The Gilded Prince and his Gilded Cage (Canon)
mintyfreshbless
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@Questor Hey, long-time reader, first time omake-er! If you couldn't tell, Gawain's my favorite character, so I've always wanted to make an omake about him. Now, when there seems to be scant few details about what he's up to while something major is going on, I thought it would be the perfect time to go ahead.
Prince Gawain Golden-Feather looks around at his personal quarters, full of all the opulence and luxury that an empire could provide, and, all too suddenly, feels a dizzying stab of emptiness pulse through his chest.
As he steps in, he stares blankly around himself, at sofas, paintings, curtains... The usual sharpness of his thoughtstream dull, he paces towards his bed, pressing a talon onto the soft comforter. Too soft. He grimaces, his famed stoic visage marred with a hollow-eyed anxiety. He did not climb onto the bed, stuck in this pose, staring at his own claw as it curls into a fist that draws waves of folds across the imperial fabric.
What was he doing here, of all places?
Here, in the northernmost part of the Empire, hundreds of miles from the border south, where, hundreds of miles further, in the heart of a dying country, was a ruin that used to be a capital.
Here, in the Imperial Palace, with his every need tended to, as Griffons and Diamond Dogs and Ponies of every color, every hide, go forth to form the great hammer that was the army of Gryphus, as twenty-five thousand worthy lives give their lifeblood towards the absolution of a land from a tyrant - and that was to make little mention of the countless logisticians, clerks, merchants, smiths, and innumerable other laborers to supply their claws, paws, and hooves.
Here, in a secluded room, the doors shut, as beyond it the highest heads of the Empire perform their administration, giving their every effort towards the organization, the strategy, the direction of the oncoming force; as legendary figures, idols of the citizenry everywhere nonetheless push themselves to the limit, for the sake of saving the lives of those they will never meet... Imperial or Maretonian.
Gawain looks up and around himself again, craning his neck at the too-familiar interior of his room. Guilt and fear flood into his mind like lightning, faster than he can control, as all the treacherous thoughts that he has been keeping at bay are uncorked, here, where no one can see his facade break. He sneers, pressing his other talon onto the bed as he slouches in exhaustion; not physical, but born of stress, his mind replaying all the things he's been hearing over the past few months - every little tick forwards in the clock to the Maretonian Campaign. The posters, the warehouses, Gisa's sudden annoyance with Redbeak... most of all, the faces on Mom and Dad. They were always full of adoration for him and his sisters, and they still are - but now he only gets to see his father as he's drifting from meeting to meeting, counsel to counsel, brow narrowed with the expression Gwyn once joked was his "merchant face".
How heavy must the weight lie on them. All of them. But what was he doing? He was Prince Gawain Golden-Feather of the Empire of Gryphus, Heir to the Lightbringer and agent of the Diplomatic Corps. He should be right in the thick of it, and yet still he felt like he was watching the world through a keyhole in a gilded, opulent, luxurious cage.
He exhales a shaky breath he did not notice he was breathing, trying to reign himself back in, even as his thoughts are drawn to earlier memories.
All his life, Gawain has lived in the shadow of war.
His very birth was punctuated by the battle of Wingbardy, just before Mad King Brochard was beheaded by a war hero - when the Kingdom of Griffonia became the Empire of Gryphus. He spent the last years of his childhood and the first years of his adolescence cowering in fear from the comfort of his palace, as thousands were fed to the monsters of Shadow King Sombra. It was only by the end of it that he first realized what war had truly meant, as he stared into the faces of innocent ponies shaken by trauma and torture. And when he became an adult, he left a potential life spent in scholarship to join the Diplomatic Corps, in order to maintain the peace innumerable beings died for. Like many griffons, he was defined by a war-culture. He prepared for it - board games and tomes of strategy, duels with spear, sword, and shield - nothing compared to an actual training regiment, but he was as military as any griff. It was just the way things had to be.
But now, war threatens to set the world on fire once again, and he was still cowering in its shadow, cowering in his palace. He's almost as old as Dad was when he became king, and still, he felt like that lost child, scared of war.
Hadn't he made a promise to himself, back then? He suddenly turns his head towards a shelf, which contained all his board games. Had he forgotten what it had meant? Wasn't he supposed to commit himself, like his mother and father had done?
The thought repeats in his head. What was he doing here?
His claws tighten white against the silk of his comforter, more emotion, more awful thoughts racing through his mind until he pushes himself off the bed with a quiet grunt of finality, his earlier stoicism shakily making its way onto his face again. He heads for his private nightstand, gripping and pulling one of the knobs with utmost gentleness, even through the tumultuous feelings boiling in his heart.
Within the drawer, is a letter from father to son, two and a half decades old, dogeared from years of re-reading, yet still whole from a lifetime of princely grace. Once again, Gawain Golden-Feather reads the letter his father wrote to him. Once again, his eyes scan across each line, each handwritten word, the voice of the one griffon he looked up to more than anyone in the whole of the world repeating every syllable in his mind. Once again, he reaches the end, breathing long and deep as he reads the closing statement, of this message from father to son, from king to prince.
"Remember, Gawain, when you choose to draw your sword as King you unleash countless suffering on the world. Yet if there is no better choice, if the cause you fight for is just, if in doing so that pain will pave the way for a brighter future for the children of those who will suffer as I hope this war will for you, then do not hesitate for a moment to draw it!"
He is silent, for a moment, staring at the aged parchment, though he does not read it again. Then, slowly, he rolls it back up, places it with the utmost gentleness back into his drawer, and spins around, towards his room's double door, purpose flaring in each step.
He still has his duties in the Diplomatic Corps, and that duel with Ki. But both have taught him... that it was time to stop running from his guilt. That he had to do something to be worthy of his crown. One way or another, he will be part of the Maretonian Campaign.
