Love comes in many forms.
Speaking about it, imagining it, and melting at the mere prospect of it can leave you giddy with its richness.
But defining it, expressing or experiencing it - that's a different game.
Elijah - the heir to the throne of...
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Candles embraced the darkness of the room, and I welcomed it.
The flickering flames surrounded me, as I stood in an extremely treasured place within the palace, called 'The Alcove of Amortas'. It was filled with beautiful paintings, jewels and crafts, only designed by the previous Kings and Queens of Yandestine, with their own hands. It was an area purely dedicated to different forms of art, where gigantic frames of nothingness hung on the walls, near the finished paintings, and below the currently lightless chandeliers, waiting to be brought to life by a member of royalty.
But, I wasn't here to do that. I wanted a certain life to be torn down. I wanted a particular female's system to slash and burn, preferably by my own hands.
A woman may have had a reason to attack a prince, and for that, she could have been given a chance to justify herself. Yet, when the same female decides to mutilate the last string of respect that was hanging around her fingers, the mere idea of pity, faded away.
Kidnapping Rayson - our royal messenger, and poisoning the kingdom's war pigeon, sealed her fate.
Every time I thought about that letter from her, the confusion that was present before, burned and inflamed my skin more than ever. It was like an insect bite, that I couldn't control, and someone else was constantly lurking over it, always prepared to strike and trigger the burning to make it more swollen.
That single piece of paper, had set off an effect, in my father too. The moment I had looked up into the eyes of the King of Yandestine, I saw something in him I had never seen before.
Fear.
He was scared. I remembered the way his eyes didn't stray anywhere except around the edges of the letter, his inner consciousness involuntarily captured elsewhere. Unspoken words had lingered in the air, weakly supported by my father gathering the letters in his hands and leaving without a trace of a whisper.
I couldn't sleep that night. The second I had closed my eyes, my reveries leapt into the sight of admiring our white pigeon circling our lands, never knowing its unceremonious end was to arrive soon. It was now resting beneath carefully crafted stones, its soft wings intertwined within the soils.
All of it, combined together, resulted in a storm of tremendously chaotic emotions and thoughts. It was why I found myself standing here. I strongly requested to be left in the darkness of the room, with just candles, and I didn't want a single flare of sunlight to seep through the gaps between the curtains.
I picked up the chalk pencil, and closed my eyes to re-paint the face of who I was going to decorate the frame with, in my head.
I wanted to sketch the dancer. I imagined the outlines and details of her face, as the dark brown shade of her skin splashed my mental picture.
I wanted to capture her eyebrows, the way they cunningly moved as her hands grasped my throat, and how she seemingly forbid her mouth from giving into a genuine smile, even when she wasn't a criminal yet.
