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scorchieart · 5 months ago

Text

People-watching

Genre: Angst

Characters: Chevalier Michel, Queen Michel, the King of Rhodolite

Wordcount: ~2500

Summary: There is no such thing as a blank slate to young Chevalier. Determined to fill in the blanks, he reaches out to the people he should know best, and should know him better.

A/N: A little fic for little Chev for his BIG sequel. Don't take this story too seriously, it's mostly an experiment in writing irony, but I still hope it offers some entertainment.

Content Warnings: Child neglect.

Prince Chevalier did not enjoy people-watching. Why follow a person around when one look sufficed to permanently etch every detail of their form into his mind? It seemed a waste of time as well as brainspace, and Chevalier could not comprehend how anyone with half a brain could be content filling the rest of it with such absurdity as repeat information. That time and effort would be better spent researching the target through other more productive means, like first-hand accounts from acquaintances or records on family lineage. And yet he could not stop himself from watching one woman in particular, despite his best efforts to convince himself it was futile.

On the surface, Queen Michel was cut from the same cloth as her son. At Chevalier’s birth, Marquis Michel described the pair as similar as macarons and macaroons, but to anyone who knew them their similarities were never quite so confectionary. Above all, Chevalier found the Queen to be very reserved in her manner and speech, a tighter nut to crack than most. And since he was inclined to a similar disposition, he never initiated any conversation to learn more.

According to castle folk who knew her before he was born, the Queen was an animated young woman beloved by all and rejected by none, and it was her marriage to the King that transformed her from lively lass to monotone monarch. Chevalier could relate to the burden of royalty, and his early years were filled with perplexity at how the roles manifested so differently in his parents’ demeanors. While her husband wilted in melancholy upon his throne, the Queen maintained an air of irresolute jitters that permeated any room she entered and only seemed to grow with each passing year. It was understandable then how the King could not tolerate sitting by her for very long, Chevalier reasoned. Yet as her first and only son, the expectation of familial escort fell to him and naturally Chevalier grew inclined to learn more about this person society deemed he must know most expertly after he knew himself.

Her presence was unlike that of any other woman who frequented the palace. While this was to be expected from her position, it was an unchanging fact both out in court and behind closed doors. From his perch at her right, Chevalier observed nobles and servants alike straighten their backs and tighten their jaws as though her very name promoted decorum of the highest caliber. In the descriptions he heard of the Queen in her youth there was never any mention of her being a martinet, and she certainly never displayed such fusspot attitudes when they were alone.

Then what was it that made her so unapproachable? It couldn’t be because she birthed a prince. It was no secret how Clavis and the twins’ eyes lit up the moment their mothers entered view, nor how a similar expression was never found upon Jin or Yves’s faces.

Such was the destiny of a child with a mother, Chevalier thought. Constantly looking up to her and forming ideas of the world under the safety and guide of her experience. But what was curious was how it seemed the Queen had none of her own to offer him.

Seasons came and went, and Chevalier watched them as passively as he did the people in the palace all from his unchanging position by the Queen. It seemed to him the only variance was his vantage point as each year he grew more accustomed to his role as an observer, both literally and figuratively. It was around the time the unruliest tips of his hair reached her shoulders—the time he first began to calculate when he would surpass her height—when she announced a change to their ritual: a visit to her father’s. Alone.

The days leading up to her departure were uneventful, yet Chevalier clung to those final moments together with more scrupulosity than he ever offered before. As she carried out her routines, he studiously tracked her words, movements, facial expressions. The way she flinched when her quill slipped from her hand. Her continuously quieting voice. The sheen of sweat pooling in her brow.

Did he detect a growing anxiety? She never conveyed fear of carriage-travel in the past. Perhaps she had a recent falling-out with the Marquis and was dreading the visit? Or a sudden illness overcame her that threatened the journey? Or she worried about parting from her son for so long for the first time?

None of those explanations seemed valid or in character. And with the Queen’s typical tight-lippedness towards him, just this once Chevalier permitted to expand his circle of attention to her acquaintances in hopes of gleaning more insight on this peculiar trip.

