Heavy is the Head that Wears the Solemn Crown

Thirty - The Past and Even Further Back

Wilbur

When he was a child, he remembered his nanny dressing him up in a tight golden brown suit with various pieces and layers designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. He tried getting out of the costume, but his nanny reminded him that it was necessary for him to look like the crown prince this evening. She forced him to look in the mirror as she brushed his hair into a respectful style. She reminded him that the person looking back at him was the future king of the country, the sole protector of the people and guardian of the land. He hadn't understood what she meant at the time, but the way she spoke the words, in a hushed, revering whisper, cemented itself in his heart.

His mother came to escort him to the ballroom. To this day, he could hardly remember what her expression looked like. He remembered the way her fingers grazed the side of his cheek before holding firmly to his chin, lifting his brown eyes to meet her own pair of eyes. Her hand dropped down, and he made sure to take it. He clasped their hands together, allowing his mother in her shimmering white dress decorated with crystalline gemstones to guide him down the lengthy hallways. The air smelled sweet like flowers, and the guard's footsteps were heavy like thunder. His mother glided across the floor like the dancer she once was. A large pair of doors were opened in front of them, and the announcer declared that Queen Samantha and Crown Prince Wilbur were entering the ballroom. The crowd's voices grew hushed, and the small child felt thousands of eyes pinned to him like he was a butterfly in a glass case. They stood at the top of the staircase for a few moments, and it was only when they began descending the stairs that he realized he had let go of her hand. Or maybe, she had let go of him.

The party was negligible in his memories. The finer details never stuck in his mind no matter how many times his dreams brought him to the location of where everything went wrong. He couldn't remember what he had been doing- maybe it was talking to one of the nobles or eating a snack from the grand tables lining the side of the ballroom. He didn't remember the purpose of the party, nor most of the details. The flowery scent permeated in the ballroom, he remembered, so he suspected that there were either a lot of flowers or a resurgence of flower perfumes amongst the noblewomen.

He had been walking towards the thrones when a cold chill filtered into the room. He looked around for the source. All the windows in the room were blasted open, and people started screaming. He placed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the sound of shattering glass and thundering footfalls. He was pushed around as the crowd morphed into a mob, and he found himself on his knees at the stairs that would lead up to the thrones. He looked up for his parents, tears already streaming down his face. He saw his father standing up with a sword raised at a woman. She was wearing a gray robe with silver lining and designs. Her blue hair tipped with white resembled a waterfall as it cascaded down her back. The woman- the enchantress- looked over her shoulder at the crying boy. She wore an apathetic expression, disinterested with him and his tears. She turned her attention back to the king and queen, lifting her hand towards the queen. He heard an unidentifiable shout, and suddenly, his mother was being consumed by frost. Solid ice formed a cage around her body, her expression serene instead of panicked because of how quickly she was taken. The enchantress was gone in a flurry of snow, an icy crystal left in her wake.

He had never been more terrified in his life. Everyone around him was panicking, screaming and shoving and bursting with fear. His father was angrily yelling, ignoring his son as ordered the heavily armored guards to find the enchantress. His mother's body was frozen to her throne, and she didn't make any movements despite the pandemonium going on around her. His hands had been caught in the ice shard the enchantress left behind, the icy slowly clawing up his wrists. He yanked his hands away, whimpering as parts of his skin came off. Blood spilled to the marble ground and down his arms. It was this moment, between the pain and the chaos and his mother's suspension in time, that formed the basis of his rhabdophobia.