Work Text:
A platter of fruit sits on the table in front of him.
He woke up that morning to his 9th birthday - the maids all asked him how he felt. At the time he had no answer, now, however, he did. Sitting at the table under his father’s gaze he felt ill, a sense of foreboding settling at the bottom of his stomach like a rock in a riverbank. Sitting in the royal hall, at the long table that never used to feel so lonely, he felt cold, a coldness that enters your bones and makes your blood turn to ice; although only being clothed in his long night shirt was probably also partly to blame for this. Sitting without his mother he felt nervous, the king had never loved him like a father, he never loved him.
Despite his feelings of unease, he ate the fruit piece by piece. Even royalty did not have the privilege of fresh fruits such as these so frequently - the soil in the lands of sinners and heretics was barren, likely a divine punishment from divine beings who had no right to cast their judgements in a land not belonging to them. He was unused to the sweetness of fruit, the sugar tasting unpleasant in his mouth. Still, hand to mouth, hand to mouth, hand to mouth, he ate.
“Please may I be excused, Your Highness?”
The king’s eyes slowly rose to meet his son’s. Displeasure was plain across his features in an expression the young boy was familiar with. Knitted eyebrows, scrunched up nose, lips pursed, and chin raised. Disgust.
“Eat the apple.”
The king uttered nothing else, but the boy felt he had said so much more than three measly words.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness…I don’t like apples.”
Rising from his seat, he stalked towards the boy, who began to cower. He felt small and insignificant and worthless. The king towered over him as he finally came to a stop in front of the shivering boy.
“You will not leave this table until I see you eat it. That is final.”
Staring at the apple the boy contemplated his decisions. The king was scary; terrifying even However, for a reason he couldn’t explain, eating the apple scared him more, it felt like torture. His mind began to conjure all sorts of conspiracies. The apple was poisoned. The apple was poisoned and he was going to die. It would be just like that story his mother read to him when he was younger, except nobody would wake him up because he would be dead, and a dead boy is no use to a nation searching for salvation.
Eyes drifting towards the king he saw him standing atop his throne. Cruelty was in his stance as he seemed almost…amused, at the dilemma of the boy. A king who’s jesters have all been turned to ash and nightmare must find his entertainment somewhere.
“I wish they could see you now. Khaenriah’s last hope has met his match in a measly apple. They surely would not be whispering your praises in the rubble then, boy.”
He wants to cry. But crying is unsightly and unforgivable in the presence of the king, who takes comfort in others suffering especially when you are his son who he does not love. So he does not cry. He sits and he waits. For what? He does not know. Maybe for the king to grow tired of this and allow him to leave, or maybe for when he can muster the courage to eat the apple and come out the victor of this game. He is uncertain - so he sits shivering and wishing he was not at the table with the king looking down on him.
An apple sits in front of him.