The Prince gripped the sides of the ship as tightly as he could, swaying with the motion as the deck lumbered like a sleeping giant. It took all his strength not to lurch overboard and empty his stomach, and he took up a position that put less stress on his stomach. His corset served to only constrict his passageways further, and he regretted having put it on earlier.

Behind him, the crew worked hard against the gentle breeze, unfurling sails and tying rope, and further above, a boy climbed the rigging with purpose, at dizzying heights that even Frederick couldn't comprehend. As he came down, the Prince dug into his coat pockets, and flipped a silver coin towards the lad, stunned by his bravery, and the ship boy tipped his head in thanks, grinning as he scampered away, the sheen of the silver catching the light.

The Prince sighed. His country had been built on silver, and in silver it had fallen. At night, he still had nightmares of the flames flickering through the palace, as the red-coated soldiers fell upon his quarters and rummaged through for loot, scattering silver, breaking silver, and taking silver. He was suddenly brought back to reality by a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Frederick, you alright there?" an anxious face appeared before Frederick, wispy hair blowing in the breeze, "You look awful, have you had too much rum?"

The Prince smiled in return, "No, Gridion, I'm fine."

He turned to face the waves. Glittering, sparkling, dazzling in a myriad of light waves, it shone brilliantly, the day was good. Gridion came to his side, smiling all the while. The Prince was a character of average stature, the days on the ship stripping away some of his spare fat and leaving behind an almost gaunt and worn man. It would've been hard to believe that this man was a Colonel, with his unshaven countenance and baggy eyes. But beneath it all, he was a handsome fellow, and many a woman had the fortunes of meeting him under brighter conditions. 

"We're almost home, Fred. Captain said it'll be a few days yet, gods it's been a long time."

"You think anything's changed?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Gridion faced his friend, worry etching his features. Everyday, he noticed that the boy before him was becoming more of a man, day by day, wearied and troubled in contrast to the youthful chap he had once been. "Of course things have changed, it's been 5 years."

"You think these Albionic bastards have left yet? That's the change I'm looking for."

"Quiet, now!" Gridion hissed, "There are Albions everywhere on this ship."

"And 5 of our boys to every Albion, remember." Frederick laughed at his friend's apprehensive face, "Don't worry, Grid, I'm not thinking of doing anything stupid... yet."

Gridion clapped a hand on his shoulder, and walked away, barking nervous orders, his Major's epaulets giving him the authority he needed. A sudden cough to his right brought his attention to none other than Gunther Polthardt, commanding officer of the 2nd Battalion, Royal Silverian Legion. Frowning, he looked after Gridion, and turned to Frederick.

"You really shouldn't be spreading such anti-Imperial thoughts, Sir." Digging into his pockets, Gunther withdrew a metallic flask and offered it to his commander. Already, some purple slush dribbled down the side of his fox-like face, a smart man, but hopelessly naive. "It's fine wine, Sir, I brought it from the markets when we touched down at Normandie."

"I do as I please, Major, I do hope you're not thinking of reporting me," Frederick took the flask, and took a swig. It was a nauseating mix, more akin to cheesy mold than the fine grape vineyards so associated with the countrysides of Normandie. "What hellhole of a tavern did you get this from? Fine wine, my ass."

"I'm running quite low on funds, I had to make do. The men have been restless recently, I've had to double their rum rations already." Gunther took back the flask and dipped a head towards Gridion. "The man's an odd one, Sir. He's a lion when we're in the thick of the fight, but a timid sheep otherwise."

Frederick was surprised by the accuracy of the analogy. Regardless, he was becoming fast annoyed by his subordinate. The man carried himself with a strange sense of privelaged discourse, and most obnoxious of all was the single red rose that protruded from his breast, a proud defining feature of the Albions.  

"I'd rather have a lion than someone who pisses themselves."

Gunther's face reddened. The rose almost seemed to wilt.

"Sir, I was shot in the arm, I was fortunate to even-"

Frederick waved an arm dismissively, "It's fine, Gunther, I'm only teasing."

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The Major took a moment to breathe before saluting.

"I'll see to the men, Sir, if I may be dismissed."

"You are, make sure you don't slip, the waves have been coming in harder, we're nearing the coast."

Gunther turned on his heels, and marched off in a smart manner. Again, the Prince looked to the seas. There it was, the coast alright, the peaked frames a city's walls clustered around the Royal Palace. The capital city of Yorke, trade hub of the West, and renowned for being either the rise or downfall of aspirational merchants. He was coming home.

{---}

The Palace was a flurry of activity, already rumors were spreading and servants scurried to and fro, laden with plates, dishes and cutlery. The feast was well underway, and guests chattered nonchalantly in the vibrant illumination of candles as the night went on. Some were stark gone to reality, drunk and snoring, whilst others exchanged the smallest talks and gossips. At first glance, the image was of a well-to-do entourage of happy upperclassmen, but beneath it all, lay a darker tone. King Justus graciously accepted another serving of honey laden pork, taking it down with the best port money could buy from Albion stocks themselves.

