Crown Prince Quest

It is a stilted meal that welcomes you home. The food is as excellent as you remember, spiced liberally with the treasures of Ganjay, made all the better by the year of academy food. But none of your family members seated round the table seem to want to talk, a far cry from the easy brotherhood of your fellow cadets. Your attempts to ask them questions always seem to peter out, and your answers to your father's sparse questions on your time at the academy seem to leave him displeased, and he soon drops the subject.

Outside, the rain from earlier has transitioned into a full on storm, and the lights buzzed and dimmed slightly with each crack of thunder. The servants had built a large fire in the hearth, and it's roaring was at least keeping you warm physically, but it's heat could do nothing for the chill that pervaded that atmosphere.

It was as the servant's withdrew after placing down small platters of frozen cream, that your father seemed to be ready to break this ice. He placed his wine glass down carefully, drained of it's deep red contents, and allowed the butler to refill it while he looked at you. Somehow it felt like he had been waiting the entire night for this, and was trying to fortify his courage. But you knew that was preposterous. Your father never needed to work up to anything. He simply said what was on his mind, and the world moved to accommodate him.

"Son," he started, and you put down your spoon resignedly, "now that you have graduated, we need to have a talk about your future. I have no doubt that you have wild fantasies in your head of gallivanting off all over the world with your friends, seeing things and doing things. I was young once as well, I remember what it was like." You doubted it. Your father was probably born fifty. "However, I need you to put those thoughts out of your head. As Prince, you have too many duties at home for you to receive a regular assignment." Here we go. "As such, I am going to have you assigned to the Household Cavalry. You'll be able to serve close enough to home to fulfill your military obligations, and your duty to the nation. You'll report to Colonel Westmont when you've settled in."

As expected. A ceremonial position. Well, that was two years of rigorous education well spent.

"Yes father."

"Very good. I am glad that you have learned discipline at that academy of yours. Now if only other members of this family could behave as such." The look he gave your sister would likely have frozen her solid if she had bothered to look up. Instead she busied herself digging into her dessert, ignoring him. He narrowed his eyes, but turned back to you. You had the feeling this was something of a common theme with them. Not surprising if a fraction of the things you sister had told you about were true, to say nothing of what you've read in the society pages.

"Now, that is your general future sorted out. However, there is the matter of your immediate future as well. You see son..." He seemed to falter here, flicking a look at your mother, before refocusing on you. Since when did your father falter? "You see, when I was your age, my mother resurrected a rather ancient ceremony to solidify my position as Crown Prince. I-"

"No."

You were surprised to turn and see your mother glaring levelly at your father, doing a fair impression of the same icy stare he had given your sister not too long ago. She had forcefully placed down her glass as if to emphasise her point, and red wine had splattered all over the tablecloth. At the other end of the table, you heard your father sigh lightly. "Margret, we've been over this. It is his duty."

"And I told you, I don't care. There is too much risk involved for an empty ceremony."

"It is not empty. It represents him growing into his role as heir. It helps solidify his position. My mother-"

"Queen Gloriana, rest her soul, had little choice in the matter. With the political situation, solidifying your position required resurrecting that preposterous title. The realm is stable these days. There is no nee-"

"I'm sorry..." Your surprise at finding yourself interrupting was only outdone by your surprise at this entire situation. This entire situation was starting to feel surreal, and judging by the look on her face, your sister agreed.

Your parents had always been something of a joint unit when it came to the two of you. Cold, and aloof, and unified. Whatever your father wanted you to do, your mother must truly consider it foolhardy to disagree with him in front of you like this.

Idly, you noticed that the servants had all left the dining room. That was good, it wouldn't do for them to witness a fight among the royal family.

"I'm sorry," you continued, "but what exactly are we talking about here?"

Your parents continued to glare at each other, but your mother relented first, looking away and draining her glass. Your father turned to you. "Because of the troubles in the 80's, your grandmother brought back a very old tradition. Back in the days when these islands were still being unified, the heir to the realm would be created Prince of Bryth, to represent the dominion of ancient Albia, and the fact that the Brythonic people were now a part of the realm. This practice fell out of favor with the court as rulership of those lands was solidified, and eventually died all together some time before the first civil war.

