-I-

[Trigger Warning]: Eating disorders, emotional and physical abuse

Four years later, as the sun rose over Monarch’s Hold, Bradshaw Webber lumbered out of his bed and stumbled down to the kitchens to break his fast. The atmosphere in the Webber residence was dour, the servants trading whispers as he passed by. Everyone was wondering what would happen if the time came, when the time came.

Bradshaw felt his spirits lift at the sight of Arienne. Three years his elder at one-and-six, she was grinding herbs into a poultice, but stopped to greet Bradshaw’s arrival.

“Shaw! Let me cut your hair!”

“No! Stop asking me!”

“It has grown too long. You look like a girl!”

“Do not!”

“What a shame. You would fare much better with the ladies, if you let me style that mess.”

Bradshaw took in enough breath to continue his side of the debate but found himself letting it out wordlessly. 

“You are up early!” Arienne continued. “What brings thee into the kitchens during these dusky hours? Care for another lesson in the mending arts?”

Bradshaw puffed, mocking the attitude of a strapping young man-at-arms. “No, thank you, sweet sister, I am afraid Uncle Godwin is expecting me in the royal sparring grounds this morning to practice my swordplay!”

Arienne giggled at Bradshaw’s display. “Well, that is a shame.” Her hands shifted about the counter in search of something.

“I appear to have misplaced the foxglove.” Arienne disappeared into an adjacent pantry to retrieve more foxglove just as Cormick Webber strode in.

Bradshaw’s morning mood soured.

Cormick sauntered over to Bradshaw, his cadence swaggering. “Hey there, little sprout, where’s your big sis?”

“Arienne is in the stables,” Bradshaw lied, feigning innocence. “I think I saw her speaking with Ser Hector Norroway. He was being quite forward with her.”

Cormick bristled. “Curses! The Maiden-whisperer. Fear thee not, wee one, I will not allow Ser Hector to besmirch your sister’s honor. Off, I am, to the stables!”

With Cormick galloping off, Bradshaw grabbed a fresh slice of bread off the counter. He snickered and enjoyed his breakfast all the way to the sparring grounds where his uncle awaited.

 ~

When he tried to open his eyes to see, the prince realized he was blind. Seated, feet submerged in hot water, a calm apathy swept over him. Even if he couldn’t see, the prince knew he was safe. Something about the space he was in, the air he was breathing, the trickling streamlets flowing around him, set him at ease.

There was the crackle of pebbles behind the prince. He tensed up, afraid that an intruder had come to interrupt this peace. When the stranger sat beside him, however, the worry subsided.

Time passed, and the prince felt as if he was alone once again. Then, the stranger touched his hand.

More than anything, the prince wanted to see who had invaded his dreams. It was a boy’s hand, that much he knew.

The stranger guided the prince’s hand. He felt his fingers come to rest against the boy’s cheek, and Ethan thought he could live for an eternity in that moment, unburdened by the past, unafraid of the future.

It was the perfect dream, for as long as it lasted.

Prince Ethan opened his eyes, still not having shaken off the dream from earlier that morning.

To break his fast, the cooks of Monarch’s Keep had prepared a decadent spread for the Prince: two poached eggs and pink salmon on top of a lightly toasted baguette, sprinkled with a pinch of pepper and a touch of green onion, steaming sausage links which had burst forth from their casings, charred and juicy bacon piled high like a monument on the plate, pancakes caked in powdered sugar, blueberries, strawberry preserves and a never-ending supply of sweet maple syrup, cinnamon-banana oatmeal, melon wedges so fresh they seemed to emit their own light, all while servants waited at the ready with flagons of ice-cold milk, apple cider, orange juice, steaming hot chocolate and coffee.

Meanwhile, as Ethan’s eyes drifted from dish to dish, he could hear the open-mouthed gorging of his older brothers, Colton and Garrett. Even his father, King Rowan, could be heard, lips smacking, teeth clacking. The sights, sounds, and smells of a royal breakfast pierced Ethan’s senses, occupying his every anxious thought.

Despite his wishes, the prince knew he was not invisible. He could feel the heat of their thoughts along the back of his neck.

Why isn’t he eating?

What if it was worse, though? What else could they know?

For the first time, Ethan dared to look up from his dishes to see that servants were now taking empty plates away from his brothers, his mother, and the king.

Like a trap slowly closing in on him, each of Ethan’s family members looked toward his untouched food while the servants stood in formation, waiting.

