Heavy is the Head that Wears the Solemn Crown

Twenty-Seven - The Lie of Innocence

Wilbur

Wilbur stands at his wardrobe in the corner of his personal tent. It has been quite some time since he's been in it. He normally finds himself sleeping in the tent where he plans the next steps for the war and meets with important people like his generals. It's convenient, if a bit depressing to wake up in the midst of reports of who was dying and where his enemy was moving. It allowed him to maximize every minute spent, and it saved his guards from having to constantly travel between both of the tents in the middle of the night when Wilbur would wake up from a nightmare.

The only reason he was in his own tent was because his mother insisted that he start cleaning up his appearance. He did his best to maintain hygienic habits, but it seemed that his simple outfits were a disgrace to his title. Wilbur didn't agree. In times of peace, he would have done better to wear more elaborate outfits that would show off his family's honor and how bountiful his kingdom was. It was the way of kings, and he had worn such attire when he was a child. His servants had worked very hard to make him look like a presentable prince. He was grateful for their efforts, no matter how wasted they felt when he became a king during warring times and princehood was at the back of his mind.

It was a time of war. Spending precious moments dressing and undressing in such complex costumes was pointless and tedious. Even if he wanted to wear them, he had no personal servants. Most people who worked in the castle fled the minute the war started, and he assigned everyone who remained to help around the camp instead of him specifically. In the day-to-day, he wore a plain white poet's shirt with black pants. He traded out his buckle shoes for boots that his guardsmen wore. He had started wearing a brown coat because of the dropping temperature. He wore a deep blue coat over his appearance adorned with some medallions and ribbons when he had to meet with very important guests like Grand Duke Sam and Imperial Prince Scott.

He did not share his opinion with Samantha. He was not in the mood for a debate with her. It was far more tiring to argue with her than it was to plan for the war, and he hated thinking about that every time the thought crossed his mind. His mother should not be the one making him exhausted. His mother was supposed to be the one that eased his many worries, or at least tried to. Wilbur knew that he was an adult, but he wished she would just hold his hand or press him against her chest with soft promises that it would get better and a guarantee that he was doing the best he could. Unfortunately, she did not do that, and he did not speak to her about what truly weighed on his mind.

"The soldiers have informed me that the Winter Festival will be soon. I have not noticed anyone preparing, and I did not see any plans on your desk," Samantha said as she rummaged through his wardrobe. One of the doors was opened, but the other one hung closed with a mirror hanging over it. Wilbur wanted to avoid his appearance, but this ghastly figure in front of him captivates him in the worst ways possible. He isn't ashamed of his appearance so much as he's upset he let it get this bad. He looks like he hasn't slept or ate since the war's beginning, and he knows for a fact that he hasn't. A few restless hours every night and whatever soup he can manage to hold down keeps him going, and his appearance unflinchingly shows him the curse this war has placed upon him. He can almost see the thick, dark rope tightened around his neck.

"I do not believe a festival is acceptable during these times. My army is preparing for bloody battles. My mages are working tirelessly to find a cure for the people of the Badlands. My generals are struggling to find innovative ways to bring their soldiers back home. Everyone in this camp is working far too hard on their own objectives to end this war. We simply do not have time for something as trivial as a festival to celebrate the passing from one season to the next," Wilbur informed her. He wished that his voice could be as stern as it was when he commanded soldiers. He wished it could be as soft as it was when he was talking to his new friends. He wished it was more like the voice he used when he was talking to Kristin. It was not any of these. It was shaky and weak, childlike without any innocence.