"However, due to the agitators and independence movements that were gaining momentum at that time, your grandmother and her government came upon the idea of helping solidify the legitimacy of the crown by bringing back the tradition and had be crowned Prince of Bryth. I want to solidify that tradition in full by naming you the new prince."

You let the surprise of that wash over you as you downed a little of your own glass. You knew that your father had some sort of title before his coronation, but you had been so young at the time you had forgotten it. The idea of helping to resurrect a nearly long dead tradition like that... you could feel the interest start to rise in you. But that interest petered out somewhat as you looked over at your mother, and saw her back to glaring at your father.

"So, if it helped calm things down thirty years ago, why is it a bad idea to do it again now mother?"

"Paranoia." It was your father who answered first, turning back to his dessert. Your mother breathed in deeply, and let it out before answering, still looking at her husband.

"It is not paranoia. It isn't well publicized, but your father was almost killed that day. A member of one of the Hibernian independence movements almost reached the coronation hall with a bomb. It was pure luck that the soldiers on guard noticed him and saved your father's life."

"It," your father growled out, "is no longer those times. We crushed those separatist movements. The ceremony will be perfectly safe."

"You can't know that!"

"And I don't see why we should let this tradition die again just because you are being paranoid!"

"I AM NOT-"

"Perhaps!"

Your parents whipped around at the sudden interruption. They had both stood up, and where leaning forward over the table as they yelled at each other, and for a second you thought they were going to yell at your sister for interrupting them. But she never gave them the chance, barreling on, ignoring their looks.

"Perhaps, we should consider asking Edward his thoughts on the matter? After all, if he is going to be this Prince, he should get probably have a say in the matter. Besides, he's an adult now, isn't he father? Mother? And shouldn't adults get a say in whether or not to risk their lives?" The thin blonde eyebrow she raised at them seemed to snap them out of their anger, and both slowly lowered themselves down to their chairs.

Your father grabbed at his glass, and had it half way to his mouth before he remembered it was empty, and slowly put it back down. It seemed that he was still dealing with being told off by your sister, and you weren't about to break this lull in the argument. Nor was your sister, judging by the way she sat back in her chair and gazed around the room, taking in the paintings on the wall. She noticed you looking at her after a second, and smiled at you. The smile shook slightly.

Eventually, your father pulled himself out of his stupor and spoke. "Very well. Edward, your sister is right. You are a man now, so this decision will be yours. And we'll abide by it, won't we Margret?" Your mother nodded softly after a few seconds, clearly unhappy but willing to go along with this compromise. "So, Edward. What do you choose?"


Your father wants you to be crowned Prince of Brython, a ceremonial position given to the heir apparent. If you accept, it will likely solidify the title for all future heirs. However, your mother is concerned by the risk that someone may take the opportunity to strike at you for what you represent. Despite your father's claims, you know that all is not well in the Home Islands. Discontent boils just beneath the surface, and an Albian so blatantly claiming lordship of Bryth could rattle someone enough to try something. Or it could not. However, the choice is yours.

[ ] Duty - Your father is right, this is a tradition worth resurrecting. It will be a symbol to all of your rightful rule. Your mother's concerns are not necessary. - Please your Father, anger your Mother, +1 to Diplomacy, risks a move from groups that don't like you.

[ ] Security - Your father is wrong, this is not necessary. The title is mostly empty, and no one would dare doubt your right to rule these days. No need to anger the locals just for a special title. - Please your mother, anger your father, no risk.

[X] Duty - Your father is right, this is a tradition worth resurrecting. It will be a symbol to all of your rightful rule. Your mother's concerns are not necessary. - Please your Father, anger your Mother, +1 to Diplomacy, risks a move from groups that don't like you.

"I think... I think it would be best for me to accept the title. Father is right mother, the separatist movements have been crushed. The chance of anything going wrong is limited. And besides, it's always good to give the people something to be interested in, and what is more interesting than a coronation?"

Your mother looks you over very closely for a few seconds, before closing her eyes and nodding wearily. You had the feeling you'd disappointed her somehow, but your father was right. She was being overly paranoid about this, blinded by her concern for you. You hadn't spent two years learning to be a soldier to spend your entire life in safety, even if you weren't going to be deployed anywhere where you might see actual combat.

