Lips Like Ice

VIII

Now he is careful. Considerate almost. Thoughtful in ways that Lydia has never expected her captor to be. That night, she sleeps in his bed. He dries her gently with a fresh towel, and doesn't let her walk into the bedroom herself, opting instead to carry her and place her on top of a pillow. He doesn't put on any pajamas or his silky robe, just wanders the room nude, blue and sparkling with drying bathwater. He lights the fire in the bedroom hearth for the first time, and she studies him as he stokes it before sliding into the bed himself.

He is slim, stick-like, the way he first appeared when he was silhouetted by the impossible city. But naked, she can see the lush curve of his shoulders and ass, the dimples in the small of his back and behind his knees, the sharp cut of his elbows and the arc of hipbone that leads to his smooth mons. He is a classic contrast in angles and curves, a chiaroscuro of shadow in hollows and light on rises. He is... attractive in a way she never expected to find an alien ice elf prince creature. At least in an artistic way.

When she shivers, he sits by the headboard, picks up a book, tucks the duvet around her, and pets her until she is warm and able to drift off. His skin is back to being eerily cool, now that she's not freezing to death, but not so much so that it is uncomfortable.

She is exhausted by the whole ordeal, and slips into slumber almost immediately.

He is gone when she wakes, but then she had expected that. He doesn't seem to sleep as much as she does. Perhaps creatures like the Prince don't need as much sleep, or perhaps he does it elsewhere.

She spends the day drowsing in bed, throat too sore to contemplate eating. A mug of something rather like a honey and lemon tisane, but altogether more floral and peppery, has been left on the bedside table. Meant for her or not, it's just warm enough to be soothing when she drinks it. The fire in the hearth has gone down, but that's all right. There is enough heat trapped in the rooms to make them comfortable.

He returns from his day at what she assumes is court with a great armful of scrolls. He ferries these, a lap-sized writing desk, a teapot of that amber salt broth, a mug, more firewood, a platter of finger foods, and his quill and ink pot into the bedroom. The Prince spends the rest of the time Lydia is awake in one of the wing-back chairs scribbling and grazing. He doesn't speak to her, but every time she shifts, he raises his head and narrows his eyes at her, star-burst pupils wide in the twilight of the firelight, assessing. The silence is just on this side of uncomfortable, too stretched and too enforced to really be soft. Eventually Lydia lies down and sleeps again, for lack of anything better to do.

The next morning, the Prince is gone again, and so is the nest Lydia had built for herself on the parlor chair. It's as clear a message as any that the Prince wants her by his side, now, in his bed and within easy petting range. Lydia could remake it, she's certain there are enough towels and blankets about. The linens are always fresh. She can't decide if the way it happens is through magic, or technology, or just that servants visit while she's asleep. All of that aside, the question is whether she should make her bed again. Would the Prince fly into a rage again if she did? Or would he leave it? Leave her what little autonomy and privacy she can scrape out of the barrel of his generosity she can?

He is kind now, but how long will the kindness, the compassion last? She'd rather sleep apart from him than together, but the worry of retribution outweighs her desire to be alone at night, so she does nothing and resolves herself to learning to share the mattress with an ice elf prince thing.

When she slides out of bed and dresses, she realizes that the writing desk has been left on the floor where Lydia can access it. There is a fresh stack of parchment, a newly sharpened quill, and a small pot of ink. She has no idea if it's for her, but she's going to use it anyway.