Ethan leaned forward with fork and knife in hand and cut out a tiny portion of toast and salmon. Once the morsel was in his mouth, Ethan masticated the food with little pleasure. Every bite made the bread and fish mix together as one, until all that remained of the two delicacies was a pink-gray paste that Ethan forced himself to swallow.

Queen Xandrea leaned forward from her seat at the opposite end of the long trestle table and Ethan realized that none of the servants nor the chefs had exhaled since he had begun the lengthy chewing process.

“It is good.”

The head chef, who stood nearest to him, let out an audible sigh of relief as the rest of the castle-staff relaxed, until…

“And what of the pancakes?” The king said, his stare arresting. “Your brothers wolfed them down in mere moments.”

Slowly, Ethan swallowed to help clear the taste of fish from his mouth. He took a sip of water and turned his attention to the lovingly assembled pancake confection.

“I feel full,” Ethan quietly told his mother.

“Nonsense,” the king replied, not breaking eye contact as Ethan avoided his gaze. “I know you have not eaten since two nights ago. Eat. Otherwise, you may soon lose more weight.”

Tension seeped back into the dining hall like rising floodwater.

“I’m not hungry,” Ethan muttered.

“Speak up! No one can hear you when you talk under your breath like that.”

“He said he was full, Rowan,” Queen Xandrea cut in. She nodded toward the servants waiting on Ethan, “Take Ethan’s food and distribute it amongst the poor.”

Nonsense!” King Rowan boomed, his voice like a rain of bricks.  “What will the lords who serve me think? That their king cannot feed his own child? You’re making us look weak, boy. Commoners shall not feed on our royal cuisine. Eat your damn pancakes.”

Ethan picked up his utensils again to cut out a tiny triangle of the fluffy buttermilk pancakes. His fork was heavy with the syrup-soaked bite and the sticky strawberry preserve.

There was a hush in the air as Ethan took the sickly-sweet bite off the end of his fork and into his mouth. For a while he chewed in total silence, eyes cast down in front of him. The king fumed as he watched Ethan struggle more than once to swallow.

After a time, Ethan’s jaw and throat finished working, and the dining hall resembled a collection of sculptures.

Turning his head to the side, Ethan buckled over somewhat in his chair and softly regurgitated the pasty white clump of undigested pancake onto the floor, along with a generous coating of saliva.

“Have you served my beautiful boy poison?” Queen Xandrea accused the head chef, hoping to divert the king’s attention.

“Ungrateful…” He slammed his fists against the trestle table with arms used to swinging war-hammers. Only the dishes leapt higher than Ethan and the rest of his family.

“Out!” The king commanded the servants.

Colton and Garrett tried to sneak out from under their father’s wrath but were both shot down by the king’s violent glare.

All seven feet of King Rowan rose from his high-back chair. Queen Xandrea’s hands hovered, fists clenched and shaking, as the king made his way toward Ethan, who refused to look up from his overflowing plates. 

“You crying, boy?” He asked, pressing his round, bulging stomach against Ethan’s shoulder. “Answer me.”

“Rowan…” Xandrea’s voice came out weaker than she had expected, and barely traveled the length of the table. Colton and Garrett kept their eyes fixed on spots directly ahead of them, refusing to glance down the table at their father.

“My blood takes what is given to them. A true prince takes more than he needs. You’re no son of mine.”

“Rowan, leave him be!” The queen found her voice while Ethan kept his sobs low and even.  

“You little bastard.” Rowan took a tuft of Ethan’s blonde hair and turned his head toward him. There was fear in his son’s eyes, confusion, weakness. Ethan could smell the alcohol on his father’s labored breath; he could see the bags under the king’s eyes too, the gray hair lining his beard.

Rowan let go of Ethan and turned his rage on the undisturbed spread of food. The king smashed plate after plate in front of Ethan, sending chunks of sausage and melon flying. Ethan winced as bits of bacon and cold grease splattered against his face. Rowan knocked over pitchers of milk and cider and orange juice, so they mixed into a vomit-colored concoction spilling over onto Ethan’s lap. Once there was nothing else left to toss or splatter or smash, Rowan took a sticky handful of Ethan’s unfinished pancakes and smeared them across the prince’s face. Ethan kept his mouth and eyes shut tight until it was over. He listened to his father trudge out of the great hall, his shuffled steps almost falling over themselves.

No one moved or said anything. Ethan hated the feeling of the syrup as it dried on his face and in his hair.