Surrounding him were gentlemen, as powdered and puffy as the women encrusted with jewels and the latest fashions, each attempting to outbid each other in silent contempt. Truly, each man and woman in the palace tonight seeked the King's favor, because tonight was the night that the King would choose his heir. Naturally, the position would've fallen to his son, but talk was spreading about how the unfortunate Prince Frederick had been unable to wed, much less bear a child to continue the legacy of the Augustus bloodline, and doomed to a life in the Albionic military.

The most scandalous spoke of how he had fallen in battle with the Romanovs to the North. With no other next of kin readily avainable, it seemed likely that the monstrously fat Paul Hardings would take over, sponsored by Albionic backers and possessing the support of many of the city's banks, on the Empire's payrolls, naturally. Other candidates included the stoic protector, Marshal Ibenstraum, but the man was older than Justus himself. and aging twice as fast, with an sword arm put to rest after years of service, and lastly, the astonishingly beautiful Lily Orshen, of noble Silverian blood, but from another house, sure to cause trouble in the future. Whoever it was, everyone in the Palace believed they had a chip to bet, and Justus was encircled by hawks and vultures in the guise of men and women.

"Would you have any news of your Son, my King?" an especially effeminate man asked.

"Of that, I have very little, I'm afraid." Justus carefully dissected the pork, taking care in showing the right poise and manners. "He's been posted everywhere, from what it seems."

"Oh the tales and adventures he must tell!" A woman giggled. "When he comes back, of course, which will be soon, Sire?"

"I've been told he's been moved again recently, alas I do not know where." he replied, savoring the explosion of tastes. "This pork is rather swell, I'd recommend it, kudos to the Chef, if you will."

"I hear Ibenstraum still has a lot of strength in his sword arm" the effeminate man said dismissively. "The man's 70 but still-"

"He's stark mad, you fool." another gentleman butted in ungraciously, fist clenched. "A strong man like Hardin- Apologies, Sire."

Justus nodded, and took a sip of port. Around him, the conversations continued.

"Lily's an angel, she'll bring prosperity and-"

"She's too soft, now Hardings, see-"

"The man's too obese to see further than food, food and more food!"

"Not much less than Ibenstraum, he's practically blind!"

"And the Prince? Surely, he'll be back?"

"Don't be a fool, the boy's fighting some idiot's war in the North, from what I hear, in the cold tundras of that backwards place-"

"And that makes him no less a claimant to the throne?"

"Yes, quite, a King thousands of miles away from his Kingdom!"

The current King simply reclined slightly, the pork was rather too sweet. Who would've thought meat and sweets would've done so well together. A hand touched his, cold and soft. Squinting slightly, after all, his sight was not so good now, he caught a glimpse of delicate blonde hair, and porcelain skin.

"Your Majesty, if I could entertain you for a while?"

The King submitted. Giggling slightly, Lily Orshen found a comfortable place upon a pillow, and sat lightly. Almost everything she did seemed so gracious, as she took delicate care in moderated sips of the rich port.

"I'm honored, Your Majesty." she put the cup down. Justus realized that not far behind her were two men clad in medieval plate, burnished and reflected in the candlelight, arms poised on antiquated swords, an oddity to be sure among the party. Even the King's own housegold guard stood awed, fists clenched around muskets a tad too tightly. This was not a woman to be trifled with. "If I could ask, on the affairs of your Son? I'm sure you're tired of the same old questions, but I'm rather curious."

The King clenched his teeth. Lily was no stranger to him. She and his son had been friends since childhood, and it was a blissfully touching moment to watch as she bawled upon her separation from Frederick all those years ago. She had taken every opportunity to ask after his health, worrying that her letters had been wholly ignored. What she did not know was that every letter sent to her dear Prince was first moderated by the Albionic Secret Services, and then simply binned. No one had contact with his son. Not even the powers of the King were over the Albions, working deftly in the shadows.

"He's been faring well, Lily, there's nothing to fret over." 

"That's wonderful! Where is he now?" her eyes seemed mesmerizing, there was no doubt that it left many a boy heartbroken. "Freddie's never written me back."

Her wonderful eyes turned cold for a second, an icy mist.

"He never writes back."

Justus felt uneasy for a second, and considered his thoughts before replying.

"I'm sure he's simply too busy, being an army officer does bring responsibility and burden onto a man."

"You're quite right, Your Majesty." her eyes returned to a lighter hue of blue, cocking her head and smiling, "I simply can't wait for him to return!"

I'm sure you do. Was all the King could think. I'm sure you do.