go back your hatching-day
media: dungeons & dragons (personal campaign)
originally published: august 2019
word count: 2166
notes: hatching-days are difficult enough even without possessing royal blood in your veins. stifled by the burdens of tradition, reides struggles under the weight of his crown.
i.
everyone in the kingdom knows your hatching-day.
after all, you hatched during that storm.
everyone remembers that storm. everyone.
and so, everyone knows your hatching-day. and your royal blood serves to add more complications to an inherently complicated day. it carries with it a certain significance that feels entirely out of your hands. as a child, you tried to grab onto it - but it always managed to evade you; to flit away in the deep sea waters and dissolve into nothingness. when your people talk of your hatching, they speak of perseverance, of patience, of fortitude. of having the strength to wrench power out of a seemingly powerless situation. the bards still sing their songs about that night. they say you didn’t cry, not even when it seemed as if the kingdom would collapse all around your tiny form. they mean well, you know they do. but you also know that, on that night, you did cry. you were a brand-new baby and there was a storm - so of course you did! the first time you pointed this out, viglis called you an idiot, so you decided to stop commenting on those songs altogether.
again: it’s entirely out of your hands.
sometimes, you feel as if hatching was the best thing you ever did for your family. for your people. and it wasn’t even something you did. it was something that happened to you. something that you had no say in.
but you’re glad that you hatched.
even if you really, really hate those songs.
ii.
you’re beneath several layers of very expensive fabric.
the cloak is a gigantic, garish thing, woven together by a who-knows-how-many people. you feel more uncomfortable in it than anything you’ve ever worn before. it’s out to swallow you whole, those whirling dark blues and pure whites making you so dizzy that you can’t look at it for long.
you turn away from the mirror. “is this it, then?”
you know the answer before your attendant shakes his head.
a crown is brought in, carried by one of the laverathian knights, secured in a translucent chest. it’s fashioned out of coral and quartz and long, pointed shells - with each year, the design only seems to become more complicated.
you frown as more attendants swarm, somehow being pushy while also treating you as if you’re made of glass. they swim around you, as you mustn’t turn or kneel or bow your head, not to them. as if you care for such pointless formalities. your hair is slicked back and braided into a traditional triton style that takes far too long to get right. strings of pearls are tied into it. you don’t feel real.
you’re half-asleep when the crown is freed from its case. it weighs heavy on your head, and, even if you aren’t heir to the throne, so do the duties of a prince. you’re expected at banquets and gatherings and meetings. expected to train and expected to know all about what’s going on with the nobles, all the time. you once met those expectations. now you find a certain delight in evading them.
but you can’t evade today. it’s inescapable. you realized at a very young age that your hatching-day doesn’t belong to you. that doesn’t make any of this easier.
you’re ready, now. dressed. swimming is difficult and your crown almost slips right off several times while you make your way to the banquet hall. knights are at your sides, and you can hear the bards singing their songs - echoes of their voices ricocheting off palace walls.
as you approach the door - large and ornate and looming over you - a knot forms in your throat.
you hate this.
iii.
“the storm prince, at it again.”
you glare at your brother, seated at your side. unlike you, viglis suits triton ceremony. his cloak does not swallow him and his crown is light upon his head; its grandiosity held up with no effort at all.
“i didn’t do anything,” you say.
“i know,” viglis replies. “that’s my point.” he looks away from you, clearly unwilling to elaborate.
the storm prince. yet another title you’ve grown to dislike, as those around you only use it when they mean to point out your flaws. not only is it yet another quip at your hatching-day, but storms are dangerous. they bring turmoil and change. you know that many of the nobles gossip about you - the pomp and circumstance of tradition and appearances covering up their more sinister opinions, whispered to each other in the dark. you dream of someday taking the title away from them; of being the storm prince for all the right reasons. but the nobles’ gossip seeps under you skin like poison.
at least viglis respects you enough to criticize you to your face.
you glance around the banquet, weary. dhudus is with the other young boys. he’s become the natural leader of their group - a stark contrast to how you were when you were his age. your mother is socializing, as well, and in her arms is baby lotlyn, wrapped in a bundle of blankets and dozing comfortably. you find yourself jealous: you wish you could doze this entire day away, too. as for your father… he sits beside viglis, his expression unreadable yet alert. he commands authority even when silent; draws attention by merely existing. his speech about your hatching-day - delivered earlier in the day - drew in thunderous applause.
the scenery is so familiar that it makes you queasy. you need to do something; you need to move. so you rise from your seat, making sure not to look back at viglis or your father and instead placing focus on keeping your crown properly balanced upon your head.
you swim around the hall and the nobles cast smiles your way. they laugh and they reach out to you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think they were truly here to see you. you manage to smile, to laugh, to talk with them, too - but the entire thing is so soulless that it makes you want to scream. and the hollowness of these interactions - the nobles aren’t all to blame. no; you are, too. your smile is fake, your laugh is fake, what you speak of is fake. you aren’t training to become a paladin like viglis. you aren’t attending the next banquet. you aren’t interested in your title. you cried your eyes out during that storm twenty years ago. was it always like this? is something wrong with you? are you going crazy? why are you so unhappy?
