[Corvidaeum] Afterparty

There are certain things that are expected of the heir to the throne. 

Ravien Corvin Noches knows this. He has, after all, been royalty his entire life. Fourteen years that he's spent being told, in no uncertain terms, exactly what those expectations are. What to wear, how to present himself, who to speak with and who not to, and when and where. For instance, the public appearances he’s meant to make when the need arises. He knows he’s there to stand alongside his father and ensure the people of his continued well-being – and, more importantly, his ability to one day take his rightful place on the throne. 

Sometimes this means attending holiday festivals or charity galas. Or banquets. Like the one tonight.

The only problem is, Ravien isn't particularly fond of public appearances.

His afternoon trip to the library had been a stalling tactic, and he's under no illusions that he was able to fool his father into thinking otherwise. Not that he’d tried particularly hard to. Even so, when he'd announced his intentions to “locate a tome I have been intending to retrieve. In order to further my current studies,” Corven hadn't stopped him. Even when Ravien had practically fled the scene.

It really had been just one book, at first. But while perusing its pages in search of the chapter he’d needed to reference, he’d stumbled onto a different story altogether. It had reminded him of a historical account he’d once read regarding a former queen of Columbidaeum and, suddenly feeling as though he was looking at two puzzle pieces with a lot of empty space in between, he’d gone to retrieve that volume as well. Thus one book had turned into two, and a third – just in case another author’s perspective offered further insight – and maybe a fourth and fifth he’d picked up on his way to grab the second one.

Now he's here, slow candlelight from the lantern atop the desk reflecting languidly across the barricade of books that fills every edge of the table. There are two books laid out side by side in front of him and a third propped open to lean against a stack he has yet to get to, and his quill scratches hastily across paper, fighting to put all of his thoughts to paper before the bigger picture that’s forming in his mind’s eye has a chance to go out of focus. 

The only reason he is aware of the click of footsteps against the wooden floor behind him is because part of him is expecting it. The rhythmic, unbroken metronome of a steady gait feels suddenly grating to his senses after so much time spent with nothing other than the sound of rustling paper and his own occasional muttering.

One servant had already come by to remind him that he would need to return to his rooms soon in order to prepare for the banquet. Later, he’ll feel bad that he’d been so focused on his reading – and so frustrated by the interruption that had made the thread of the idea he’d been pondering briefly slip from his grasp – that he hadn’t even bothered to check who it was. Now, however, he’s already raising his hand to wave them off – “Just a few more minutes” – to try and avoid a repeat of the previous incident.

“You missed the speech.”

The voice is deep and warm, not so much breaking the silence as gliding through it as if it had always belonged there. It’s also startlingly familiar.

Ravien’s head snaps up from the books in front of him, all the thoughts that had been swirling around in his head swept away at once. The quill lies dormant in his hand as he blinks up into the face of his father.

The ache in the back of his neck hits him first. It’s followed shortly after by… everything else. He takes stock of the stiffness that inhabits all of his limbs, and the fledgling pulse of a headache that’s taking up space behind his eyes. Feeling his stomach sink, he glances back over his shoulder to where night has settled in behind the tall windows that overlook the courtyard, deeper and darker than usual thanks to the heavy rain pattering almost sideways against the glass. His vision briefly lights up as the sky outside glows, followed closely by a roll of thunder that’s muted only by the manor’s thick walls. How long has it been raining?

It’s only then that Corvus’s words fully register. The speech. If he’s already given the speech, that means the banquet is mostly over – the festivities will be winding down, and it’s only a matter of time before the corvidii who still linger are sent back to their homes or shown to their rooms depending on their social standing and the length of their journeys. 

And Ravien is still here. In the library. The sleeves of his thoroughly wrinkled shirt are rolled up to his elbows and his back twinges with disuse as he rolls his shoulders and stretches his wings away from the vest that hangs over the back of his chair. 

Slowly, and not without a bit of effort, he turns his head once more, already bracing himself for the lecture.

Corvus stands as regal and proud as ever in his royal raiment, radiating all the splendor the Crown should possess, even in partial darkness, lit only by the glow of Ravien’s lantern. His focus is entirely on his son, silver-gray eyes intent and unreadable, and his right hand wraps around– 

Ravien blinks.

