[ he doesn’t want to be touched, and yet he finds himself pressed close to a body, the warmth of skin both unbearable and alluring, familiar and not. the pain ebbs, licking at him like clear lake water at his feet. he’s weightless. for a moment he’s a child again, learning to swim with auguste before him, keeping him from drowning. then he’s in his uncle’s bed again, red-faced, crying.

he tries to make a sound, but it comes out as a mere whimper. one hand hangs uselessly, uncooperative; the other digs into torn, bloodied fabric. everything moves too fast, fiery pain electrifying his senses. he must be dying. finally. he has felt on the brink of death many times before, not physically battered in this way, but pushed to such isolation, such pervasive hopelessness that he could no longer see any semblance of light before him. it’s what he feels now. it’s the same shattered despair that led him to his uncle’s side, hoping that this time things might be different, that this time there would be a balm for his pain.

but auguste was all that he had. all that he ever will have. something jars him again, agony knocking something loose within him as he settles on his back. his one good hand reaches out and grips the nearest sleeve with unforgiving force, his gaze unfocused.

damen. it’s damen who has been by his side during his campaign. bitterness roils in him, rushing forth as if he’s reached capacity and can no longer contain the poisonous ire that’s lived in his blood since he was thirteen. ]

You don’t know what you did. [ his voice is terrible, raw, quiet. his breath quivers, blond strands falling across unseeing eyes. ] You don’t know. When you killed my brother. You went home a hero, Prince Damianos of Akielos, prince-killer, and I — [ that day, the first day of the remainder of his life, a gaping hole of pain. ] You don’t know what you took from me. He was everything I had. You went home and fucked whoever you wanted. So did my uncle, only now my brother wasn’t there to protect me from him.

[ it’s a confession that never would have moved past his lips if he wasn’t sure this was the end. he is hideously exposed. his mouth twists. ]

I hate you. [ wetness springs to his eyes. he wants to kill him. he wants to see him one more time. ] I hate you. I want you to rot slowly and for the birds to pick at your bones. I wish I had killed you on the cross. [ he chokes, turning his head as red petals press against his tongue, shuddering as his body sings with a pain so unbearable that some fraying thread in his mind snaps. ] I wish — you were by my side now. I miss you.

[ he pulls weakly at the sleeve, a child’s gesture for comfort when he doesn’t know how to ask for it or even what he’s asking for. ]