This approach yielded similarly unconstructive results. The knights in her employ regarded her with the same impassive servility as they relayed details of the upcoming journey. The King’s attention and speech were just as clipped as they always had been, though it appeared some of her anxiety may have passed onto him as he nearly tripped over the steps in his hurry to return to the palace once he’d kissed her goodbye. And her lady-in-waiting held onto her left arm in an identical comforting fashion Chevalier had observed since his infancy. The women exchanged brief whispers, concealed by their coats and their hair, before Lady Leticia detached herself to hug her own son. Chevalier turned towards the Queen, craning his neck to see past the coat plumage and golden locks, wondering if this would be the last time he looked up to her. And whether she was wondering something similar.

She did not absolve him of his curiosity. Nor did she offer any parting words or kisses or embraces. With a look as brief as her husband had given her, she smoothed Chevalier’s fringe, bent down to pinch Clavis’s lip-marked cheek, then stepped up into the carriage.

It took less than an afternoon for Clavis to grow completely fed up with him.

Chevalier settled deeper into his chair as his brother stormed out of his personal library, taking note of how it took Clavis double the time it usually would to lose his temper. A new fact he aptly stored away in his brainspace.

As he hoped, the day continued uninterrupted. Chevalier spent the hours increasing the dent in his romance shelf in silence. When the sun set and he could no longer make out the words on the page, he lifted his head to near-total darkness. A pained grumble from his gut broke the stillness. The maid who usually came to fetch him for dinner was egregiously late. The straw-haired one who always wore a pink bracelet on her right wrist and a blue one on her left.

Closing his book and sliding off his chair, Chevalier took swift strides to the door. It creaked open and he peered out to find the main library just as dark and deserted. Footsteps always alert him, and Chevalier determined no one had passed through the place since Clavis’s dramatic exit hours prior. Not even the mousey-looking serving boy whose job it was to light the candles of this part of the castle every night.

Guided by his mental map, Chevalier traversed the darkened corridors until at last he reached a lighted area. The grumble in his stomach had evolved into a roar by this point, and he allowed his nose to lead him down the final twists and turns. But by the time he reached the dining room, nobles were already filing out the doors, contentedly patting their bellies and bidding one another goodnight.

Never having attended a formal dinner where the guests appeared so amiable before, Chevalier hid behind a nearby pillar and watched diners fan out to their rooms and rows of servants carry away emptied dishes and bowls. Clavis was among the last to leave, followed closely by Licht and Nokto, all giggling their little heads off about squashes and gourds and moldy cheeseboards. As the young princes chattered, Clavis spotted Chevalier’s hiding place, stuck his tongue out at him, then grabbed each twin by the hand and ran off.

Later that night in the palace kitchens, Chevalier endured cold pumpkin soup, Yves’s pitiful tears, and Jin’s endless gabble.

The next day onward, Chevalier forced himself out of bed at sunrise. Though despite his newfound independence, he struggled to fill his days with variety past choosing an outfit and would end up in his library alone reading from breakfast until dinnertime.

When the second day in a row passed without any servants approaching him, Chevalier elected to prepare and eat his meals solo. It proved no inconvenience to him where his food came from, and considering he later found both the bracelet-maid and the candle-boy performing their duties on the opposite end of the palace, neither did it seem to bother anyone else.

By the end of the first week, Chevalier had completed all the unread books in his possession. He considered venturing into town to procure new ones when a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Prince Chevalier, are you in there?”

It was Sariel.

Chevalier opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a silent exhale.

How odd.

He cleared his throat and tried again, this time only managing a raspy croak. An empty water pitcher sat bone dry on the mantelpiece, and by the time Chevalier gargled up enough saliva to make out legible speech Sariel had already left.

It was then that he realized he hadn’t spoken in days.

He shelved the trip to town and went to bed early without dinner.

The next morning, he rose before the sun with a sandpaper mouth. Without changing his clothes, he slipped into his shoes and carried the pitcher down to the cellar. Water barrels lined the walls when he entered, and he took no time ripping the lid of the closest one and scooping out as much as his pitcher could catch in one swing. Then he guzzled the lot in a single gulp.