She stood up from the table, offering a quiet good night before departing. Your sister shot you a worried look, before quickly heading off after her. You might have followed, to make sure your mother understood why you were doing this, but a heavy hand fell on your shoulder keeping you in place.

"Well my boy," your father said through an uncharacteristic smile, "I'm glad you have a solid head on those shoulders after all. You'll need that when I'm gone. But there's no need to talk about that yet. Come, let's go to my study, we can talk about arrangements there."

You stood up as the servants appeared suddenly as if from the walls, clearing up the half eaten dessert and removing the wine spattered tablecloth. As your father all but dragged you off with a hand still on your shoulder, you gave the room one last look around. It may have been a trick of the firelight, but it seemed as if the portraits of your dead ancestors were gazing at you approvingly.


You don't get to sleep that night. You spend most of it in your father's study, going over plans for the ceremony. Various members of the Privy Council had stopped by throughout the night, giving ideas and suggestions. The Prime Minister had sent a messenger with a full list for the king's 'consideration'. By the time the sun had come up, just about the only thing your father had settled on was a time and place. The old St. Lythain Cathedral in Silures, the largest city in the bryth region. The ceremony would be announced today, to be held at the end of the week, to ensure the religious importance.

Your father wanted the Archbishop of Stour to perform the ceremony, but several ministers seemed to think it would be better for the Archbishop of Monnow to perform the ceremony, to better show the locals that you were to be their prince.

By the time the conversation had reached that point, you had mostly been just sitting quietly, trying to stay awake. You had no idea how the various old men and women of the government managed to be so full of energy so damn early. To say nothing of your father. The man was in his fifties, and barely looked even slightly haggard when he had looked up from his conversation with the Home Secretary and ordered you to bed.

You considered arguing that you could continue to be a part of his conversation, but realized that you hadn't said anything for almost half an hour at this point, and weren't certain what the two were even talking about. Instead you stood up, bowed politely to the men, and left.

You were halfway to your room when you got ambushed. There was a flurry of motion off to one side, and then you were suddenly being yanked through a door and down a side corridor. In your exhausted state, your reflexes were dulled and it took you several seconds to bring your arm up and shove at the hand holding you, pushing the person away and creating room for you to whirl around.

You felt the dull buzz of adrenaline leave you at the sight of your sister standing there, idly rubbing at her arm where you had pushed her. She looked decidedly unhappy.

"Was that really necessary Eddy?"

"Was what necessary?"

"Nearly breaking my arm."

"You grabbed me?"

"So?"

"What do you mean so? You grabbed me."

"Of course I did, you were ignoring me?"

"What?"

"Ignoring me Eddy? It's what we call it when you don't respond to someone trying to talk to you."

"You were trying to talk to me?"

"What? Of course I was. I was almost shouting at you in the hall." She gave you a searching look. "Are you feeling ok?"

"...peachy. Just a long night. I'm sorry, did you need something, because I'm not sure I have the energy for a patented Mary Go-around."

"Do I need...? Have you forgotten that you are supposed to be somewhere right now? Something about your guard detail? Ring any bells?"

You wracked your mind, trying to figure out what she was going on about. Vaguely, you recalled something on your schedule from the week, meeting your new honor guard this morning. But surely it couldn't be seven all ready. The sun had barely been peeking out of...the...clouds...

You were in Artemis, not Sonning anymore. The cloud layer here didn't burn away till mid morning. No wonder you were so tired. You had thought it had only been five. You slowly lowered your face into your hands, tiredly rubbing at your eyes.

"I don't suppose there's any way to postpone this? I'm really not in any sort of state to be meeting new people right now."

"Well, I suppose I could go talk to the people whose job it is to take a bullet for you, and tell them that they should come back because you're a little tired and don't care enough to meet them. Is that what you want, brother dear?"

You opened your fingers enough to glare at your sister through them. Damned woman had always had a sharp tongue, and your time away hadn't dulled that it seemed. She already knew what you were going to say, judging by the expectant look on her face, so instead of dignifying that with an answer you just rubbed your face to try and bring some feeling back into it, before straightening and letting her lead you on.

