The Puppet Prince

Truth Spills Like Sour Wine

The marble halls of the palace had a chilling beauty, hollow and unwelcoming. The kind that reeked of intimidation and power. Once, these arched corridors were filled with hustle and bustle but now, all that could be heard was the rhythmic tapping of Prince Gwynne running from his responsibilities. He panted heavily and slid around a corner, slamming into an elderly maid, sending the pile of folded towels she was carrying through the air. 

Slightly dazed they looked at each other and as the maid went to speak, Gwynne interrupted, "What do you think you're doing?" A sour expression twisted on his face and he stood with his chest puffed out, trying to seem big and threatening. 

Her face paled and she fell to the floor, "Your Majesty please spare me! I was not paying attention and wrongfully ran into you, but please!" She seemed close to sobbing and Gwynne bit his lip in an attempt to keep hold of his cold expression.

"Out of my sight," He spat whilst walking away, "And wash the towels again, they're filthy." He made an angry pointing gesture to sell it. 

Once he was sure the coast had cleared, Gwynne broke the persona and ran his fingers through his hair. A king had to be strong, something he surely was not, and treating people like a true leader would not be something that came naturally. The memory of the woman's horrified face disgusted Gwynne to his core. It's not her face, Gwynne thought knowing what truly left the bad taste in his mouth were his actions. But a king must keep his subjects in place and not show weakness, even if that means threatening them. He would have never punished her anyways and even fought back the urge to help her gather and refold the towels as best he could.

Shaking the interaction, Gwynne exited into the courtyard and made his way to the stables. He had a long stride that seemed to almost glide past the magnificent fountains. Wearing his casual attire of a black blouse and black loose-fitted pants, Gwynne knew he could ride through town unnoticed. As he approached the horse in the far left stall memories flooded back, like a wave crashing into the shore.

He rode horses with his father every summer and this one was going to be the best yet. Gwynne was now 16 and old enough to thoroughly plan their annual trip realistically. He was an idealistic guy and tended to overshoot but this year, there would be no hiccups to ruin their time together. The plan was always the same, ride to the neighboring towns and inspect the local politics and economy. But these trips often included many pit stops and plenty of sightseeing that stretched into about two and a half weeks' journey. His father waited by the stable next to four beautiful Arabian horses, a trail master, and a guard who would escort us. Packing had become ritualistic and they were all familiar with riding positions and the trails to come. Gwynne had mentioned to his father multiple times that they no longer needed the trail master but he was never the type to take unnecessary risks. They loaded up and set off on the last summer ride they would complete together.

During this reminiscing session, he had habitual saddled up his father's horse and rode into town. Since the death of his parents, Gwynne had taken a step back from face-to-face work with his people and operated behind the scenes while John handled the rest for him. Running a kingdom alone at 17 was a difficult task and Gwynne knew he couldn't accomplish such a feat. John had done a brilliant job at keeping social matters in check, per the reports, but the prince was finally ready to face his people and address any pertinent needs, personally.

The ride into town had always been a peaceful one, surrounded by farmland and meadows. He was eager to feel that familiarity again but as the horse trotted farther, Gwynne grew more and more disappointed. 

He whispered under his breath, "What the hell happened here?" 

The land was blackened and withered, scorch marks decorated the scraggly trees that had once shaded the path. Panic set in and Gwynne increased the pace until his horse was in a full-blown gallop, the sun beating on his olive skin. Once finally in town, he was met with the horrific sight of children on the streets and looted storefronts. a tension lingered in the air and it felt as though someone was hovering over your shoulder, waiting to pounce. In the distance gunshots and shouting could be heard, everything was wrong. John had assured Gwynne everything was under control and that the people were flourishing, lies. Fists clenched he strode over to the nearest bar seething and sat down. 

"What happened here?" He almost cried the faces of the children from earlier flashing through his mind. 

The bartender ordered a pixie over to a table on the other side of the room and turned to Gwynne, "Been like this since the old queen and king died." 

He was a large man with anchors and tentacles tattooed down his arm, probably a pirate, he thought, suddenly noticing the worryingly large number of swords and decorative fish lining the broken walls. "Yeah, that buffoon of a prince has royally screwed things up. Coward can't even man up and face his people!" the bartender's voice began to raise as he slammed different bottles of liquor on the bar,  "Sold my ship and lost my crew because of him! Some king he is!" 

Finally, a bottle shattered, and red wine spilled everywhere, splattering the prince's face. Gwynne did not care for he was no longer there. His mind was racing in a million directions trying to figure out where everything went wrong. Without another word, he slammed four thin slabs of gold, (This world's highest form of currency), on the table and stormed out of the dilapidated bar with murder on his brain.