THE KING IS DEAD

09

II. Long Face
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❝WHY?❞
*ృ༅*. 𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 a marvelous question! A marvelous question asked over a hundred times and now it is no longer a word.

"Why?" a dark hedgehog asks the ceiling of his isolated chambers. "Why?" he asks, as he has been asking the last three months; since the crown was placed on that damn faker's head.

And what does the question of why mean? Many things. Why is Sonic like this? Why does he insist on keeping Shadow alive? Why must Shadow be displayed like it is show-and-tell? Why is he forced to follow Sonic around all day, every day?

Why, why, why?

The damn word is no longer a word.

Shadow sighs. Long, heavy, exhausted. The sun forces its way through the minuscule cracks in the boarded-up windows; Sonic's coming for him soon. Faker is an early riser. Of course. But why? Why must he wake so early?

. . . At least that why has an answer: because Faker is a morning person.

Shadow closes his eyes, though there is no point. Sleep does not come, will not come, and when and if it does, it brings unpleasantries—

—WHY?!—

—that wake Shadow up in the wee hours of the night anyway. Honestly, Shadow is uncertain how he is still alive, living off of one minimal meal a day and an hour's-worth of sleep. Not to mention, he is completely naked except for the collar and chains. Some days, when Sonic is feeling generous, he'll allow socks and a sweater.

Some days.

Not that Shadow has not much of anything to worry about, though. His fur is dark and thick, and Green Hills is summer-like all year; he tends to be more hot than cold. But the windy days can be chilly, and the little breezes like to nest themselves in the lonely towers of the palace.

Like the lonely, drafty tower Shadow is prisoner to.

Just now, he shivers, and his fingers brush over his arms in disgust. He can feel his bones.

These three months have already turned him into a skeleton.

He hopes Maria does not share this same, horrid fate.

He has not seen her since he kissed her cheek farewell to attend the banquet. Kissed her cheek, brushed her hair out of her face, told he he would return a bit after midnight.

A lie, it became, because he did not—could not—return home. Shadow was thrown in the dungeons for a murder he did not commit and Faker went straight for Maria.

Shadow's heart tugs. He has not seen her in three months. Worse is that, from time to time, he hears her scream—

—W H Y ? !—

—and sometimes, on the moody days, Sonic gives death threats with her name on them. But Shadow does not care. Maria's death would give her freedom, give her peace; give him peace. One less worry.