He repeated this several times more, with more reservation each time, but the scratchiness never fully disappeared. At least he could speak again. He carefully topped the pitcher once more and made his way back up the stairs, reciting the K-entries from the dictionary as he went.

In atypical Michel fashion, he raised his voice and garbled his words—an oropharyngeal medical textbook he read claimed stretching the muscles in the mouth could accelerate pharynx recovery—but all that seemed to accomplish was scattering postmen and laundry-maids and any early-risers from the halls. He couldn’t blame them; he sounded like a rabid jester. He steered his stroll towards the less-frequented parts of the castle.

By the time he finished the Ls he was in front of the throne room. It was still too early for much of the palace to be up, so Chevalier pushed through the doors and shut them tight behind him.

He had frequented this room on many formal occasions in the past, but this was the first time he entered alone and in his nightclothes. Perhaps it was because he had seen it so many times before or he was so used to at least one of his parents’ presences alongside him in there, but his gaze ignored the throne and instead glued to the portraits along the far wall.

Generations of kings staring down at him, their minds long gone yet still decipherable to Chevalier. He crossed to the center of the room and carefully set the pitcher down before lying on his back and spreading his arms and legs. His mouth picked up from where it left off with the Ms while his eyes roamed across the canvases, giving each king his proper lookover to learn everything he was thinking on the day he was painted. Some were confident in their position, some terrified of the future. One young king boasted a cocky grin and bloodied sword while his aging neighbor looked positively bored with his life. Century-links of ancestors captured and unraveled in just a few brushstrokes, so why was his shortest link the most difficult to decode?

The door slamming shut and hurried footsteps interrupted his staring.

“What happened?” the King asked, breathless.

“Nothing has happened,” Chevalier answered. Throat now sore from reaching the Vs, he kept his response short and refused to let his eyes stray. “Not a single thing. All day long.”

“Oh. I… I see,” said the King. A few moments passed where he caught his breath before he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“People-watching.”

“And for how long?”

“All day long.”

“All day?” the King repeated. Chevalier wished he would just be silent like his portrait.

“Yesss,” he hissed, growing ever more peeved with each question. If there lingered any doubts as to whether Clavis was his son, this was the final nail in the coffin.

“And how many days have you been people-watching?” the King asked.

Chevalier shrugged his shoulders as emphatically as he could against the marble floor. This gave the opposite impression he was hoping as the King’s footsteps gradually approached him.

“So, when your mother returns, you will tell her you have been neglecting your lessons and studies because you were too busy socializing?” said the King.

Chevalier turned to look at him in spite of himself. Unlike his portrait, the current King had worry lines stretching horizontally across his face that completely betrayed the threat in his voice. Coupled with the way his hands shook as he sheathed his sword, it was a mystery how the previous Belle could spot any trace of kingliness in the man. Like his wife, he may have been exemplary in his youth, but such was a person wholly unrecognizable to Chevalier.

“On the contrary,” Chevalier said, “you are the first person I have spoken to since the Queen’s departure.”

“Then where have you been all this time?”

Chevalier shrugged again. “Where has everyone assigned to me been?”

At last, the King exhausted his follow-up questions. Chevalier watched him pant in defeat, thinking him utterly pitiful. Another Clavis sign. He reached over to nudge the pitcher towards him then turned back to the portraits. The King picked up the pitcher but sat a few paces away before he drank.

“A letter arrived this morning from Michel manor,” he said after wiping his mouth. “Would… would you like to read it together?”

Again with the questions. “Who is it addressed to?” Chevalier said.

“Ah, only my name is written on the envelope.”

“Then it was not meant for my eyes.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said the King. He returned the pitcher to its exact spot then stood to leave. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“Ah… Never mind. Do as you like.”

And he left the room quicker than Chevalier had ever seen him escape the Queen.

Some things I learned while writing this fic:

Cold pumpkin soup is quite good, if you prepare it correctly.

Oropharyngeal medicine is very interesting and involved.

K is one of the throatiest letters in the English language.