She led you to one of the smaller rooms set aside in the palace for the guard's use. This one had been converted into a barracks, with a line of beds along one side, and lockers along the other for their uniforms and equipment. You'd seen several barracks in your time at school, and you had learned the difference between a barracks being kept ordered and clean through discipline, and being ordered and clean from simple newness.

The lack of small personal touches, the slight miss placement of pillows, non-regulation reading material hidden just well enough that a Sargent would ignore it. This barracks was brand new. The small squad of soldiers lined up in front of had probably only just arrived, probably before their bags had. They stood perfectly still, ready for inspection. Their captain stepped forward and introduced himself as Charles Walk, the commander of your personal guard. He was an older man, with close cropped dark hair and a scar along his left cheek. He wore the green and gold uniform with an ease of long practice.

"So, how long have you been in the Green and Royals Captain?"

"Two years now sir. I transferred out of my regiment in Ganjay and requested a billet in Artemis, and I had apparently impressed someone upstairs because they gave me this assignment. I was on your father's protection since then, but I was assigned to lead your unit when you returned."

"Very good. Well, introduce me to your men Captain."

"Yes sir. This is Trooper Martin, he..."

The captain slowly walked you down the line, introducing you to your guards one at a time. You valiantly struggled to pay attention, and the ordered military nature of the proceedings helped. It reminded you of the academy, where you were on the other side of the proceedings, standing carefully at attention while important people walked down the line.

Still, you found your attention wandering slightly, looking further down the line in idle curiosity. A quick flash of red caught your attention, and you focused on it. One of the soldiers had vibrant red hair, kept short by military regulation. You focused on his face, and noticed he was turned slightly to look at you.

He smirked and everything. Suddenly.

Stopped.


Your name is Edward Alexander Marcus, you are the heir to the throne of the Albian Union, you are duke of Weymas and Penzance, and you are not happy. Beneath you, the train chugs over the rails, the rhythmic thunk-thunk of the wheels passing over the ties which you normally find so relaxing, does nothing to calm you.

Sitting across from you, one of your father's secretaries scratches away at something, and you sullenly glared out the window ignoring her. The countryside blurs past, eternally rolling hills and smalls cops of trees passing before you can get a good look at them.

Normally, you were thrilled to ride on trains. The machines had capitaved you since you were a small boy, seeing your first engine round the corner on a trip to the family castle up north. But today, not even the chance to ride in the symbol of your nations industrial might can save your mood.

Your king father, in all his infinite wisdom, had decided that it was time his son got himself an education. And because your father was an old soldier, he decided the best option was for you to join the army.

You had spent weeks trying to talk him out of it. You had enlisted your sisters aid in trying to get your mother to talk him out of it, which showed your desperation. Those two had never broken ranks in front of their children. It would take some sort of world ending calamity to do so, one from one of those silly books your sister read.

Thinking of your sister just made it worse. For your entire fifteen years on this earth, you two had barely ever been separated. You'd grown up together, been educated together, laughed at silly stiff lords and ladies together. And now you wouldn't get to see her for months at a time. Women weren't allowed to visit the Royal Military Academy Sonning by ancient tradition.

She'd been almost as sullen as you this morning when you'd said goodbye before being whisked off onto this prison of a train. She's promised to write constantly, so at least that was something.

Your father had awkwardly tried to cheer you up on the drive to the station by telling you about his own experiences at the academy, about all the great memories you would make. But like always when he tried to reach out, he failed and gave up, lapsing into silence. You hadn't even bothered to say goodbye to him as you climbed aboard the train.

Your angry musings were interrupted as the train suddenly began to slow, the track bending away ahead of you.

"Oh, good heavens, has it already been half an hour? My, how fast things happen nowadays. I tell you young prince, when I was your age it would have taken most of the day to travel to the academy. You are blessed to live in a time such as this."

You ignore the urge to roll your eyes at that and gather up your few belongings as the train pulls into the station. Old people always felt the need to tell you how lucky you were to live now. And you have no doubt old people told them the same when they were your age, in a long line of windbags dating back to the great philosophers of the ancient world, who stood in the grand open spaces of the forum and told their students they were lucky to be born in a time with wax tablets, instead of having to chisel everything into stone.

You stand as the trans sways to a stop, opening the door into the corridor and making your way out onto the platform. The first thing that strikes you is the heat. Here, there isn't a cloud in the sky, and the sun shines brilliantly onto the brick station house. So different from the comforting cloud layer of Artemis that you were used to. The air even felt dry.

