered. The why of it all hadn't caught up to him yet but obviously they were all dead. That's what happened. Stupid.)
He pulled the scarf tighter around himself still. It wasn't see-through like most and fluffy at the edges. The colour was a deep purple with light yellow stars. No one judged him. In fact, none of them even looked at him. The maids seemed to be scanning every corner they could for someone that may ambush them after all.
After a while, they'd ended on the complete opposite end of the castle. How they managed this when all they'd been doing was walk in circles - Shattered didn't know. His mind didn't comprehend it right. But he did see Cross waiting for him there, as well as some other knights.
They were all covered in blood, except for the trainees. It reeked.
He quickly walked up to Cross, past the leader of the Guards, who began chatting with Cicilla. Likely about what transpired, but he couldn't catch it right. His mind didn't understand.
"Prince Shattered." Cross smiled at him and bowed slightly. Shattered was about to reprimand him for being overly polite before recalling that they were in a somewhat public setting with multiple other people around and that they, verily, had to speak properly unless they managed to whisper in a frequency the others wouldn't hear.
"Cross. What happened-?" He interrupted himself. He could guess what happened. He didn't need to ask this. "... Actually, I believe... I can make up what may have transpired. Do you know anything on why?" His voice was unbearably croaky from not using it for hours, despite his best attempts to stay proper. How strange. He didn't like it, yet forced it not to show.
"I... Am unsure. It seems we were ambushed. I was pulled into the opposite direction you were, although I also only caught a glimpse." Cross paused uncomfortably. He was debating on if he should say something or drop it. Shattered could read his face well. "Your... Your mother, she- she may have..."
"She may have what?" he spoke, a bit too loud and a bit too rough. He gripped the scarf so hard his knuckles may have been turning white. Everyone seemed to flinch at the mention of his mother.
"My prince, she..." The lead guard started,-
His room was high up. Very, very high up.
A fall from here would be damaging, to say the least...
His hands held onto the metal beneath him. His mother wasn't here anymore, and his father barely cared enough to check.
He looked back up at the dark clouds in the sky. Stray raindrops landed on his cheeks, the wind blowing harder. It was..
"Princeling. Would you mind sharing tea with an old lady like myself?"
Cicilla's voice called out from behind him. He somehow hadn't heard her entering his room with an entire plate of porcelain dishes and tea. The maid's middle-aged smile was audible in her voice.
(She was ignoring what was happening. She was playing pretend so that he...
He...)
Shattered bit and chewed on his fingers. Behind him, the sound of Cicilla pouring hot water into two cups was oddly familiar. She moved a chair and sat down on it, beginning to drink.
... Perhaps some tea wouldn't hurt him.
He slipped off of the edge of the window and back into the room with as little sound as possible and sat opposite of Cici. The peppermint flavour was soothing on his tongue.
He was thankful that she didn't feel the need to talk.
A pinch in his side startled him back into reality.
The maid currently dressing him apologised quietly before getting back to work.
She was pinning some kind of veil-cape mixture into the lower back of his shirt. He hadn't attended any Mourning Fests himself, having no older siblings that may have died in war or younger siblings that could have died from diseases - or any relatives he'd knew about, really, that his family kept in touch with regularly, but Cicilla talked a lot about them. 'She was old enough to have attended quite a number already,' she'd said.
The cape-veil for his butt, Cross would've giggled, was a glittering, see-through black colour. Apparently, other potentially bright colours should not be worn as they were visible to the dead and could potentially make them follow one home. Wearing something glittery was also a gamble, but most of the times, the Preacher had said, spirits think it's the stars and feel more at peace, leaving one alone. So, really, it was all about the kind of glitter.
He didn't understand why they took it back off of him, then put something else on, then forced him back into his underwear, then re-dressed him, then naked again...
Their hands were all over him. He didn't have a say in what to wear and what not to wear. It was maddening. They kept running about and touching his arms and clothes and face.
And, worst of all, he wasn't allowed a singular break. Nim hadn't been allowed to be dead for a mere three days before his father had invited the other kingdoms for the Fest.
Nim, his mother, was... Gone.
Forever.
(Their hands kept pulling him in so many directions. They kept measuring his size. They kept forcing him in front of the mirror.)
(He. Hated. It.)
One moment, the maids around him were still quietly working around him. The next, his throat was hoarse and sore and he was alone in his room.
... He was alone in his room.
The clothes he had to wear were stacked neatly on a chair next to the closet and mirror. On the floor beside them were other pieces he could wear alternatively. His kingdom's emblem was lying on the nightstand.
He sat down on the floor, the world around him breathing in, releasing its suffocating grip on his throat for another moment.
He sat there for a few minutes. The church bells rang again. Only after they stopped did he get back up and review any options for his clothing.
He wanted his mother's spirit to be calm if she could see him. The veil-cape shirt would be fine.
He put on a pair of black gloves and wide pants. His crown looked too bare for his mother of all people, so he decorated it with a few green pieces himself, as well as choosing the green emblem his mother used to wear.
Maybe it wasn't what she would have wanted. She would have probably enjoyed it more if everyone had to dress in black when the sun was shining outside. He knows she'd done that before, but sadly the weather wasn't playing along with her preferred methods.
He leaned his head against the mirror and closed his eyes. The bells started up again outside in their neverending melody.
Facing his father again, who had so eagerly and happily greeted all of the neighbor kingdoms' kings and queens despite the tragic occasion, would be a difficult task. He had invited anyone he deemed 'worthy', which apparently meant making sure all kingdoms around theirs would make an entry.
... He'd manage. He'd have Cross at his side.
To say that the chairs were uncomfortable was an understatement.
Hard and unforgiving, the cold wood and metal combination was both ugly in feeling and design. From what backroom they had been fished out of, Shattered wasn't sure.
His father kept going through pages with his signature messy handwriting. Shattered guessed he'd prepared some kind of speech for the occasion. It would be quite difficult to slip away unnoticed from it, since he was sitting in the very front, but he would manage somehow.
The place was slowly getting filled with people. Much to his chagrin, Cross did not get seated beside him. Instead, it was some other royal family, with their weird kid right beside him. The thing was dressed in an obnoxious mix of black and purple and clearly didn't want to be here.
Maybe it was scared of sitting directly next to him. Could he play a prank on it right here and now? Nim would have laughed.
...
Perhaps he shouldn't do anything at all.
It took another good while before the chairs were filled with people. Some decided to stand at the sides of the room or just next to their families in case they hadn't found any chairs.
The purple kid next to him had settled into its seat after being allowed to hold its mother's hand. It was now quietly staring directly at him.
Shattered genuinely considered being a nuisance to his father and swapping seats. At the same time, though, they were likely the only ones with some colour in their palette, which automatically put them into one team. Even if Shattered didn't really want to be associated with Mr. McSnot Nose.
Could he even talk? He was so short. Shattered would be very surprised if the guy had a singular thought up there.
His father stood up and rearranged his cards a final time before stepping towards the front of the room. He mentally mapped out his escape plan already.
"Thank you to everyone who managed to arrive, even during this time full of grief...," the king started, smiling. It was unbearable. How could he read through those cards so cheerfully in the face of what happened?
He didn't care for what he had to say. How he slandered Nim's name was disgraceful enough. Once his father was distracted enough with answering questions of the depressed people about his opening, he slipped away.