Scorn and Devotion

Chapter 8

Warnings - mentions of alcohol and alcoholism, mentions of abuse from an establishment, mentions of neglectful parents, mentions of depression, puking.

(Flash back)

Francis Delridge thought he'd seen it all. He'd seen men half-alive come in and order a drink instead of going to the Healers. He'd seen gorgeous women fake adoration for hideous old men, just so they could get another cup of ale. He'd seen drunken men and women dance like wild things, smash bottles, scream, cheer, strip. He had to have seen it all, right?

That dreary fall night had changed his mind. Seeing the crown prince, sobbing in his lowly pub, had actually managed to surprise him.

The young Prince was just 16, barely the legal drinking age. Francis wanted to refuse the distraught boy anything, but he was a royal. He could have him beheaded for just hesitating.

The boy looked destroyed when he pulled back his black cloak to show his face. It was normal for his face to have sharp angles, and the prince was naturally pale and thin, yet this was a new kind of pale and thin.

His hair was normally in delicate chocolate-colored curls, now it was a tangled nest. His cheeks were so hollow he looked on the brink of death. His skin looked nearly snow-white, even his lips lacked color. Despite all this, it was his eyes that were the worst. They were puffy and red, swollen from crying constantly. They looked like the eyes on the dewinged fairies that sometimes frequented the tavern. He too looked like half his soul had been taken.

After he ordered his drink, he sat at a table far in the back. Two undercover guards sat at a table near him. He pulled out a stack of paper and a quill. As he drank he scribbled wildly.

He called for his drink to be refilled and Francis noticed his hands were shaking, and his body swayed from side to side slightly. He was wasted, and Francis had to wonder if any of his writing would make any sense when he reread it in the morning.

When the Prince continued to write into the wee hours of the night, curiosity got the better of Francis. He went over to offer the Prince some water and stew to help dampen the surely ragging hangover he would experience tomorrow. As he filled a glass with water, he peeked at one of the many papers scattered over the table.

They were letters, each one addressed to a y/n. Perhaps this was the Prince's lover who had left him. This would explain the emptiness in his gaze.

Francis noticed blisters on the boy's hands from writing for so long. Pity washed over him. This poor boy, Prince or no, was a normal person experiencing a wild misery.

"Sire, I mean not to overstep my bounds, but would ye like to retire to one of my rooms? The amount you have had to drink is quite worrying, and the morn comes soon."

Timothée looked up with a glazed look in his eyes. A small bit of drool was leaking from one side of his mouth. He was truly intoxicated.

"You do not overstep," he slurred, and Francis could recognize the great effort he made to put together a cohesive sentence. "You need not offer me your establishment, I have a whole castle."

"I know this, but I was worried yer father may not appreciate your um... state of mind."

"Who gives a bloody damn what my father thinks. He is a cruel, evil man, with a heart of stone and coal."

Francis could now guess what had happened. His father had been the reason for this girl's disappearance.

"Whatever ye desire your grace. However, I am skilled in the art of morning after sickness, and your case will likely be dire tomorrow."

Eventually, Timothée agreed and stumbled and swayed up the stairs to one of the Taverns' rooms.

Francis put water beside his bed and brought up the letters he'd been writing all night. The guards did not leave. One stationed himself in the Prince's room. The other sat outside his door.