Winter is a slow time of the year, and as in the last. The winter was colder but never truly fun outside, the days were darker and the sky overcast, and there was little fun to be found save in searching the palace for new secrets. And with Kell off doing his training and the late hour of the evening, he doubted he could sneak into his brother's room and encourage the other boy to get up to mischief. So instead he moved to the game he had been working on since he was really small. Eight that is, which was over a year ago, so he was getting rather good at getting his game ready.
It had all started with his father's map room, hidden away behind golden doors. In the room there had been a great table covered with stone figures and buildings that mimicked the city beyond the palace. The pieces themselves were enchanted to move about the table to reflect the city itself. It had been such a glorious game, and soon he had started on his own version of his father's great game. Rhy's own was just the palace for now and the areas immediately around it, the palace of a golden three-tiered cake stand he'd begged off the cooks. His river was a stretch of crimson gossamer. His people were tiny figures from whatever he could find, life his mother being a glass tonic vial and his brother a fire-starter with a red top. Granted he'd never found something suitable to be the king, but it was still wonderful.
Tonight he crouched over the board before bed time only to have the bedroom doors open and present him a rare sight in his father, King Maxim. He was a towering man draped in red and gold, his dark beard and brows swallowing his face. No wonder Rhy had not been able to find a piece to play him. Nothing ever felt large enough.
"What's this?" asked his father, sinking to one knee beside the makeshift palace.
"It's a game," Rhy declared with pried, "just like yours."
There was no good way to describe the look of concern on his father's face, but when Maxim held out his hand, silently commanding, Rhy rushed forward to take it. Together they walk through the marble and stone of the palance, through the halls and down the stairs, Rhy's feet sinking in the plush carpets. From the path they took in silence, Rhy knew where they were going, to the parts where his father worked and Rhy did not often god. Yet as they continued and reached the golden doors, Rhy's heart leapt, half in dread, half in excitement, as his father unlocked the doors. And still his father guided him further in, closer, until he could look upon the table and its map. It was more marvelous than Rhy had remembered.
"This," Maxim said with a sternness to his voice, "is not a game. Every ship, every soldier, every bit of stone and glass---the lives of this kingdom hang in the balance of this board."
Rhy stared in wonder at the map, made all the more magical for his father's warning. Maxim stood, arms crossed, while Rhy circled the table, examining every facet before turning his attention to the palace.
This was no cake tray. This palace shone, a perfect miniature---sculpted in glass and gold---of Rhy's home.
Rhy stood on his toes, peering into the windows.
"What are you searching for?" asked his father.
Rhy looked up, eyes wide. "You."
At last a smile broke through that trimmed beard. Maxim pointed to a slight rise in the cityscape, a plaza two bridges down from the palace where a huddle of stone guards sat on horseback. And at their center, no larger than the rest, was a figure set apart only by the gold band of a crown.
"A king," said his father, "belongs with his people."
Rhy reached a hand into the pocket of his bedclothes and pulled out a small figure, a boy prince spun from pure sugar and stolen from his last birthday cake. Now, carefully, Rhy set the figure on the map beside his father.
"And the prince," he said proudly, "belongs with his king."
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timeasmymeasure
Sugar Spun Prince | CW: None | ~700 Words
Date: 2022-01-11 12:36 am (UTC)It had all started with his father's map room, hidden away behind golden doors. In the room there had been a great table covered with stone figures and buildings that mimicked the city beyond the palace. The pieces themselves were enchanted to move about the table to reflect the city itself. It had been such a glorious game, and soon he had started on his own version of his father's great game. Rhy's own was just the palace for now and the areas immediately around it, the palace of a golden three-tiered cake stand he'd begged off the cooks. His river was a stretch of crimson gossamer. His people were tiny figures from whatever he could find, life his mother being a glass tonic vial and his brother a fire-starter with a red top. Granted he'd never found something suitable to be the king, but it was still wonderful.
Tonight he crouched over the board before bed time only to have the bedroom doors open and present him a rare sight in his father, King Maxim. He was a towering man draped in red and gold, his dark beard and brows swallowing his face. No wonder Rhy had not been able to find a piece to play him. Nothing ever felt large enough.
"What's this?" asked his father, sinking to one knee beside the makeshift palace.
"It's a game," Rhy declared with pried, "just like yours."
There was no good way to describe the look of concern on his father's face, but when Maxim held out his hand, silently commanding, Rhy rushed forward to take it. Together they walk through the marble and stone of the palance, through the halls and down the stairs, Rhy's feet sinking in the plush carpets. From the path they took in silence, Rhy knew where they were going, to the parts where his father worked and Rhy did not often god. Yet as they continued and reached the golden doors, Rhy's heart leapt, half in dread, half in excitement, as his father unlocked the doors. And still his father guided him further in, closer, until he could look upon the table and its map. It was more marvelous than Rhy had remembered.
"This," Maxim said with a sternness to his voice, "is not a game. Every ship, every soldier, every bit of stone and glass---the lives of this kingdom hang in the balance of this board."
Rhy stared in wonder at the map, made all the more magical for his father's warning. Maxim stood, arms crossed, while Rhy circled the table, examining every facet before turning his attention to the palace.
This was no cake tray. This palace shone, a perfect miniature---sculpted in glass and gold---of Rhy's home.
Rhy stood on his toes, peering into the windows.
"What are you searching for?" asked his father.
Rhy looked up, eyes wide. "You."
At last a smile broke through that trimmed beard. Maxim pointed to a slight rise in the cityscape, a plaza two bridges down from the palace where a huddle of stone guards sat on horseback. And at their center, no larger than the rest, was a figure set apart only by the gold band of a crown.
"A king," said his father, "belongs with his people."
Rhy reached a hand into the pocket of his bedclothes and pulled out a small figure, a boy prince spun from pure sugar and stolen from his last birthday cake. Now, carefully, Rhy set the figure on the map beside his father.
"And the prince," he said proudly, "belongs with his king."