no answers come to you.
you just need to leave. you need to leave right now.
but you can’t. you have to wait for viglis’ attentions to be elsewhere - because you know he will find great issue with you leaving; you know he will force you to stay. only when he’s talking to some noblewoman do you swim towards the door. your father likely sees you slip away but he doesn’t stop you. he’s accustomed to this sort of thing from you. the storm prince. people will talk: you’re proving their gossip right. yet as much as that title bothers you, you don’t care about any of that right now.
maybe you are the storm prince after all.
iv.
you tear your hair free from the braids. strings of pearls now undone, they scatter in the water around you and slowly drift to the floor. the cloak falls from your shoulders and you let out a shaky sigh.
the crown rests on your bedside table. its casing is elsewhere; you told your attendant that you needed to be alone. you almost wish that he refused to leave you as such. almost.
you sit on your bed and cover your face with your hands. you don’t know how anyone can stand those banquets. is it a matter of maturity? you’re twenty years old, now. that should be mature enough, right? you think about it more and decide against this logic. you sincerely hope you won’t grow to be the type of person who finds delight in fake company and fake smiles.
the sea beyond your bedroom window is golden: it will be dark, soon. you rummage through your belongings, taking out a new outfit altogether. you change into garb befitting of a commoner, pulling a worn-down hood over your head as to conceal your true identity. you grab your spellbook and are quick to set off.
you’ve escaped from the castleon countless occasions. you’ve mastered the route by now - or perhaps the guards simply choose to look the other way. regardless of the technicalities, you manage to slip away.
you swim towards the sunset.
v.
you are beyond the kingdom and can finally breathe.
you’re too tired to explore any shipwrecks; too overwhelmed to search for any surface treasures. instead, you swim towards a particular cave. you discovered its whereabouts while collecting shells as a child - during one of your first escapades beyond the castle, in fact. you’re certain that you’re the only person in the sea who knows about it. you’ve visited so often that you suspect you can find it with your eyes closed. the trick to it is that its entrance is hidden - buried away under a thick layer of seaweed. it’s simple for you to navigate though, of course, and you’re able to pass through with ease.
entering the cave feels like arriving home. you’re finally safe - hidden away from the kingdom’s judgemental eyes and prying hands. you drift over to a large, flat rock, placing your spellbook at its side and resting upon it.
today, you’re a year older. you don’t feel different than you did yesterday. not that you were expecting to. you were dreading this day for weeks and now it’s finally over with… for the most part. just thinking about the tight braids and heavy crown makes you feel like you’re going to be ill, so you instead you close your eyes and try to clear your mind.
and suddenly, you feel something.
it’s against your thigh. you open your eyes, reaching down for it - curious. at first, you think it’s another rock - probably one that drifted down from the cave’s ceiling earlier, that you simply hadn’t noticed before. however, as you bring it closer to you, you realize that it’s not a rock at all. no, it’s… from the surface. one of your various surface treasures. you take most back with you to the palace, but sometimes end up storing a few of the less impressive ones in various locations like this cave.
it’s a rusted metal thing with a cracked-up glass front. a strange arrow is beneath the glass. you prod at it through one of the cracks with your finger but it doesn’t so much as budge. you think it was once a compass… but you’re not entirely sure. whatever was written beneath the glass is now smudged away; lost to the sea. the compasses that your people use aren’t nearly so fragile. they can certainly withstand saltwater.
you lie back down on the rock, pressing the broken compass against your chest. your mind wanders - what kind of surfacer used this compass? was it lost to the sea through a careless mistake, or did its owner meet an untimely fate? you hope that they’re okay, wherever they are. and you’re sorry for taking their compass. but you think they wouldn’t want it now, anyways. there’s no use taking a broken compass around with you during your adventures. perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but you truly feel as if they’re still out there. seeing great things - sailing the seas and exploring whatever the surface world has to offer.
and you remember that night - that night where you met surfacers, for the first time. you remember the way they laughed and told stories together. you remember feeling exhilarated and warm and free and alive.
someday, you will find your way out of laverathia. and it won’t be temporary - it won’t be like these secret little trips you undertake when no-one is watching. no, you’ll truly find your way outside. you’ll see great things and maybe even go to the surface on your own. you’ll make friends and people will smile at you for being you. not for your title. not for your blood. not for being the storm prince. they’ll smile at you for being reides.
you open your eyes, and you sit up. carefully, you place the compass back on the rock.
a part of you wants to leave right now. to swim far into the seas and never go back to the palace. but even if the crown is off your head and cloak is not on your shoulders, the duties of a prince remain heavy.
someday, you’ll have a hatching-day celebration that makes you happy to be alive. genuinely happy.
and you’ll keep going - keep living - for the sake of that future.