Fox
FOX
AGE 8
As the prince finally came to sit next to the village girl, she passed him the bread she had brought. He ate until he was full and when he saw the blood on the girl’s hands, he realized what he had done and he wept. He cried for the pain he had caused and as the tears fell, the girl’s eyes widened and the prince glanced down at his own hands—human once more. He looked back at the village girl with the mud across her nose, and in her face he saw the beauty he’d been blind to before.
-The Raven Prince by Emilio Laurn
F ox sat with his back to the window, the thin glass warm through his tunic. It was the rainy season, but the sky had been cloudless the last few days and the sun had dried out the earth. He preferred it when it wasn’t raining. The air was drier and it usually meant his father was outside of the house all day. He’d been promoted to general this past cycle and it seemed more days than not now, he was gone either at the chief commander’s house, at the barracks, or with the king.
They’d even been invited to dinner at the castle a few nights already, his family dining alongside the king and his son, as well as a few other favorite military leaders. Leon loved listening to their conversations over the extravagant courses, going on about the Dragonborn, farmlands, gold mines, and strategic trades with other kingdoms across the sea. hated the list of places and names he’d never heard of and preferred to try and get the prince’s attention. He appeared to be about his age, though wasn’t sure. The boy didn’t talk at meals and rarely even glanced up to look at anyone. This left staring at his plate and wishing dinner was over so he could retreat back into his room.
It’s where he was now, tucked against the large window that overlooked the courtyard below. If he squinted, on a clear day, he could just make out the thin line of azure on the horizon that marked the sea. Right now, his eyes were facing inward, looking at the book splayed across his lap. He’d snuck it out of the library last week and it had been hiding under his pillow ever since. He knew his father wouldn’t approve. It had been cycles since he’d let him or his brother indulge in reading faerytales, but it hadn’t stopped ’s love for the stories.
This one was illustrated with colorful paintings of dragons and rolling hills of gold and silver where the land was ruled by a cruel and cold prince who didn’t care for his people.
was at the part where the young peasant girl had stumbled upon the raven once more and was trying to convince him she wasn’t an enemy. already knew what happened. He’d read the story three times since he’d found it, but he felt his heart pounding, nonetheless, anxious to see when the prince finally relented and learned to trust her.
He was so focused on the words on the page and the small picture of the raven, swooping down from the corner of the page, that he didn’t hear the door of his bedroom open or the heavy footsteps that must have followed. His father had never been a silent man and wasn’t one to tiptoe around in his own home.
Yet didn’t notice him until the book was being ripped from his hand. His father’s face was a mask of disinterest as his eyes flickered across the page. He turned a few more before looking up at with an icy expression.
Before he could understand what that meant, his father was walking away, silent as he crossed the room, book still clutched in his hands. jumped up to follow, as if he might save the precious book from whatever his father had planned.
He couldn’t, of course. He barely managed to keep up with his father as he swept down the main staircase and circled back to the servants’ quarters. The back staircase would have been a more direct route, but his father never deigned to use it. It gave plenty of time for to realize what his father’s plan was, though not enough to do anything but watch.
His father didn’t acknowledge the staff as he burst into the kitchens and flung the book into the giant hearth that sat at the center of the room, dinner already stewing away over the fire. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, couldn’t stop the small squeak that burst from him and he didn’t stop his body from lurching forward, hand reaching out as if he might snatch the engulfed book from the flames.
But it was too late. It was too late from the moment he hadn’t noticed his father walking into his room. It was too late from the moment his father had opened his door.
He hated himself when he felt the hot sting of tears along his eyelids, pressing out of him against his will. And he wasn’t surprised when his father turned, noticing the tears, even unshed, and slapped him hard across the face. He fell, knees hitting the ground as he attempted to catch himself. A few tears leaked out then, impossible to hold back and clenched his fists in anger. At his father. At himself.
His father strode from the room, calm and quiet, as if he hadn’t just slapped his youngest son or burned his book. He seemed at peace once more. stood, shaking, trying to pull himself back together.
When the older cook, with her soft eyes and creased face, came over to him and set a gentle hand on his shoulder, he turned on her, snarling and wild.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Young Master Ocon?—”
“I don’t need your pity.”
And then he left, eyes dry and face blank.