Dear Prince

Chapter 7 .:Scars:.

Chapter 7

.:Scars:.

                Erith and Arphelia sat side by side on a log in complete silence. There were no words needed to describe the quaint serenity surrounding the two. There was no need to fill it with mindless chatter, nor was there a desire to do anything drastic. If only… if only we could remain like this forever, she thought, her eyes closing lazily. The warmth she had felt when she had woken up with Erith sitting in a chair beside her could be felt again.

                With that single thought of warmth, she was reminded of her mother; the coldness she had felt whenever she had been with her. It was enough that her mother had never been at home much—worse still that she had so obviously been disappointed in her only daughter. But Arphelia knew the unconditional love that came with family. She was Phaelia’s only bloodline.

                Yet, was that all that gave her the status of a royal? With her brother and sister, there was something else, something definite that marked them apart from the peasants on the street. Arphelia inwardly winced. Was that really something to admire?

                Erith broke into her thoughts, his quiet, even breathing allowing her heart to return to a steady beat. “What are you thinking of, Arphelia?”

                She opened her eyes and stared into his. With sincerity, she replied, “Of a way for us to be together.”

                He smiled and took her hand in his. “Aren’t we together now?” She could feel the calluses on his palms.

                “To be together not in secret, but to the public,” she breathed sadly. “I want for us to be able to walk in the streets with our hands held like this.”

                “Aren’t I enough?” he asked, a bit bitterly. “You care for the public eye, like your mother did?”

                Arphelia did not look up, but traced the lines on his palms. “That’s not what I meant. Wouldn’t it be great if we could be mere happy peasants? I don’t care for this life, and neither do you.”

               “I’d rather not,” Erith said, his eyes twinkling. “Because you are in the palace, I have you all to myself. If you were a mere peasant, I’d hate to think who would be holding your hand right now.” He drew his hand away. “Who knows? Maybe you would already be married. Maybe you’d already have a child to care for.”

                “Erith!” He leapt up and swept away from the forest, his hasty presence leaving a heavy loneliness in her heart. She smoothed the gown she wore with trembling hands. “How,” she said out loud, “do you know it wouldn’t have been you?”

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                Erith rammed his hand into the wall, tearing the skin on his knuckles. Blood dripped, but he did not seem to care. He looked at it with distaste and sighed.

                “Have you taken up masochism?” a cheerful voice greeted him from below. Looking down, he realized that Piers had been sitting there, his small frame hidden by the stacks of hay. “Or just in pain?”

                “It would be neither,” Erith replied, sinking down next to him. “I need an excuse for having been with Arphelia, you see.”

                “An excuse?” He eyed the bloody knuckles.

                “Like my handiwork? I expect it’ll last a week or so.”