Two of Hearts

Offers

Though she tries, peaking through the narrow window each each evening, eyes straining to catch the light; Rose cannot watch the sunset here.

...

First they take her. Then, the next night, they take him.

It became a routine of sorts, a makeshift pattern for them to follow.

Wake up with the sun.
Do nothing.
Revive food.
Hate yourself.
Eat it anyways.
Talk.
Try to sleep.
Get stolen away. Or watch, and spend the night alone.

It's hard to decide which nightly fate is worse.

Every single time she it taken Rose fights and strains and screams. But when they come for the boy, he is unflinching, unwavering. He just watches her with his steel grey eyes as the guards pull him into the darkness.

Rose and the boy never remember what happens to them when they are taken away. No memories whatsoever of what awaited them on the other side of the bars. They were left only with the bruises and the crippling exhaustion. And the pain. Always the pain.

It feels as if they have been trapped here for a bloody century

And yet; according to the uneven tally marks Rose has been etching into the stone at each approximation of morning, she has been here for only seven days.
One bloody week.

She doesn't think she can take this much longer.

At least she has some sort of company.

When they awake each morning, after their turn, its like rising out of a drunken sort of haze. On the nights where the boy was taken away, Rose would stir him out of sleep the next morning with a story, a tale of three brothers, or of a heartless prince, twisted little plots her father used to tell her when she was young and restless, refusing to sleep.

On the nights where she was taken, the boy would awake her with a song.

She's not exactly sure how it started, but she doesn't want it to stop.

Her favorite of his songs is a hushed lullaby about a dancing woman, carved from the crates of the moon. Smooth and low, his voice was lovely. Every other morning, when she was finally stirring, his voice would wake her fully. And every other morning she would squeeze her eyes shut again, if only to hear his voice for a little bit longer.

There weren't many lovely things here. She had to cherish the ones she had.

Rose can hear him singing it now, in deep sweeping notes as consciousness come forth to her, introducing her to many new aches and pains across her body.

Her eyes flutter open. There is nothing to see but dull grey. Her fingers flex, hands tugging at the chains, and she flinches. Her left pinkie finger feels broken. Her wrists feel sprained.

His voice trails off as he sees her stir.
"Don't stop." Rose whispers, squeezing her eyes shut again, if only to mimic the sleep that escapes her.

She hears him hesitate, clear his throat, then softly comply.

He sings a new song to her, a wild song about fire and whiskey and bad decisions.
Rose cannot help but laugh as his voice lifts, pitching towards the high notes he clearly can't hit.

His voice cuts off at her laugh.
Opening her eyes, she glances at him just in time to catch his cheeky frown.
Indignant at her laughter, he moves to cross his arms, but is held back by the chains. This only makes his scowl deepen and Roses smile grow.

"I'm not going to sing if your going to laugh." He mutters, a small shining smile growing on his face.
Rose smooths out her expression and lowers her voice, attempting to put a hand to her heart, all schooled seriousness.
"I won't laugh again. I promise."
He quicks an eyebrow. Rose snorts. He shakes his head, white blond hair tumbling into his eyes.
"Nah. You lost your chance."
"That's rude."
"What's rude is laughing at other people's singing when you're to much of a bloody coward to sing yourself." He shoots back.