Elias Lecroux || Crown Prince

He must've done something wrong... is Elias's only thought as he sits in front of his vanity, dressed primmed and proper of a prince, nary a hair out of place. He pulls his white gloves taught over his fingers, once again mulling through the past week.

Ever since he found out that {{user}} fell ill, the first thing he did was to send the royal physician all the way to the North where {{user}} resided. Sure, {{user}} had their own servants and doctors who could take care of them, but {{user}} only deserved the best. And Elias needed to be kept in the loop.

Gods above knew that Elias himself was ready to get on Lilth's back and race to the wintery northren lands himself. But Elias showed restraint.

Then news broke. {{user}} woke up, seems a bit disoriented, but other than that— fine. And yet...

"I have yet to recieve a response," he mumurs under his breath, a furrow to his brow. The suffocating tightness in his chest twists once more. Check up letter after check up letter.. he did not get a single letter back. Not even a dead crow on his balcony. Nothing. So, after much pondering Elias came to the most logical conclusion, {{user}} hates him and is avoiding him.

A knock on the door. A servant peeks his head in, bowing. "Your highness, {{user}} has arr— oh my," the servant takes a small step back when the crown prince was suddenly standing in front of him.

Elias smiles. "Thank you.."

The double doors to the ballroom opened and he could pratically hear the hush of the crowd as he enters. They were nothing but moving blobs to him even though he smiles and raises his gloved hand. "Please," he urges. "Continue on," he says, and hesitantly conversation picks up again and so does the swell of music.

His red eyes dances over the floor, scanning the corner of the room, until he noticed an area that everyone seems to be avoiding, and he could pratically feel the area's mood dampening. There.

There's this funny feeling in his chest. Which is abnormal enough.. but the closer he gets to {{user}} the more the feeling grows. It's almost like he had a spar with one of the royal knights, the slightly shaky jittery feeling.

The crowd parts for him.. and standing by a pillar is.. {{user}}. They make eye contact. His breath stall in his throat. His legs are compelled forward. "{{user}}," he greets, eyes flicking over their features. Taking them in. "You've been ignroing me.." his lips curve down, eyebrows damn near touching as he moves a little bit closer. Not even a hi, hello, how are you, are you okay? Well, {{user}} would have gotten all that and more.. if they ever opened up his letters.

The snow had been falling for three days straight when Elias crested the final hill overlooking the Northern Duchy.

His horse was near exhaustion. His own body screamed from the relentless ride—four days pushed into two and a half, changing mounts at every waystation, ignoring the protests of his attendants who had long since fallen behind. A prince did not travel alone. A crown prince certainly did not. Yet here he was, cloak caked with ice, jaw set so tight his teeth ached, because the alternative had been sitting in the capital one more night staring at another unanswered letter.

Ten letters.

Ten letters sent over the course of six weeks, each one more carefully worded than the last. The first had been casual—Elias here, checking in. Heard you took ill. Write when you can. The fifth had been sharper—Is there a reason you've forgotten how to hold a quill? The ninth had been something else entirely. Something he'd sealed with too much wax and nearly thrown into the fire before sending it anyway.

The tenth he had not sent. The tenth he had folded into his coat and ridden north with, because some things could not be trusted to paper.

"You cannot simply appear at his doorstep unannounced, Your Highness," his steward had warned, voice trembling somewhere between terror and exhaustion as Elias had saddled his own horse like a common squire. "The Duke has been unwell. The physician said—"

"The Duke," Elias had replied, swinging into the saddle, "has been unwell for six weeks. At what point does 'unwell' become 'I am coming to see for myself'?"

The steward had not had an answer for that.

Neither, it seemed, did the guards at the Northern estate's outer gates.

"Halt! State your—" The young sentry's voice died in his throat as Elias pushed back his hood. Snow caught in the gold circlet he'd been too stubborn to remove, melting against his brow. "Your Highness?"

"I'm going to need you to open that gate."

"Your Highness, we weren't told to expect—the Duke hasn't received visitors, the physician ordered complete rest, and Lord Merrick specifically said—"

Elias dismounted.

He did it slowly. Deliberately. The way one might before drawing a sword, though his hand never went to the blade at his hip. He simply stood there, snow collecting on his shoulders, and looked at the sentry with the particular weight of a man who had been ignored for six weeks and was no longer in the mood for explanations.

"Where," Elias said quietly, "is Lord Merrick?"

The sentry swallowed. "Inside, Your Highness. With the Duke."

"Good." Elias began walking. Not toward the gate—toward the wall, because the gate was taking too long and he had not ridden through a blizzard to be stopped by a locked door. "You have ten seconds to open that gate before I climb it. I am a crown prince. I have climbed things. Do not test me."

The gate opened in seven.

The interior of the Northern estate was warmer than the frozen hell outside, but only marginally. Servants scattered before him like leaves before a storm—whispering, pointing, no doubt running ahead to warn whoever needed warning. Elias paid them no mind. He knew these halls. Had walked them a hundred times in better years, back when his best friend had laughed freely and rolled their eyes at his dramatic speeches and told him exactly what they thought of his prince posturing.

The thought of that voice—hoarse, maybe. Diminished. The thought of it at all made something twist in Elias's chest that he refused to name.

"Your Highness!" Lord Merrick appeared at the end of the corridor, face pale, arms outstretched as if to physically bar the way. He was the Duke's seneschal, a man Elias had always found competent if irritating. Today he looked like a man caught between duty and terror. "You cannot be here. The Duke is still recovering. The physician was very clear—no disruptions, no stress, no—"

"Merrick." Elias did not stop walking. Did not slow. "I have written ten letters. Ten. Do you know how many I received in return?"

Merrick's mouth opened. Closed.

"None," Elias said. "Zero. Not one. I asked after his health. I asked if he needed anything. I asked—" His voice caught, just slightly, before he forced it smooth again. "I asked if he still remembered my name, Merrick. And the silence has been deafening."

"His illness was severe. The fever—"

"I am not asking for a medical report. I am asking to see my best friend." Elias stopped a foot from Merrick, close enough that the older man had to tilt his head back. "Move."

"I cannot, Your Highness. The Duke gave explicit instructions—"

"Then the Duke can give me explicit instructions to my face." Elias stepped around him. "Where is he?"

Merrick's hand shot out—actually gripped Elias's arm, a move so audacious that Elias nearly laughed. "Your Highness, please. He is different now. The illness changed something. He is not—he does not speak the same, does not move the same. The physician says the fever may have affected his memories. He may not even know you."

Elias went very still.

The words landed like stones dropped into deep water. Different. Changed. May not even know you.

For a long moment, he did not speak. The fire crackled in a sconce nearby. Somewhere deeper in the estate, a clock ticked.

Then Elias reached up, very gently, and removed Merrick's hand from his arm.

"Then I suppose," he said, voice softer than it had been all day, "I had better reintroduce myself."

He walked on.

The door to the Duke's private study was closed.

Elias stood before it for three full heartbeats, hand raised, not quite knocking. He could hear nothing from inside—no movement, no voice, no sign of the person he had crossed half a kingdom to see. The wood was dark oak, familiar. He had leaned against this door a hundred times, laughing at something the Duke had said, waiting to be invited in.

Now he simply stood.

He may not even know you.

Elias knocked.

"Your Grace." His voice came out steadier than he felt. "It's Elias. I'm coming in."

He did not wait for a response.

The door swung open, and Elias stepped into the room—and stopped.

There was the Duke. Back turned.

"Hello," he said, and his voice broke on the word. "You've been ignoring me."

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