Artists impression of the Field of Gold, outside Vel Anir circa 739
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Wilhelm stood in the entrance of the royal pavilion with a goblet in hand so he could watch the servants running around like ants to prepare what people were already calling the Field of Gold. Tents sprawled down the undulating hillside that ran from the fortress city towards the wooded outline of the Falwood. Despite consisting of every different kind of hue the dye merchants could get their hands on - burgundy, deep blues, forest greens - each tent was embroidered with fine gold cloth that made every single tent glitter when the sun caught them. It was easy enough to see why the people within the city walls had dubbed it the field of gold even if the only tent entirely made of gold cloth was theirs.
"Wilhelm! Language, please," his mother reprimanded from behind him.
"Well they haven't have they? Really mother, half the city still looks like a mountain was dropped on it. Is this really the time to be spending money like thi---"
Queen Elenora held up her hand to stop his rant.
"The people want to celebrate your and your sisters return to us. There has been so little to be happy about, do not take this from them child."
Wil debated pointing out none of those people had actually been invited. The lowest the royal family had stooped was to invite some of the youngest recruits from the Guard and the Academy who had committed a service to the Republic that deserved a reward. The rest were all noblemen with a smattering of the high class merchants who had managed to seize a piece of power and hang on in the aftermath of the revolution. Instead though he downed the rest of his drink and winced at the sharpness. He was used to ales and the odd spirits of the East not fine wines. He hadn't mastered the art of sipping them like his mother said he was supposed to.
"Well I still don't understand why father couldn't be here, we can see the Palace from here. If he so wanted to spend time with us," he finished rather darkly and cast an eye up towards the palace towers. He doubted his father was anywhere near a window, too busy in his work to care what his wife and children were doing. There was a scraping of a chair and the next moment he knew there was a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Your father does want to spend time with you, Wil. He did this for you. To show how happy he is you've come home to us," her hand slid from his shoulder to his cheek. It had been so long since he'd had any kind of motherly touch he flinched as though it were a slap. A hurt look crossed her face but she smothered it, like she smothered everything else real that ever passed between them. "Go, have fun child. Make friends."