bølgenes sang || seongsang

「chapter 18」: forestillingen

Hastily fixing the collar of their woolen pullover to hide the bruised skin of their neck, they closed the door behind themself. Despite the utterly uncomfortable feeling of the wool on their neck, a smile decorated their slightly flushed face, and even though they tried to rid themselves of it, it kept coming back whenever their thoughts ended up in the soft hours of this morning. The flickering, golden light of the torches danced over the ring on their left hand, played with the sky blue star sapphire that had been embedded into the delicate solid silver and jumped over the earthen, wooden and metal beads that their lover had braided into their hair.

They really needed to stop smiling. They were supposed to be devastated about the tragic fate of their betrothed, not look like a young elf on their way home from an outing with the person they loved; but it was impossible. Glancing at the ring, they sauntered through the hallways of the palace, only barely managing to hide their joyful levity when they passed a servant. Their mood was spectacular, but they could not show it. Only the privacy of Hongjoong's chambers allowed them to truly express their blitheness.

Despite the delight that resided deep within their body, their expression grew more sour the closer they got to their own chambers. The prince should be dead by now. But even so, they heavily disliked having to visit the man; it repelled them to have to look at that vile carcass, to have to sit beside that revolting figure and breathe the suffocating air for hours. But it would all be worth it once he would finally lose his life. It would all be worth it once the decades of mourning would be over. They just needed to be patient and endure this for now.

So when they found him sitting upright on the edge of the strangely blood-stained bed, their heart dropped. He should not be able to sit. He should not be breathing. He should be dead. But he had somehow wrapped himself in their favorite gown. They grit their teeth in an attempt to tame their rage, but that did not help them. How fucking dare he take something that belonged to them and stain it with his rancid body? How fucking dare he be alive?

A scowl distorting their pretty face, they strode across the large room, their steps undoubtedly announcing their presence; yet aside from the consistent shaking of the prince's body, the siren did not move whatsoever. They spotted several closely written pages of parchment paper in his trembling hand, his other hand pressed over his mouth as silver tears ran over his face. What did that saltwater bitch have to cry about now?

His shockwidened, teary eyes almost maniacally scanned the page, entirely disregarding the tears dripping onto the paper and smudging the ink. Silently, they deciphered the first few lines of the pictorial writing system, stopping when they failed to understand half of the words written there. How had the prince still not noticed them? Their shadow blocked the light of the candles behind them, he had to have realized that someone stood beside him. But he had not. It infuriated them.

"Your Highness," they said eventually, their voice dripping with loathing. But he did not react. He kept reading what they could only assume was a letter, the first sob shaking his body when he flipped the page. He looked horrified, and they relished in every second of it. Though they did wonder what had happened to this room; splinters of glass gleamed in the orange light, the white sheets had been stained with blood, someone seemed to have stabbed the mattress and cut the wood of the bed frame and they found their sword thrown onto the ground unsheathed, the blade bathed in dried blood.

With a scoff, they moved to the prince's other side and picked their weapon up. Who had dared to touch their sword? This was not just a weapon. It was an artwork of the finest craftsmanship, a masterpiece of steel-smithing and runework, manufactured by the queen herself. The intricate carvings of ranking flowers and thorns were now dirtied by a stranger's unworthy blood; even the purple-stained lynxskin that wrapped around the beautiful hilt could not escape the crimson mire. It disgusted them.