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King Mark Noir of Pitch
The Lurker King

Mark looked into the glass. Blackness stared back at him. Angered, he threw the mirror across the room, startling his wife and servants as it shattered against the stone wall. "He's covered it with a sheet."

The shattered pieces of the mirror began to congeal and reform into the round piece of glass it had begun as. "If that boy thinks he can get the better of me, he is sorely mistaken. Didn't I tell you not to let him outside this place?" he shot at the Queen. "I have said time and again that he is too weak for the outside realms!"

He threw himself back into his throne, staring out the window of the tower which housed the throne room. The day was dark, and the world was quiet. "He should have come home for the break for longer than he did."

King Mark Noir of Pitch
The Lurker King

"He is a boy, he is a boy, at what age will he be immune to his youth?" Mark demanded. "You excuse him again and again, yet you know as well as I that if he continues down this path, he will either get himself killed or lose the throne to the sun."

He glowered at a passing servant, sweeping up bits of mirror dust. "The boy is our heir, and if my legacy were to pass to him right now, at this moment, our kingdom will have died with me. He is not ready. He will never be ready!"

Mark slammed his hands against the floor, and took a deep breath. "You and I were his age and wearing crowns, building hierarchies and hiding the moon from our people. He is busying himself with parlor tricks and women! Throwing parties, subverting authorities, the nerve of the boy!"

King Mark Noir of Pitch
The Lurker King

She was right. But he couldn't show it.

"The boy will have to learn to control everything about himself before he sees these walls from my throne," Mark declared, tone still somewhat hostile. "Until he drops these wayward distractions and learns to focus, to apply himself, until he learns the meaning of self-sacrifice, usage of pawns, and the deserved feeling of unparalleled success, the boy will never... NEVER... be king."

Discussion closed, Mark took the mirror from his queen and stared into it. The sheet blocked his view of what he was relatively sure was an empty room.

For all the bravado, for every great fuss that was made over it, for every time it was broken, Mark would always look back into the mirror.

"YOU CANNAE MAKE ME MARRY HER!" Tom bellowed. This summer had proven just as rotten as the last. He'd come home walking on air, because of Mae. And now—Edendottir?! NO! Not a chance! Nothing in heaven or bolted to earth could make him want to!

"Just watch me, boy," snapped King Mark, glaring at his son and putting Tom's scowl to shame. He crossed his arms, eyes laser locked with the prince's with every move he made. "You are mine to use as I see fit, and I see—"

"I DON'T BELONG TO YOU!" Tom shouted, hands balled into fists.

"I SEE FIT TO MAKE HER YOUR QUEEN," Mark hollered over his son. "You clearly can't take care of yourself, that Academy nearly killed you last year—"

"But I'm fine!"

"—and lo and behold, not two weeks after getting BURNED ALIVE you come home head over heels for a gods-be-damned FAE OF ALL THINGS—"

"She's a NIGHT FAIRY!" Tom was nearly pulling his hair out in frustration. "Pitch black, what does she have to do to be acceptable, she's their PRINCESS! She'll be QUEEN!"

"Just as you must be KING!" Mark towered over his son, grabbing Tom by the shoulders. "You must let go of these ridiculous thoughts, Thomas."

King Mark Noir of Pitch

"And when are you going to let go of ME?!" Tom fought his father's grip, struggling to be released. "When do you stop controlling my life and what I can and can't do, when do I get to choose wh—"

"NO!" Mark roared, bearing down on his son until he was mere inches from Thomas's face. "YOUR LIFE IS NOT ABOUT THAT!"

Mark's eyes narrowed, his chest heaving with rage. "You must reject all these childish notions you have," he growled. "Of love. Of freedom, of—of happiness. This is not your life. You have a people to protect, a world to see after, a kingdom to run, and you CANNOT do it if you are distracted by each passing gust of wind and praying that it will take you away!"

"I have a right to be—" Tom stammered.

"NO, YOU DON'T!" The king threw his hands into the air, struggling to remain coherent. How often had he heard that line before—'I have a right to be happy.' Happiness was a thing he could never allow below the black marble pillars of the king's hall.

"I don't care how miserable you are on the throne or in the council chambers or at the top of this tower. I don't care how nauseous the idea of marriage makes you. I haven't cared for ANYTHING your mind has thought up, and I doubt I'll start caring anytime soon if you keep this up," Mark said. Tom's newly bright eyes stared him down, faltering as the king continued his tirade. "If I didn't know better I'd say that fire had clearly bled you of your mind!"

Tears dropped to the floor. Mark seized hold of his son's chin, ignoring the saltwater that ran between his fingers. "You have responsibilities. You have a duty to this castle," he hissed, tone low and dangerous, "and I refuse to be weighed down by a single ounce of shame just because you are not smiling beneath that crown."

Tom turned from the room and left. Viola was coming this year, and it didn't look like he was ever going to be rid of her from here on out. He started throwing things into a bag to take to the Academy. Blackest hell, just kill me now...