“Is that blackberry?”

It’s not at all what he’d meant to say, and he can feel the heat rising to his pale cheeks. But the moment he’d set eyes on the plate in his father’s hand, his stomach had reminded him, with a rather insistent and unpleasant pang, that it has, apparently, been several hours since he’d last eaten. And now it’s all he can think about.

Corvus holds it out towards him, the corner of his mouth twitching up in an unmistakable gesture that matches the sudden shine in his eyes. 

“And white chocolate,” he says. “I thought you might appreciate a snack.”

Ravien can’t help ducking his head a bit as he reaches out with both hands to accept the plate, careful to keep his thumb on the fork that’s balanced atop it. He’s not entirely certain he’s earned dessert, considering the circumstances. But the white chocolate ganache covering the tart shines in the warm candlelight and the beautiful deep red of the glistening blackberry coulis that drips over the sides is practically making his mouth water. So he doesn’t protest, and he doesn’t waste any time taking his first bite. If anything, the excuse of chewing will give him an excuse to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say.

He watches his father carefully, waiting for any signs of anger – or worse, disappointment – but Corvus’s posture remains loose and relaxed, the line of his shoulders easy as he leans one hip against the desk, surveying the organized chaos of books and paper that currently hides the mahogany underneath.

“I trust that’s still your favorite?” Corvus says lightly, and it takes Ravien a moment to figure out that he’s referring to the tart, and the sweet-bitter tang of blackberry that’s currently dancing across his tastebuds. Silently, he nods.

“Thanks,” he says. It comes out too quick when he realizes that he should have said it much sooner. He swallows down another mouthful of dessert, and the lump in his throat with it. “Dad, I–”

“You’ve been missed downstairs.” Corvus says it like he’s commenting on the weather, the rain and thunder that still batter the manor from the outside, and Ravien isn’t sure whether the interruption was intentional or not. This time when his lips move, it’s to curl into a smile – a real one, not the pleasant expression his wears like a mask when he’s at court, and Ravien can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Sorry,” Ravien mutters, finishing his earlier thought, because he definitely feels like he needs to say it. 

There’s no need to explain, he knows. The desk in front of him and the ink staining the tips of his fingers says it all for him. But even letting the apology hang there, in the short space between them, loosens the knot that had been squeezing at his chest since the moment he realized what time it was.

“I bet it was a good speech.”

Corvus huffs, a little puff of air mostly from the nose that nonetheless makes him press his lips together tighter to keep the smile from growing out of control.

“I would hope so, considering you wrote half of it.”

“Not quite half,” Ravien says, moving his hand to rub at the back of his neck before he remembers he’s holding a fork and stops himself. The protest sounds half-baked even to his own ears. Corvus sighs and shakes his head

“Close enough. The banquet’s almost over.” The change of subject is sudden, and it would be jarring coming from anyone other than his father, who he knows all too well has a natural way of getting to the heart of things without beating around the bush. It might have been a subtle reprimand if Corvus did subtlety, and if he wasn’t still leaning against the desk, the casual cock of his hip entirely at odds with the pristine cut of his royal raiment. 

Ravien swallows the last bite of tart and sets the plate down atop his writing paper. It was just as delicious as it had looked, if not more so, and although his stomach isn’t quite so cavernous as it was before, there’s a small, somewhat childish part of him that definitely wants more.

“Thank you,” he says again. He nods at the plate. “It was really good.”

“Well then,” Corvus says, voice straining with feigned effort as he pushes away from the desk once more. “If you get dressed and come down quickly enough, there might be another piece set aside for you in the kitchens. For afterwards.”

He reaches out a hand to lay it against Ravien’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. As Ravien looks up at him, his eyes twinkle like he’s sharing a secret between just the two of them. For a moment, the weight of the titles that hang over the both of them – the everyday pressures of their job, of their lives – all falls away. And in the yellow light of the lantern, sheltered from the rain and thunder outside that gives no sign of letting up, they are only what they are. A son smiling up at his father.