crwnprnceiridan:
Eiridan had fled from the castle so he wouldn’t have to face his father. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry Dad? You know she loved you? She’s in a better place? Eiridan could barely swallow the fact his mother was dead, how was he supposed to comfort his grieving father? “I– I…” He tried to reply, but as the realization continued to sink in that even after all his attempts at hiding so he could wallow in his own pain his father was the one to find him… Eiridan began to break down.
“You were… you were just a boy, right? When you worked in the kitchens.” Eiridan mumbled as his father moved to sit opposite him. Seeing him wasn’t easy, but he hoped if he found a way to talk about anything but his mother that he’d manage to hold himself together; at least for his father’s sake. With a soft sigh, he took an empty flagon from behind the bar and poured out a drink for his father. “There’s no one here, place was abandoned so they could– so they could head to the square with everyone else for…..”
There was a long pause as the words seemed to get trapped in Eiridan’s throat. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask about his brother’s without feeling the water begin to well up in his eyes. He wanted to just let everything fall apart right then and there, but the Crown Prince didn’t have the luxury of breaking into millions of pieces; not even in the company of his father. So he clenched his fist and held back. “Do I really look like you did, back when you were a kitchen boy I mean?”
"Aye." He spoke softly, staring down at his pint of ale that was handed to him. "I was only ten when your grandparents sold me to the castle. The kitchens were my home; where I worked and slept. The old maids were nice though; unable to see a boy as young as me work so hard." It was helpful to talk about his past, it kept him from the present. "I didn't have as much flour on my face. The maids left the baking to them. I handled the meat and vegetables..." Reaching over, he swiped some flour off his son's nose. "Wasting the flour when the crops are low?" It was almost a scold.
His hand was trembling. Staring at the flour on his thumb, he swallowed thickly. It just reminded him of the times when Yara would wander into the kitchen and bake the small cakes they loved. Simple things, commoner things but he loved it anyway. It kept him rooted; kept him to remember where they came from before they were lavished in riches. He could never get them right, they always burned yet she would make them so perfect.