It's his Imperial Priority.
---
the Gilded Prince and his Gilded Cage
the Gilded Prince and his Gilded Cage
Prince Gawain Golden-Feather looks around at his personal quarters, full of all the opulence and luxury that an empire could provide, and, all too suddenly, feels a dizzying stab of emptiness pulse through his chest.
As he steps in, he stares blankly around himself, at sofas, paintings, curtains... The usual sharpness of his thoughtstream dull, he paces towards his bed, pressing a talon onto the soft comforter. Too soft. He grimaces, his famed stoic visage marred with a hollow-eyed anxiety. He did not climb onto the bed, stuck in this pose, staring at his own claw as it curls into a fist that draws waves of folds across the imperial fabric.
What was he doing here, of all places?
Here, in the northernmost part of the Empire, hundreds of miles from the border south, where, hundreds of miles further, in the heart of a dying country, was a ruin that used to be a capital.
Here, in the Imperial Palace, with his every need tended to, as Griffons and Diamond Dogs and Ponies of every color, every hide, go forth to form the great hammer that was the army of Gryphus, as twenty-five thousand worthy lives give their lifeblood towards the absolution of a land from a tyrant - and that was to make little mention of the countless logisticians, clerks, merchants, smiths, and innumerable other laborers to supply their claws, paws, and hooves.
Here, in a secluded room, the doors shut, as beyond it the highest heads of the Empire perform their administration, giving their every effort towards the organization, the strategy, the direction of the oncoming force; as legendary figures, idols of the citizenry everywhere nonetheless push themselves to the limit, for the sake of saving the lives of those they will never meet... Imperial or Maretonian.
Gawain looks up and around himself again, craning his neck at the too-familiar interior of his room. Guilt and fear flood into his mind like lightning, faster than he can control, as all the treacherous thoughts that he has been keeping at bay are uncorked, here, where no one can see his facade break. He sneers, pressing his other talon onto the bed as he slouches in exhaustion; not physical, but born of stress, his mind replaying all the things he's been hearing over the past few months - every little tick forwards in the clock to the Maretonian Campaign. The posters, the warehouses, Gisa's sudden annoyance with Redbeak... most of all, the faces on Mom and Dad. They were always full of adoration for him and his sisters, and they still are - but now he only gets to see his father as he's drifting from meeting to meeting, counsel to counsel, brow narrowed with the expression Gwyn once joked was his "merchant face".
How heavy must the weight lie on them. All of them. But what was he doing? He was Prince Gawain Golden-Feather of the Empire of Gryphus, Heir to the Lightbringer and agent of the Diplomatic Corps. He should be right in the thick of it, and yet still he felt like he was watching the world through a keyhole in a gilded, opulent, luxurious cage.
He exhales a shaky breath he did not notice he was breathing, trying to reign himself back in, even as his thoughts are drawn to earlier memories.
All his life, Gawain has lived in the shadow of war.
His very birth was punctuated by the battle of Wingbardy, just before Mad King Brochard was beheaded by a war hero - when the Kingdom of Griffonia became the Empire of Gryphus. He spent the last years of his childhood and the first years of his adolescence cowering in fear from the comfort of his palace, as thousands were fed to the monsters of Shadow King Sombra. It was only by the end of it that he first realized what war had truly meant, as he stared into the faces of innocent ponies shaken by trauma and torture. And when he became an adult, he left a potential life spent in scholarship to join the Diplomatic Corps, in order to maintain the peace innumerable beings died for. Like many griffons, he was defined by a war-culture. He prepared for it - board games and tomes of strategy, duels with spear, sword, and shield - nothing compared to an actual training regiment, but he was as military as any griff. It was just the way things had to be.
But now, war threatens to set the world on fire once again, and he was still cowering in its shadow, cowering in his palace. He's almost as old as Dad was when he became king, and still, he felt like that lost child, scared of war.
Hadn't he made a promise to himself, back then? He suddenly turns his head towards a shelf, which contained all his board games. Had he forgotten what it had meant? Wasn't he supposed to commit himself, like his mother and father had done?
The thought repeats in his head. What was he doing here?
His claws tighten white against the silk of his comforter, more emotion, more awful thoughts racing through his mind until he pushes himself off the bed with a quiet grunt of finality, his earlier stoicism shakily making its way onto his face again. He heads for his private nightstand, gripping and pulling one of the knobs with utmost gentleness, even through the tumultuous feelings boiling in his heart.
Within the drawer, is a letter from father to son, two and a half decades old, dogeared from years of re-reading, yet still whole from a lifetime of princely grace. Once again, Gawain Golden-Feather reads the letter his father wrote to him. Once again, his eyes scan across each line, each handwritten word, the voice of the one griffon he looked up to more than anyone in the whole of the world repeating every syllable in his mind. Once again, he reaches the end, breathing long and deep as he reads the closing statement, of this message from father to son, from king to prince.
"Remember, Gawain, when you choose to draw your sword as King you unleash countless suffering on the world. Yet if there is no better choice, if the cause you fight for is just, if in doing so that pain will pave the way for a brighter future for the children of those who will suffer as I hope this war will for you, then do not hesitate for a moment to draw it!"
He is silent, for a moment, staring at the aged parchment, though he does not read it again. Then, slowly, he rolls it back up, places it with the utmost gentleness back into his drawer, and spins around, towards his room's double door, purpose flaring in each step.
He still has his duties in the Diplomatic Corps, and that duel with Ki. But both have taught him... that it was time to stop running from his guilt. That he had to do something to be worthy of his crown. One way or another, he will be part of the Maretonian Campaign.
It's his Imperial Priority.
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