@jericholeader sent: ♛ (!!!)
send ♛ for a royalty au | accepting selectively
He was on his own, but he was used to it, this way. Technically speaking he was only a prince, but with his mother busy at the war front (they’d conquered three separate districts, just this past month) it was left to Connor to ensure the new mouths to feed that rushed into Stern territory had something to eat; it was his job as Prince Connor to keep the troops organised, keep the castle operational, manage resources… there were rumours of Prince Connor, the silent would-be ghost, man-turned-machine modelled from young into the person that the Queen had needed to justify her campaign of war and greed.
Connor was aware of these rumours. He didn’t think much of them. He did not have time. ‘Greed’? He was the one organising supplies to ensure people in the castle had enough to eat. Maybe the slums had less (he’d never been out there, he wouldn’t know), but the influx of people - and it was a large influx - that each new district brang into these walls was difficult enough to deal with: it was the right thing to do to make sure the castle staff were fed and taken care of. It had never occurred to him to think about the world beyond it, except sometimes when the staff at the castle forgot they were in the presence of a Prince, or didn’t notice. They spoke, sometimes, of their families at home. The money they sent back. The reasons they were working there, like loyalty to Amanda was not a possible contributor.
They didn’t do her justice, you know. She could be… extreme, but only when it was fair. Connor had not been punished in over three years, now. She was trying to improve people, not make them suffer.
Still, he had a reputation for lurking, and it seemed one of the newest staffers - what did he do? Connor did not keep track of every new individual; he could not have guessed at the man’s area of work - was either unaware, or uncaring. He was writing a letter, of sorts, in the vast library. Connor had learnt some of the most basic words from the language of the latest district they’d overrun, but it was most common for those districts to learn his language; he could read over Markus’ shoulder the word for father, he thought, somewhere near the top of the page, but that was all. Money to send home, maybe? News to write back? It was rare an entire family would find employment in the castle.
So few people were literate these days. Many of the words this man scrawled on the page were things he did not recognise, because they belonged to a language that was not his, but the man wrote with confidence.
“What are you writing?”
Connor verbalised it, from where he stood. The man was so engrossed in his work that he wouldn’t have noticed him there. And then - when the man’s eyes snapped up - Connor realised the language barrier might go both ways. “Ec….” oh, the word - “tu écris?”
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