The secretary stepped out next to you, before leading the two of you off to the side. There a car is waiting for you. You get in, she doesn't. Women can't travel to the academy. Instead, she will be returning on the train to Artemis, to tell your father you have arrived safely. It occurs to you that you never asked her name.

It's a short drive from the station to the academy. Even you have to admit, it's an impressive collection of buildings. Ancient stone butting up with more modern expansions. The driver pulls the car to a stop by one of the larger buildings. Some of the students stop and stare openly. You suppose most of their classmates didn't arrive in a car with the flag on it. The driver opens the door for you and you find two men waiting for you there. One is old, grizzled features and a wooden leg. The other is younger, but with a harsh cast to his eyes. After a moment you realize they aren't going to come up and greet you. It hits you suddenly. You aren't the Prince right now. You're a cadet, and the Commandant of the academy doesn't walk up to greet lowly cadets.

You make the walk yourself, stopping before them. Unsure of what to do, you bow slightly. The younger man raises an eyebrow sardonically, and you realize that maybe you should have saluted. But the Commandant only chuckles lightly.

"Good morning your highness. I am Commandant Watson, and this is Sergeant Major Greenfeld. He's in charge of your unit here. Normally, you would have met him with the rest of your unit yesterday, but this is hardly a normal situation, is it?"

"No." The sergeant's eyebrow climbed higher, and you realized your mistake. "Uh, no sir."

"Very good. Now, I understand that this transition could be difficult for one of your station. But as a student at my academy, I want you to understand that you are not going to be treated any differently than of the other cadets. As far as this institution is concerned, you are just another young boy for us to shape in service to the crown, a crown that you have nothing to do with here. Is that understood?"

His face still had that kindness too it, but there was iron in his words now.

"Yes sir."

Very good. Now, your affects will be delivered to your dormitory as soon as they arrive, and the good Sargent will lead you there now. Good morning Michael, Cadet."

The old man stomped off, putting most of his weight on his cane. You wondered how he had lost his leg.

"What was that, cadet? Did you say something? I couldn't hear you. Perhaps if you tried speaking properly."

You realized you had said that out loud. You hastily tried to come up with the correct words, from the way soldiers normally treated you. "Uh, yes sir, I mean no sir."

"Good. Now, follow me. The rest of your unit is already here, but I suppose your precious princely feelings needed an extra day to prepare. Well, you shouldn't expect that sort of treatment anymore."

In actuality, you had showed up late as a security precaution. Normally the cadets all gathered in Artemis to board the military train together for the ride. Someone had decided that sticking the crown prince in an unsecured hall where anyone could get to with a bunch of strangers were a bad idea. And you were pretty sure Sargent Greenfeld would have to know that. So why was he giving you a hard time over it?

He walked off without another word, and you had to scramble to keep up. You weren't exactly out of shape, but the man set a quick march across the campus towards the barracks you were being housed in, and you were struggling to keep up.

Somehow, you felt that your stay here was going to be even worse than you had expected.


By the end of the first week, your grim prophecy had been fulfilled. Your days began at sunup, and usually ended close to midnight. Physical exercise followed by freezing showers in the public baths followed by lectures. The grueling regime was interspersed by meals of what could only charitably be called food. Unsalted porridge for breakfast, with lunch and dinner being a rotating menu of bland meat and vegetables. Perhaps worst of all, cadets were not permitted wine with dinner, something you had found surprising the first night when one of your classmates had given you a weird look when you asked him what they would be serving the beef with.

Thankfully tea was readily available, even if it was awfully weak stuff that barely seemed to be steeped with any actual physical leaves. You suspected even that was only served to prevent a mutiny. Of the many stereotypes of your people, your love of the drink was probably the most accurate. Fighting several wars with Cathay over the stuff removed your right to deny it.

But the thing that was perhaps least bearable, was the socialization. Grueling mile long runs in the dark under the hard eye of Sergeant Greenfeld you could deal with. Lectures on history, mathematics, culture, and warfare you took to readily enough. Even the food would probably have been fine, if you just had someone to talk with. Your entire life you had been surrounded with people who wanted to talk to you, and suddenly you were dropped in a situation that made you feel like an animal in a menagerie, like one of those Ganjay freaks the Governor had brought with him on his last visit to court, to entertain with deformity and weirdness.

