yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

The second dinner was much the same. Eugenides's food arrived in front of him cut into bite-sized pieces, and every diner had a small bowl of olive oil to dip the bread into instead of cheese. Except that he had to reach across his plate to get the bread into the olive oil, everything went well. The conversation was the same. The harvest and the weather. The rest of the table spoke in hushed tones, difficult to overhear. Eugenides drank less and stared at his plate, unwilling to watch the queen carefully not watching him.

The third night he didn't appear. His place sat empty at the table. When dinner was over and his father went upstairs to look for him, Eugenides was waiting, dressed in his formal clothes, sitting on his bed. He was leaning against the headboard and had his boots up on the spread. The fabric for his sling lay in a limp bundle across his lap. He looked up at his father, his face bleak.

"I couldn't face it again," he said.

He dropped his gaze to the toes of his boots. "I already know the harvest was good, and the weather's still cold. I could try again in the spring."

"Tomorrow," said his father, and left.

Eugenides tilted over until his face was buried in a pillow.

from The Queen of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner