Eat the Poor

XXXIII

🍷CW - blood

I awoke in a feverish sweat.

Heart pounding, I stared up at the ceiling, its gold intricacies invisible under the swath of darkness. At night, the ceiling of the King's bedchamber looked the same as any other.

Devil. The word thudded in my skull, on my lips. I brushed the canopy curtain aside and reached for the wine. The candles on the table burned low, flames bobbing in pools of misshapen wax.

Philip lay beside me on his stomach. The soft glow of the chandelier illuminated the slope of his spine. His fingers lay limp atop the pillow, smooth and cold like marble. I drew the sheet over him.

A wave of night air raised gooseflesh along my arms. I downed my glass of wine and pulled on my trousers. In the far corner of the room, the fireplace crackled with fresh wood. A servant must have lit it as we slept.

Supper was still spread over the table. The meat looked less appetizing now, brown and cold in a puddle of juice. I swallowed thickly. The sight of the discarded food turned my stomach. I thought of my brothers, Mercy and the orphans, the men in the servants' quarters.

Here in the royal chamber, a slab of steak lay to rot while they dunked crusts of bread in watery stew.

I tried to summon my mother's voice. My mother with her green meadow eyes, her soft smile. My mother would be happy to see me here. She would hold my face in her hands and say, I always knew my Auden would dine with the King.

And for what? I was washed clean of my grime but I would never be washed of my sins. The wine in my glass might as well have been the blood of my people.

In the mirror I studied myself, sinewy arms, sharp jawline, nose a little crooked. Eyes dull pits into the abyss within.

Devil.

Suddenly I could feel tears forming, tears coursing down my face, salt on my tongue. I was sick, stomach emptying, knees crumbling. I stared myself in the eyes as I cried silent tears. I felt wrong, like a fly in a feast. A bloom of rot in a field of flowers.

I sank to the floor, knees up to my chest, cheek to the marble. Tears pooled around my face as my body closed in on itself. It felt like being in a well, a deep well, surrounded by darkness and wet with no way to climb out.

Gnashing jaws. Hunger. A rotting pig's head with a smile carved into its flesh. Blood on my hands. Blood in my mouth.

"Auden?"

I looked up. He'd put his breeches on. One of his stockings had slipped down to his ankle. He looked cute. Devastatingly trusting.

"Go away," I croaked. "Get away from me."

Philip got to his knees where I lay on the floor and reached for me, felt me shuddering and rocking myself like a lunatic. I sobbed, tears making the sight of him blurry. I felt his lips on the shell of my ear and his arms around me. Auden, it's alright, shh. He was warm, too warm, like a bed of hot coals. Auden, shh.

My mother's voice. Hush, love.

I lay in the King's lap and wept, the top of my head pressed to his stomach, tears soaking his linen shirt. He stroked my hair with his soft cherubic hands and somehow this gentleness hurt me like no pain ever had. He kept whispering things like Auden, answer me, and it's alright, just tell me what's wrong.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

"I'll send for the doctor," Philip said.

Sucking in a breath, I sat up. "No." My face was burning hot, blotchy, lips wet with tears. I stared at him. He looked scared, and I forced myself to look away.