King Auguste of Vere

@slxvcking @hislaurent

The courtyard was alive with activity as servants and stableboys alike rushed around to the bidding of the Court and their pets. Auguste busied himself with checking his own tack on Celeste. Though he had been assured numerous times that the equipment was the best in all of Vere, the newly appointed King insisted with a patient smile. Since his father’s unfortunate accident while boar hunting with their uncle, he had made it a point to always look for himself. One never could be too careful. The gray mare nickered under his gentle hand as he patted her neck, anticipating the hunt as wolfhounds woofed excitedly nearby.

Auguste looked over his shoulder as the arrival of Prince Damianos was announced and smiled. He gave the equipment one last glance over and peered over Celeste’s back to spot Laurent’s elated expression before turning to give his friend a proper greeting. He stepped forward and clasped Damen’s forearm, his smile warm as his sunny hair.

Auguste stood stonily in the throne room at Arles. His face was as devoid of expression as he was capable while he was draped with the cape of his father. He hadn’t missed the darker fabric where the brilliant blue bled nearly purple; hastily cleaned of blood for this ridiculous ceremony. The Council insisted it happen immediately upon the return of his father’s hunting party. As soon as the Court was gathered and all within the castle as well as just outside its walls informed of the King of Vere’s passing, Auguste was summoned in front of the throne.

The five trusted advisors of King Aleron stood before him. It was Lord Herode who held a royal scepter and Mathe who held the crown. Auguste didn’t see them. His eyes were sightless as he was instructed to kneel and accept the leadership that was his right by birth. Instead, Auguste replayed the events in his mind that had led him to this moment as a crown was set upon his golden head.

“The hunting party is returned! There is an injury!” rang the call by a servant from the stables. Auguste stood from his desk, ignoring the pile of papers assigned by his father for review in preparation for his one-day kingship. Concern filled his dark blue eyes as he swept past the servant and raced through the halls with the recklessness of a boy rather than a regal Prince of Vere.

He was breathing hard when he reached his father’s side. Too late. Far too late. Blue eyes blown wide with shock, he could only stare as healers and servants all stepped away.

Uncle Jean, King Aleron’s brother, stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Auguste’s shoulder, his own eyes filled with sorrow. “I wasn’t fast enough,” he murmured sadly.

One of the hunting party recounted the tale as he’d seen it, detailing the way in which the boar had gored him behind repair, in how the King’s own spear had gutted his horse during the fall. One question continued to come up in the Prince’s mind. How did he fall? His father was an excellent rider - beyond excellent, even. The best in all of Vere. How could he fall from his horse?

But no answer could be given and he was met only with sympathetic, sorrowful gazes. As no one had seen fit to do so, Auguste brushed his father’s eyelids closed and then bent to kiss his forehead.

Behind him, he heard a gasp and turned to see his brother. Auguste intersected the young boy’s path, sweeping out an arm to gather him close and protect his view. “He’s gone, Laurent. I’m sorry. He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”