Every time you tried to bridge the gap with them, you'd mess up somehow. Reference some ancient scholar they'd never heard of, or try to interest them by talking about your last trip to somewhere it turned out they'd never heard of. Even something as simple and down to earth as horse racing seemed to be beyond their scope. It was like you and your fellows came from two entirely different worlds. Most of them were from soldier families, some from factory workers or farmers who scrapped enough to give their sons a better future. You had come from the lap of luxury and power, the closest they came was seeing your father on the occasional parade.

There were a few noble sons at the academy you knew, but none where in your unit, and the academy encouraged units to stay together. No doubt the build that vaunted morale and cohesion the military loved to build up. But it meant that you spent most of your free time just sitting alone, going over lessons while on the other side of your barracks they talked and had fun.

In an attempt to get out of there, you'd taken to spending some of your free time taking walks around the campus, just taking in the place. You were slowly adjusting to the weather, even if you still found it weird. There was still the sporadic nature that was common all through the nation, but instead of the heavy rainfalls of home, this place got light showers. You'd seen the sun more this week than you had all month at home. And even the air felt weird, without the haze of smog rolling out of the factories. Quiet too, at least when no one was running weapons drills.

It was that quietness that allowed you to notice that something was wrong that evening, as you took your walk. An out of place sound, a muffled thump like a slab of meat hitting the ground. Followed by another. Curious, you wandered over towards the sound.

You stopped when the sound came again, this time followed by a muffled cry. A cry of pain. It came from just round the corner, in a small alley between one of the lecture halls and the stables. You stopped at that corner, straining your ears. People were whispering.

"That's what you deserve, you Hibernian bastard."

There was another thump, and another muffled cry of pain. You edged around the corner, and saw a small ring of boys surrounding another. Four of them, with the fifth on his knees in the middle. There was already a nasty bruise on his face, and another was blooming on the other side. He was struggling, but two of the boys were holding him down, clamping his arms to his side and covering his mouth. The boy in front, the one talking, sank a fist into his stomach, and he doubled over for a second, before redoubling his struggling.

"My brother was sent to your damn dirt country, and he almost died there. One of you got pissed and shot at him. He was in hospital for weeks. So, guess it's only fair to return the favor, huh?"

The fourth boy sniggered. He was probably supposed to be keeping watch, but he was clearly having too much fun watching the beating. He clapped the main boy on the back. "Yeah, you show him how we treat his kind Mat."

"Yeah, I guess I should."

He shifted off to the side, and you got a better look at the boy he was wailing on. It was with a twisting in your gut that you realized he was one of the boys in your unit. One of the ones you'd approached in fact. You'd tried to engage him by talking about the last horse race at Sunninghill, and he'd just given you a weird look till you left.

The boy, Mat, landed another hit to his face, snapping his head back and clearly dazing him. You suddenly realized you had a choice. They probably wouldn't kill him. Just keep roughing him up for a bit then go away. You could turn away now and not get involved. That was probably the better idea. You already knew that Sargent Greenfeld didn't like you, getting in a fight would just make that worse. Besides, you'd just disappoint your father to know that you were fighting in the first week. And you'd tried to make friends with him, and he'd snubbed you like the rest of those damn people you lived with.

But, but still. He was in your unit. And weren't you supposed to protect the people in your unit? Wasn't that the whole thing the military loved, standing with the man next to you? There were four of them, but they were looking away, and you figured you were a dab sight stronger than you were a week ago just from the exercise you'd been doing. You could probably take one of them and get your classmate out of there.

Damn it, what was his name anyway. It was just on the edge of your tongue. Harold? Henry? That was it. Henry Foster.

You have a choice to make. Are you going to walk away and not get involved, or are you going to step in and try to help someone who snubbed your attempt to reach out to him?

[] Walk away - This isn't your fight. You don't need to give more reason for the Sargent to dislike you, and your family will be disappointed to learn you've been fighting.

[] Charge in - You are supposed to defend the unit, even if he did rebuff your attempt to socialize. Get in there and show them why they should stop ignoring you.