CHARLES VI AETIER KNEW WHAT HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SINCE THE DAY HE WAS BORN. He is prince— not yet officially reilma-imperessor, but he might as well be—of Aetier, heir to the phoenix throne, the first vi Soresi king, his mother’s hopes and dreams. He is the apple of his parents’ eyes and the future of the court. Charismatic, well-loved, and one of the most eligible princes in the continent, he seems to coast through life as if he could do no wrong. He is the sole prince, the only heir; the child that his father gave his everything to have. His life is one of luxury; his destiny one of glory. And still, he yearns.
What Charles yearning for, he does not know. Truth, freedom, or maybe a purpose beyond what has been expected of him since he was but a twinkle in his mother’s eye.
ok hi it’s pris im on mobile right now but i demand a charles scene where he’s out an about with no supervision BYE <3
hi @serpentarii!!! [ was sorely tempted to just write the “do you know how to walk on your knees” scene from BBC Merlin 1.01 but I guess not :pensive:
“Hey, Gwyn, is 10 sovereigns enough to buy us some of those sweetmeats over there— oh fuck.” Charles vi Aetier, currently under disguise as the handsome, worldly, and definitely-a-peasant-and-not-the-royal-prince-sneaking-out , turned his head to find Gwyn—his reluctant yet very much insistent supervisor on this excursion—gone.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Gwyn? Gwyn!” He called, but in the busy streets of East Vindercrest, where the streets were infused with the sounds of merchants calling out their wares, of street musicians, of children playing, his voice was drowned out. A drop in an ocean of sound. It was fascinating.
“I might as well enjoy this.” Charles had always intended to go on this trip alone, after all, and he’s sure that this felix culpa was a sign from Vithail, the god of fates, themselves. And if Charles was anything, he was very pious.
“Well,” he grinned. “What’s the worse that can happen?”
This was not in Gwyn’s job description. At. All. Four hours after he managed to lose his highness, the heir-to-the-fucking-throne, and had to spend his well earned-day off running haggard around East Vindercrest like a headless chicken, Gwyn was sorely tempted to just give up. Unfortunately the thread of the dungeons— or gods forbid, being sacked— prevented him from doing just that.
He raked his hands through his hair and muttered a plea to the Trinity to end his suffering.
“Lose something? Gwyn looked up to see a tall, dark-haired man. A man with prince Charles’ arm slung over his shoulder. Prince Charles who looked pissed drunk— and were those bruises? Gods give him strength.
“Oh thank you, I swear I’d been looking for him everywhere.” Gwyn quickly took his highness off the stranger’s hands, assessing him for any other injuries.“What happened to him?”
“Well,” the stranger said, hands resting on his hips, “I don’t know the details but it seemed that his frivolous spending attracted a lot of unsavory attention.”
“What?”
“He probably overpaid and spent money like his purse was a never-ending fountain. But then again, he is the prince, so it’s to be expected I guess.”
Gwyn gaped. “How did you know he was—”
“You just confirmed it.” Gwyn blanched and the stranger laughed, waving away Gwyn’s paranoia. “Really, it wasn’t all that hard to put two and two together— especially with eyes like his.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Sola Eidos. I make it my business to know things.”
“Right.” Gwyn shook his hand. “Um, how did his highness get the bruises?”
“Somehow he found his way into one of the seedier taverns and kept being goaded onto buying everyone rounds—”
“I take it you were one of the ones goading him.”
“—which was fine and all, until it came time to pay. He might have gotten robbed while he was rousing everyone into a hearty shanty, I wasn’t really paying attention at the time, but long story short, it ended with him in the middle of a bar fight and I having to heroically save him and drag him out.”
Ok, so now no one can definitely know about today. Gwyn gently set the prince down to the ground and leaned him against a wall of some sort of establishment (honestly Gwyn just really didn’t want to know) and set to work healing the bruises on his face. He spared a glance at the stranger— Sola. “Thank you. You really, honestly, didn’t have to do any of this.”
“It’s no trouble.” Sola grinned.“It just means I’ll have great fun recounting to my lady how prince Charles moped challenged a chair for tripping him when he was trying to get down on his knees and propose to the first pretty girl that lent him a shoulder to cry on.”
“What.”
Sola shook his head and bid his leave. “Want my advice, kid? Your prince is an absolute lightweight and you should never let him near anything stronger than wine.”
“No— wait— what was that about a proposal?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Sola called out from over his shoulder. “The girl’s already in a happy relationship with a baker’s daughter. Just get the poor sap home.”
“Come back! Please!”
Charles suddenly doubled over and vomited on Gwyn’s lap.
