In the stifled silence of the room, the crackle of candles burning their wicks was unbearably loud. His voice, softened, felt unwelcome.
“Where is your Champion? Where is the Faerie Queen? Where are your Warriors of Prophecy? Where are they all?” He shook his head, tousled mane rippling against his shoulders. “We’re, all of us, dead without you.”
“You said I was different.” He leaned over the bed, pleading. “You said I could change everything.” He retreated, scorned. “How am I supposed to...?”
“How could you how could you how dare you?”
The sound of his voice echoed in his ears. No one came running to the bedchamber. The figure on the bed lay deathly still. Dead, dead, dead.
Dead but sleeping.
Sleeping but dead.
The lilt of stanzas marched through his mind. That Conerian liked to sing it, in harsh and deepened tones as she sharpened her sword in the courtyard during the summer. A queen dead, in a castle of thorns, awoken by the kiss of a knightly king.
The words tumbled gracefully from his tongue in a prayer. Leaning down, he pressed his lips against the sleeping prince’s own, and brushed away the tears that fell irreverently upon his face.
Nothing happened.
Nothing changed.
~*~
The darkened Orb had spent untold years on a pedestal in the throne room. Wrapping it in a shirt, he shoved it into his knapsack, before the guards could return, and disappeared into the morning twilight.
Losing Faith, FFI, Elf Prince/Light Warrior, PG
In the stifled silence of the room, the crackle of candles burning their wicks was unbearably loud. His voice, softened, felt unwelcome.
“Where is your Champion? Where is the Faerie Queen? Where are your Warriors of Prophecy? Where are they all?” He shook his head, tousled mane rippling against his shoulders. “We’re, all of us, dead without you.”
“You said I was different.” He leaned over the bed, pleading. “You said I could change everything.” He retreated, scorned. “How am I supposed to...?”
“How could you how could you how dare you?”
The sound of his voice echoed in his ears. No one came running to the bedchamber. The figure on the bed lay deathly still. Dead, dead, dead.
Dead but sleeping.
Sleeping but dead.
The lilt of stanzas marched through his mind. That Conerian liked to sing it, in harsh and deepened tones as she sharpened her sword in the courtyard during the summer. A queen dead, in a castle of thorns, awoken by the kiss of a knightly king.
The words tumbled gracefully from his tongue in a prayer. Leaning down, he pressed his lips against the sleeping prince’s own, and brushed away the tears that fell irreverently upon his face.
Nothing happened.
Nothing changed.
The darkened Orb had spent untold years on a pedestal in the throne room. Wrapping it in a shirt, he shoved it into his knapsack, before the guards could return, and disappeared into the morning twilight.