With valor, hard work, and incredible charisma, the former king brought hope and prosperity to the once war-torn lands of Charoux.
Over the first decades of his reign, the citizens were able to pick up the pieces, rebuilding the villages through the peace the valiant king seized.
Emotions for the majority of the kingdom were at a peak the morning of King Felix's funeral. With the deeds accomplished by the firm yet kindhearted ruler, it was no surprise that most would feel the need to mourn over the great loss of leadership.
Everyone had hope. The king's son would become their new leader. The flesh and blood of the former ruler would take the reign and surely continue the age of prosperity.
Everyone had hope except for the king's son.
Fennel opened his eyes as the rays from the sun shone down on his face. He stretched, then scratched behind his fluffy ears.
His new life was just beginning, and he held no real hope for his personal future or happiness.
Even so, he would do his hardest to live up to the expectations of his people. One feline's personal fulfillment being brushed aside was worth the reward of seeing the rest of Charoux thrive.
A maid slipped in quietly. She bowed to the prince, then set a jug of warm water, a porcelain bowl, and a silver plate with perfectly folded white cloth on the nightstand next to his bed. She bowed and made her leave as quick as she appeared.
Fennel slowly stood up from the bed, stretching his legs as he moved in front of the table. He filled the bowl with water, then dipped a cloth in it.
Leaning over, he wiped the cloth across his face to remove sweat and oil buildup from the night of sleep.
He sighed as he dipped his fingertips in the bowl. The warm water felt nice on his fingertips, even if the heat outside was at its peak during the summer solstice.
Green eyes narrowed on the ornate black robes laid out across his dresser. The particular stitching on the seams indicated their use. The robes were worn exclusively during times of mourning, war, and general grief.
A majestic lion was stitched in gold over the back. It lay on the ground on all fours with arrows piercing its flesh, indicating a time for the beast to be laid to rest. A symbolic image fitting for the occasion.
They were robes Fennel had not had to wear during his short years of living.
After dressing, Fennel looked into the mirror. He gazed at his reflection.
Nothing about the person who stared back at him indicated a regal ruler, ready to govern his people. He still saw a teenage boy on the surface, unable to even understand who he was as an individual.
There was no confidence or stereotypical masculine features people had come to expect from their king, nor was he overly charismatic.
Fennel felt he had not inherited a single good trait from either of his parents, aside from the blazing copper hair.
He reached up, touching his cheek against the reflection. The skin was smooth without a single blemish, an indication of his privilege, but he didn't resemble a man in any way, shape, or form. He wasn't even able to grow out a respectable beard—or any beard at all, for that matter—like the one his father had lining his jawline.
Fennel felt pathetic, and the closer that time ticked toward the coronation, the less ready he felt for it. It was surreal that his mother actually had confidence in him to rule.
If only she were willing to break the tradition and rule as a matriarch, he would have more time to grow into the required abilities.
Sure, he had the best education a citizen could possibly receive, but an education alone could not make up for a lack of real world experience.
Perhaps the time of peace had one drawback: Fennel, the king, would have zero experience dealing with conflict if it were to suddenly arise.
Fennel made his way to the dining room. Somehow, he was the first person to show their presence at the table.
He gazed at the seat his mother would occupy at the head of the table, the one that would be his, then stepped to the seat to the direct right of it, flattening his robes under his body as he sat.
Fennel watched as a maid scurried in, frantically working to put down the place settings for the meal.
She looked nervous, as if his being there was a hindrance.
"I'm so sorry this wasn't finished before you arrived," she apologized as she placed the rolled silverware in front of him.
"No," Fennel began. "I woke up too early."
The maid, Lyse, paused. She folded her arms in front of her body, her raven black tail swaying from side to side. "Were you unable to rest, your highness?"
"I had some difficulties," he admitted, looking down at his lap.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, clutching her hands tightly together. "Your highness, if there is anything I can do to assist you, please let me know."
"Thank you," he mumbled.
"You're too young for this responsibility," she whispered. "I'm one year older than you are, and I am even barely prepared to do this job as just a maid."
Fennel offered the maid a soft smile. He closed his eyes tightly as he was suppressing tears. Even if she could intellectually understand his internal struggle, he couldn't allow the royal staff to see him in a state of weakness.
King Felix had never shown signs of weakness to anyone, as far as Fennel was aware. He needed to become as strong as his father. He had to.
There was no alternative option.
He heard her leave the dining room. When she was gone, he took a deep breath.
It was too early for breakfast. He realized there would be at least an hour before his mother and the others showed up to eat.
Fennel felt anxious, so he had made his way to the table without thinking about how much longer it would be before meal time.
It was fine. It gave him the opportunity to sort through his emotions before the midday funeral. It would be difficult, but he had to manage a way to hold back tears when he assisted in carrying the casket, per royal protocol. He was unsure how he would keep them in check when his hand was against the coffin holding his dear father's remains.
It was devastating for the kingdom as a whole, but for Fennel, the death was more personal.
Just thinking about it made a tear escape the edge of his right eye. He brushed it away with his index finger.
When his eyes opened, he glanced back at his father's former seat, which his mother had utilized for the past couple of days as the temporary head of state.
"Maybe now would be a good time to get all my tears out," he whispered to himself, an uncomfortable knot forming in his throat. "Not even the staff will be in here for an hour. I don't need to worry."
Without a second thought, his small palms coveted his face. His frame hunched over, and his shoulders dropped, his elbows resting against his knees as he held his face with his trembling hands.
He let the tears flow without hesitation.
As he cried, he swallowed hard. It felt like he would suffocate on the secretions pooling in his throat.
The prince was a mess. His brain was a mess, his heart was a mess, and now even his face was a mess.
For the longest time, he whimpered out freely, the tears coming so strongly that they began to run down the sides of his hands. Never before in his life had he cried such uncontrollable tears.
It was a sadness he never thought he would be faced with.
Fennel was going to be the king in less than 48 hours. He didn't understand why he couldn't control the acute depression that had developed since his father's passing. If he couldn't control that, how would he manage the politics involved for an entire kingdom, and not just any kingdom—the largest kingdom on the continent?
Time seemed to come to a halt as he cried alone. The minutes felt like hours.
That was until he felt the gentle caress of a hand on his shoulder.
Fennel hurriedly pulled his palms away from his tear-stained face. He couldn't appear weak if someone was nearby.
"My prince," that familiar, soothing voice called out to him. "Do you want to talk?"
"Oliver," Fennel managed to get out between ragged breaths. "Why are you in here already?"
Oliver took a seat in the chair directly next to the prince. He reached out and placed his hand on top of Fennel's. "The better question would be for me to ask why you are crying alone at a dining table?"