For all he has experienced in the twenty years since his birth, he must admit that waking to a pounding headache and a sensation like cotton in his mouth... is something of a first. Was it a sickness of some kind? He’d thought his health in fairly good condition, but illness has a habit of often catching victims by surprise. Glazed over with the lingering dregs of sleep, blue gaze stares listlessly into the wooden rafters supporting the ceiling for a time until it occurs to him—he doesn’t remember coming back to the watch station at all. In fact, his recollection of the previous evening’s events is considerably blurry in a number of places, which strikes him as very troubling.
The effort it takes to sit upright in his bedroll is substantially more than it would ordinarily be, gingerly pressing fingertips to his temple to soothe the throb of pain intent on reminding him of its presence as he peers into the semi-darkness to find his classmates and one professor still largely asleep. Best to not disturb them, Alfonse thinks, fishing inside his travel pack for a water canteen to relieve his throat before clumsily pushing himself to his feet. A moment’s pause sees him bend down to retrieve Fólkvangr, carefully stepping past slumbering companions to reach the station’s entrance and let himself out.
While not especially bright due to the trees forming a dense canopy that is effective in blocking most sunlight, it is still brighter compared to the watch station’s interior. Squinting against the change occurs on reflex, a hand raised to shade his eyes for what little good it does after closing the door behind him, and Alfonse notes that Milo is thankfully nowhere to be seen—most likely off patrolling elsewhere or something similar. He isn’t feeling much capacity for stilted, polite conversation anyway, least of all with the knight serving as an obstacle to their assignment.
Unconsciously or perhaps consciously, the prince finds his way to a certain gathering spot—though now morning, the blackened remains of a once-crackling fire and at least one empty bottle of liquor suffice to jog his memory, and—
“Never have I ever... been called Prince Alfonse.”
The slab of rock he takes a seat on is cold, but Alfonse pays it little mind as he buries his face in his hands and sighs. “Gods grant me strength...” So they aren’t enemies for the time being, but Veronica had to go and throw that particular knife where their peers could hear. He’d managed a flimsy excuse despite his state of inebriation—playing along and drinking as much as he did in the first place was a spectacular mistake of its own—and rather bluntly hopes they'll remember little of the moment, but the fates are seldom so kind in that regard.
Did you know, Sharena, that your brother is a fool and absolutely not the capable role model you look up to?
Head lifts at the sound of approaching footsteps, cautious so as to avoid further aggravating the dull hammering against his skull. “Good morning,” the prince greets mildly, polite smile summoned on command to mask the mounting sense of dread he feels. “Did you sleep well?”
@perfectionist-prince | @argentbowman | @asphuxia
