A/N: His mother dies when he is nine years old; old enough to know what death means and yet too young to live without her. (Oneshot)

As you can probably tell, I've fallen down the live action Cinderella rabbit hole! After watching the film, I became intrigued with Prince Kit's backstory and the fact that Branagh refuses to give us any insight into it- so you could say that this is my attempt at rectifying it.

As I sadly hold no claim to the 2015 adaptation or the original story of Cinderella; how can I possibly own anything? I am simply trying to convey my love for the adaption into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

Remembrance

His mother dies when he is nine years old, whilst giving birth to a girl. His sister is stillborn; a red, crumpled mess of butterfly fine features and soft, wrinkled skin. Somewhere he had overheard the housemaids gossiping that had she lived, his parents would have called her Ella. Ella, the beautiful fairy, who was too precious, too pure for the world of men and whose life was called back to the Heavens before it had even begun.

He is old enough to know what death means now; old enough to read the servants downcast eyes, the sorrowful looks that are shot in his direction, the way a scullery maid he came across shudders back a sob when he found her huddled beside a fireplace; but too young, far too young to live without her.

He takes his place in the funeral possession with silent, solemn gravitas; eyes lowered to hide the tears that are threatening to spill at any moment. The candle that is gripped in hands that feel as if they have been dipped in ice shakes slightly as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

The length of the nave feels like an age as he follows his fellow mourners, their heads bent in silent, sorrowful remembrance of their beloved queen each holding a white, tapered candle symbolising that the dead had died in childbirth.

The sickly sweet stink of incense tickles his nostrils and a sneeze threatens to break the silence but he knows that he must not break the silence. He bites his lip instead, feeling the tense pain flood through his mouth in waves. With the pain comes a feeling that could almost be relief, relief that he has something else to occupy his thoughts other than the gaping chasm of grief that is tugging at his heart.

At the altar stands his Father, decked in the black velvet robes of state mourning; his gold chain of office catching the flickering light of the hundreds of candles that line the cathedral. He looks different from the last time Kit remembers seeing him in public; somehow older, wearier, the light that lit the cool, grey eyes which had so often been lit with life now dimmed with the weight of grief.

The coffin lies open, baring his mother dressed in the white velvet gown of death; a gown stitched with seed pearls and fine lace sourced from the furthest reaches of the kingdom for all to see. Her hair tumbles about her shoulder; the thick, luscious mane of copper brushed back from her face, spilling seemingly endlessly over the white pillow. The face that had once been the light of his short life, the face whose emotions would spill over like quicksilver, swirling and changing like clouds dancing across a summer sky was now set and hard; the eyes that he loved so dearly closed for good.

'Mother…' He speaks before he thinks to stop himself; the broken whisper spilling from his lips in a flurry of tear stained syllables. The candle quivers in his hands, the wax threatening to spill as he tries to steady himself. He can't fall now; not now when the very eyes of the cathedral are on him, not now that he can feel the burning sadness of his fathers' gaze boring into his back, not when he knows this a test; the first of many tests that will undoubtedly lead to the greatest test of all; whether or not he is fit to rule in his fathers' stead.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory flickers. A distant memory of another time, another life; all but faded with age. He sees his Mother in the rose garden; her soft, willowy form sharply silhouetted by the dying embers of the sunset rising up against the severe rise of the yew hedge. Her hair is tumbling out of the band of silver silk that she has used to tie it back from her face and her eyes sparkle with an infectious joy as she extends a hand to him; drawing him into an embrace that shone with rosewater and fire.

'Have courage, my dear Kit. Have courage and be kind.'

But how can he?

How can he possibly have any ounce of the courage, of the kindness that radiated through every inch of her body when she is gone and he has just passed his ninth naming ceremony?

'Mother.' He tries to choke back the word, tries with all his might to focus on the candle dancing in and out of his line of vision, tries not to focus on the coffin, on the sickly sweet stench of incense that masks the faint undertones of lavender and rosemary water that was used to wash the dead; smells that years later, when he comes King, even when he marries the girl who lost a shoe at the ball, the girl whom he fell in love with as their horses circled each other in the forest, the girl whose name he would always speak with such sweetness, he will always associate with death.

'Find that girl. The one they're all talking about. The forgetful one. The one… That lost… That lost the shoe'.

The weight of a hand gripping his own; the sensation of thick, strong tendons reaching, lifting the candle out of his grasp takes him by surprise as he sees his father standing over him, holding the final candle aloft.

The dark eyes looking down on him shine out of a face that seems to have aged dramatically since the last time they had laid eyes upon each other. Time, cunning carpenter that he is; seems to have cut across the lines and creases of his Fathers' face; chiselling out the aching sensations of love lost grief for his wife and daughter as if it were nothing more than a slab of Oak.

'Have courage…'

The grip on his fingers falters for a moment and he dares to glance up at his father whose gaze is fixed resolutely on the stained glass window shimmering with a spillage of silvery moonlight.

'Be kind.'

The moon winks at him as it slips behind a cloud and the knot in his chest seems to ease ever so slightly as he realises that the test; or at least his part in the great test that Time has set for them is over for the time being.

Standing by his Father, he realises that Time is a cruel master. Time has and will rip away so much from him, from them and yet… And yet…

'I will Mother', he whispers.

The words tumble softly over his tongue like he is reciting a prayer, a prayer that is more than a prayer; a prayer that is a promise, a solemn vow to the memory of the woman who taught him everything he knows and whose memory has so much more to give. 'I will'.

Years later, he remembers that promise. Remembers it as he is standing on the snow tinted balcony of the palace; his hand clasped in that of the beautiful woman whom he first met in the full blush of a summer hunt. The woman who has stolen his heart so completely that there is no other, there can be no other who could even dream of taking her place in his affections.

'Have courage', she had smiled at him as they made their way through the great state chambers; the words smiling through the soft, snow covered silence.

'And be kind', he had replied; thinking back to that other time, the time of death and mourning where the words had filled the child that he had been with such hope he could hardly breathe.

As they turned to face the cheering mass of their royal subjects, somewhere somewhere in the depths of the snow soaked sky; he feels the sun of his mother's spirit smiling her blessing upon them.

Have courage and be kind and all will be well.

Fin

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Much love and enjoy x