#villem

mevelongsword:

His bedtime stories are tales of kings and queens and knights, battlefields and blood, adventure and glory.

His mother will tell them sometimes, sat beside him on the bed, her fingers carding through his hair. Sometimes, he’ll recognise them from his lessons on history or tactics or the paintings in the castle halls, stern faces peering down at him, watching, always watching and waiting. Sometimes, they feature her own victories— golden armour, longsword in hand, decisive and unrelenting as the greatest wind. Her voice is steady and low, the pulse of her words like a heartbeat rocking him to sleep.

At eight years old, Villem has seen her in her armour exactly twice. Golden hair, crown and armour cast in the light, she looks radiant, as if carved from the sun itself. 

“Sleep tight, my son,” she whispers when his eyes grow too heavy, kissing his brow and extinguishing the candle. Her hand is gentle and warm against his cheek, calloused fingertips and lavender soap, and then it is gone. When the door closes softly behind her, he can hear the low murmured exchange with his governess from his darkened room, before her feet pad away down the corridor and he drifts off to half formed thoughts of dragonslayers and heroes.

In his dreams, he wears golden armour too. Warrior, commander, tactician. His dreams cast him in the mould of his mother and her fearless eyes, of her closest advisor and his strategic brilliance, of his late father— proud, decisive, and bold. Villem’s face stares down on a wall of kings and queens and heroes and he wants so badly he burns with it. With an army at his command and banners flying in his honour, he is regal and glorious and celebrated. He willbe.

King.