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「chapter 20」: sølv fingertuppene

Gently pushing the door to the prince's temporary chambers open, Seonghwa slipped into the room. As they had expected, they found him curled up on the bed, hiding beneath the thick duvet; they scoffed silently. How pathetic. When they had checked on him in the morning, he had been crying, but they supposed that he had run out of tears now. It brought them a particular joy to see him like that, heart aching and broken, and they had to remind themself that they wanted him to fall in love with them and could not make his pain greater.

So they fixed their phthalocyanine green, gold embroidered robes and carefully sat down beside him, wearing a politely worried expression. "How are you feeling?" they inquired quietly, gleefully regarding the silver tear stains on his hollow cheeks - he was still irritatingly beautiful. There it was again, that strange sting in their chest; they ought to go to a doctor with this, it could hardly be good.

He did not reply to them, merely buried his with anguish distorted face deeper in a soft, crocheted, merino wool blanket. He looked so small beneath the thick duvet, so fragile and broken, nothing at all like the confident, spiteful prince they had poisoned.

Sighing softly, they forced themself to touch him and move a strand of his neglected black hair behind his ear. "You missed Stjernenatt. I am sure you would have loved it." Of course he would have; Stjernenatt was beautiful. Blue and silver light had danced over the night sky, joined by opalescent, graceful and utterly pulchritudinous figures drawn into the night with the sacred water of gudinnens bekk. Creating these figures was an art only very few elves could execute as breathtakingly as the display of tonight had been.

And there had been hundreds, thousands of elves wandering the streets, carrying lanterns that glowed a weak, ghostly blue, eating and drinking as they watched glittering water and wonderful lights fill the starry sky - all in silence, all in white and silver robes. From the balcony of the palace, it was such an incredible sight, all these people coming together in the streets and on the balconies and rooftops of the houses, eating and watching and celebrating without saying a word.

A tortured, pained, terrible sigh forced itself past the prince's lips, and his face showed such a profound anguish that Seonghwa almost felt pity for him. Almost. "They were so excited," he croaked, his voice weak and rough and wrong. Fluid silver gathered in the inner corner of the eye the heir could see, and they loved every second of it. "They were so excited, an' now they're gone."

They had to remind themself to be gentle as they lay their hand on his cheek, softly, very softly bryshing his tears away. The tip of their thumb was stained silver when they retracted their hand, regarding his with sobs shaking body with secret glee. He was but a heap of bones and skin beneath that cream white duvet, a pathetic collection of weakness and pain and half-death. It repelled them.

The prince curled up even more, buried his face in the knitted blanket and dug his hands into it, as if he was trying to hold onto it to save himself from drowning. They supposed that he needed someone to hold onto, to anchor him in the raging floods of his grief, and they fought with themself until they managed to get over their disgust and carefully removed the crocheted blanket from his arms, quietly lying down beside him and kindly pulling him into an embrace.

It cost them every last bit of their will not to flinch back as he clung onto them. Their throat closed up in digust; he smelled vile, his greasy hair fell into their face and the pointy joints and protruding bones beneath his sweaty skin pressed uncomfortably against them, but still they held him, caressed his back with soothing circles and bore the discomfort of his hands clawing at them in a desperate call for help. They wanted to crawl out of their skin.